Misunderstandings (Woodfalls Girls 2)

“A little better. My stomach isn’t as bad.” I checked my phone to see several text messages and missed calls from Justin.

“I already told him you weren’t feeling well and that you were crashing,” Melissa said when she saw my reaction to my phone.

“Thanks. I’ll call him in a few minutes. I need to get moving.”

Tuesdays and Thursdays were the two days that I worked at the daycare since I had no classes. Melissa tried to talk me into calling in sick so I wouldn’t expose the kids to my germs.

“How do you think I got those germs?” I pointed out, pulling on my last clean pair of pants, which happened to be another pair of yoga pants. I badly needed a trip to the laundry.

“I guess you’re right. Maybe that’s why you’ve been so sickly these last few weeks.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s days, not weeks,” I chastised, pulling on my boots.

“Weeks,” she emphasized. “You’ve been complaining about feeling puny since the last week of January. Valentine’s Day is on Monday. I know my math skills are shaky, but I can read a calendar, and that means you’ve felt bad for more than two weeks. Maybe you’re anemic,” she pointed out.

“Maybe,” I answered, grabbing my purse.

“You should visit the clinic,” she said as I headed for the door.

“Maybe,” I said, flashing a fake smile as I closed the door behind me.

The smile faded before the door had closed completely behind me. Two weeks? Could she be right? Two weeks of sickness and five and a half weeks since my last period. For a week and a half I had been trying in vain to ignore the fact that for the first time in my life I was late. It couldn’t be possible. I was a Period Clock. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew something was wrong. I pushed it to the far recesses of my brain and buried it beneath mundane school-related junk, but suddenly the truth hit me like a brick wall, making me gasp for air. I detoured from my usual route to the daycare and sank down on one of the benches along the way. A lack of air made my vision blur and my stomach turn. Leaning forward, I placed my head between my knees. My world was falling apart at the seams.

After a few minutes of trying to calm my breathing, I was finally able to lift my head. The analytical part of my brain told me I needed to get up and go to work. That I needed to restore my life to some semblance of normalcy until it was ready to digest the news I had been avoiding. At the moment, I could not deal with the fact that my body no longer belonged to me alone.

Staggering to my feet, I gripped the back of the bench until the last of the light-headedness completely faded. I began the short hike to work, knowing that once I made it there I would be too busy to think about anything else. With each step I took, the band of despair that was encircling my chest loosened slightly so I was able to breathe a little bit easier.

Breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe.

Seemingly meaningless words when taken out of the context of this moment, but for now they served their purpose as they rolled through my head.

Breathe.

Step.

Breathe.

Step.

Breathe.

I plastered a smile on my face as I greeted the kind elderly receptionist who sat at the entrance of the daycare. Fellow teachers called out their own greetings as I made my way to the lounge and the locker where I stored my belongings. I returned their greetings, keeping the same brittle smile firmly in place. If they saw through my façade, they refrained from commenting.

Once I hit the classroom where I co-taught four-year-olds, my smile became a little less brittle and almost appeared normal if you didn’t know any better. The letter Q and number twenty became my best friends for the day as I worked one-on-one with each student. The monotony of the assignment allowed me to shut down the bothersome side of my brain. “Draw a circle and add a tail,” I instructed one student after another. I learned to love those words. After all sixteen of the students made their attempt at a capital Q, I moved to watching them count out twenty Goldfish crackers. Once their counting challenge was accomplished, I would hand them a cup so they could munch on their reward. The morning passed quickly and before I knew it, I was folding mats and stowing blankets and pillows in cubbies after naptime. Every task was completed with my mind occupied only on what I was doing. For a moment, a second, a minute, I convinced myself nothing was wrong.

Leaving the distractions of work behind allowed the dormant thoughts to once again rear their ugly heads. In order to make it back to the dorm, I focused again on what I could control.

Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step.

“Holy shit, Brittni. You still look terrible,” Melissa stated as I staggered into our room.

I ignored her observation. What did it matter if I looked like hell or felt like hell? Did any of that matter when I was living in hell? Collapsing on my bed, I kicked off my boots and dragged my comforter over my head with one goal: to block out the world. I could hear Melissa asking if I was still sick. I gave her a grunt of confirmation, wanting to be left alone. She went into motherly mode again, giving me advice on what I needed to do. Ready for her to hush, I agreed to go to the campus clinic the next day even though I had no intention of doing it. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me I was pregnant. Peeing on a stick would make it official. I wasn’t ready to make it official.

During the next few days, I forced myself to pretend everything was okay so Melissa would get off my back. I canceled two dates with Justin, claiming I wanted to catch up on schoolwork. My days took on a surreal feeling as I went through the motions of being a normal person. It began to feel like I was acting in a play that only paused to take an intermission when I was finally able to succumb to sleep. Through it all, I continued to hope I would get my period, putting my fears to rest. Each night I went to bed bitterly disappointed.

25.

Present Day