I was going to place my name on a cup of urine. They were going to tell me I was pregnant. Then they were going to counsel me on aborting the pregnancy because that was why I was here. Soon, I would be able to metaphorically peel off the “pregnant” label, scribble it out, throw it away and be done. It would no longer be true. And I would be able to change the direction I was heading. Label abandoned. Just like my mother had abandoned me.
I rolled my eyes at the comparison my overly emotional brain had immediately jumped to make. It wasn't the same thing at all. Abandoning a child, abandoning a pregnancy. I told myself the two weren't even comparable. I hurried and got the sample, scribbled my name on the label, and slapped it on the warm cup that made me very aware that I probably needed to drink more water, and very embarassed that the nurse would be thinking the same thing.
“Congratulations.”
The test hadn't taken very long. I wondered if they used the same strip test I had used ten times at home.
“Congratulations?”
“Yes. You're pregnant. Congratulations,” the nurse said, deadpan.
I didn't know what to say. Congratulations seemed completely the wrong word, considering I had been counseled about abortion services over the phone when I had made my appointment. But I didn't sense mockery. This was obviously just the response that was standard, or safe . . . I supposed.
“I see you have talked to..” She looked down at her clipboard, “Uh, Sheila . . . about your options?”
Sheila was the girl on the phone when I had called for an appointment. She was nice. I had been grateful to have someone to talk to. I wished Sheila were the one with me now. This nurse was so . . . dry with her canned congratulations. I needed to think.
“Is Sheila here?”
“Uhhhh . . . no,” the nurse said, clearly befuddled by my question. Then she sighed. “You will need to schedule another appointment for your procedure if that is what you decide to do.”
“Can I just have my pee please?” I interrupted, suddenly desperate, wanting to leave.
“Wh-what?”
“I just need, I mean, I don't want my pee sitting in there with my name on it. Can I have it please?”
The nurse stared at me like I was crazy. Then she tried to reassure me. “Everything is completely confidential. You understand that, right?”
“I want to go now. Will you please give me my pee?”
The nurse stood and opened the door, her eyes darting back and forth like she was looking for something to taser me with.
“And there is no such thing as completely confidential!” I pushed out of the little room, purse in hand, on a mission to find my labeled sample. I suddenly felt as if my life had narrowed to that label, to my name on a white sticker, pressed to a pee sample. I was crossing the Rubicon. This was it. And that label was all I could think about.
The nurse seemed shaken but didn't argue with me. She handed me my sample, and her hands trembled. I took it and ran, like a thief at a convenience store, hoping nobody could identify me, knowing the likelihood of getting away free was slim to none, knowing my problem had just gotten ten times worse. Yet, like the thief, I felt amped on adrenaline, buzzed at the decision I'd made. Euphoric with the power I had to flush my life right down the tubes . . . or protect a life, whichever way you looked at it. Speaking of flushing, I still gripped the urine sample close to my chest. I set it on the dashboard in my truck and stared at my name under the dim dome light.
Blue Echohawk. Date: March 29, 2012. Time: 5:30 pm. Beyond the interior of my truck, it was dark already. In Vegas in the winter, the sun set around five o'clock. It was fully dark now. I looked at my name again. I thought of Cheryl's words to me that awful day when drowning had seemed to be a more palatable alterative than living without Jimmy.
“He didn't even know your name. He said you just kept saying Blue, Blue, Blue. So that's what he called you. It kinda stuck, I guess.”
Blue Echohawk was not my name. Not really. Maybe I had been named Brittney or Jessica or Heather. Maybe Ashley or Kate or Chrissy, God forbid. 'I'm nobody. Who are you?' The poem taunted me. It suddenly bothered me that I could have a child, and that child would not know her mother's name either. The cycle would continue. I pulled the sticky label from the sample and stuck it on my shirt, needing to declare who I was, if just for my own piece of mind. Then I threw the cup out the window and begged Karma to forgive me, knowing it was gross and that I would be stepping in dog poop or vomit soon because the universe would demand retribution in kind.
Chapter Thirteen
I found myself in front of Wilson's house. There was construction debris piled to the side, and it looked as if the roof was being redone. Light shone from all the windows and the wide front stairs were lit in the soft glow from the light shaped like an antique brass lantern that was hung by the door. I climbed out, not knowing what in the hell I was doing but desperate for companionship. For safety. I didn't know where else to go for either. Mason would have to be told, but I wouldn't be telling him tonight.
There was a little intercom by the door and the sign that said Pemberley. The intercom was new. I pressed it once, wondering if an alarm sounded inside the house. I pressed it once more, and Wilson's voice came through the speaker, sounding ridiculously like a stuffy English butler. It was such a perfect complement to the house that if I had been in any other state of mind I would have laughed hysterically.
“It's Blue Echohawk. Can I talk to you . . . for a minute . . . please? I don't need to come in. I'll just wait out here . . . on the steps.”