LITMIR.BIZ

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least, that’s what she thought until Dr. Benton had asked to run a few tests. One of which involved peeing in that stupid cup.

      How long did it take to do whatever voodoo test he was doing? And what did he think was wrong?

      Cancer?

      That horrible C word.

      Cancer of what? Cervix, uterus, ovaries? Maybe that was it, cancer had eaten all her eggs, so her periods had stopped.

      She tried to force her thoughts back to her long to-do list. It was much more pleasant.

      Okay. To-do…

      Her mind was blank. She was saved from trying to fill it though when Dr. Benton opened the door.

      “Go ahead and just tell me. Cancer has eaten all my eggs, right?”

      He laughed.

      Hmm, doctors didn’t normally laugh when telling someone they had a cancer, right?

      She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling better. She sat up and all the paper crinkled merrily. “I have an active imagination. So what’s the news?”

      “You’re not in menopause—”

      “Then it is cancer. Cancer of the uterus? That’s why my period stopped.”

      “You’re pregnant.”

      “Cancer of the cervix?”

      “Pregnant. As in going to have a baby.”

      She laughed. “Funny. Ha ha. You can tell me. Just say the words, I can take it.”

      “Eli, you’re not sick, there’s nothing wrong with you that I’ve found. Although you are pregnant.”

      “But…I can’t be. I mean, Arthur always uses condoms, and…” She paused, trying to process what Dr. Benton was saying. “You can’t get pregnant if you’re in menopause, so I’m not pregnant.”

      “You’re not in menopause. You’re pregnant. Some of those missed periods were because you’re going to have a baby, not because of menopause. You’re going to have a baby in around six or seven months. Somewhere around May or June would be my guess. We’ll have to do some tests to be sure.”

      “But—”

      “Listen, Eli, I’ve been your doctor for a long time, and I know this comes as a shock. Why don’t you go home, take some time and process it all, then come see me again next week and we’ll talk? We’ll do a few more tests. I want to do a sonogram so we’ll have a more accurate idea of your due date since you have been experiencing erratic cycles.”

      “But—”

      “And here.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a prescription. “Prenatal, prescription vitamins. Get it filled and start taking one a day.”

      “But—”

      He patted her hand. “It’s going to be all right.”

      Eli went into a type of brain-fogged automatic pilot. That was the only way to explain how she managed to dress and check in with the receptionist. She agreed to the first appointment that was offered without consulting her calendar, bundled into her jacket, and made her way to her car—her brand-new MINI Cooper. A more nonbaby car couldn’t be found. She drove a MINI, so there was no way she was pregnant.

      The fog started to clear.

      Dr. Benton, bless his heart, was wrong. That was the only explanation. She’d seen one of those news shows about doctors and their inaccurate tests. That’s what this was. The test was faulty.

      Or, since Dr. Benton was getting on in age and probably needed reading glasses, he’d misread the results.

      Either way, he was wrong. She was not pregnant.

      With a newly found, albeit fuzzy, plan, Eli put her foot to the floor and hurried to her neighborhood pharmacy. While she waited for them to fill the prescription that she probably wouldn’t need, she grabbed a basket, then walked up and down the aisles until she found the pregnancy test section.

      Six.

      There were six different brands of pregnancy tests.

      She read the boxes. Digital tests. Plus or minus tests. One box had three individual tests in it…for people who thought they were pregnant frequently? There was no way she would want to go through this sinking feeling more than once.

      She studied the boxes. All claimed to be ninety-nine percent accurate.

      She took the first box and threw it in her basket.

      Just to be on the safe side, she grabbed a second brand and added it.

      She started down the aisle. Surely, the tests would prove Dr. Benton was wrong.

      But what if they were faulty as well?

      She turned back and hurried to the display. She put one of each brand of test in her basket.

      There. She’d take all of these and when all six told her she wasn’t pregnant, she’d call Dr. Benton and insist he either check the expiration dates on his tests at the office, or that he make an appointment for an eye exam.

      Maybe both.

      He was going to be embarrassed, she was sure. But she’d laugh it off, and make certain he understood she didn’t blame him.

      Yes, tell him no harm, no foul.

      By the time she got home she was feeling a surreal sense of calm. Everything would be fine once she peed on the six small wands. All of them promised results in three to five minutes.

      She glanced at the clock. Dr. Benton would probably still be at his office. She’d call him right away so he could figure out what the problem was…faulty test or aging eyes.

      She hurried into the bathroom and discovered peeing on sticks was infinitely easier than peeing in a cup.

      She lined them all up on the counter and left, determined not to watch them. She didn’t need to. She knew what they were going to show—she wasn’t pregnant.

      She stood outside the bathroom door, trying to decide what to do while she waited. Aimlessly, she went down the hall and thumbed through her mail that she’d set on the antique washstand she’d found last summer on her New England vacation with Arthur. They’d meandered with no real destination in mind, stopping in small towns and villages along the way.

      She ran a finger over the stand, and couldn’t help it if her sleeve slipped up, exposing her watch. She didn’t mean to check the time and was disappointed to discover that only one minute had passed.

      She walked through the house, feeling slightly removed—as if she were a visitor seeing it for the first time. She remembered every item, its history and any sentiment it carried.

      Everything was orderly in her tiny, perfect-for-one-person, but not-for-a-baby house. There was her bedroom, with the froufrou pillows on the bed. Arthur hated them and felt that the few seconds she spent putting them in place every day were wasted time. It probably added up to an hour or more a year, he’d told her. Arthur was a big fan of time management, and try as she might, she couldn’t seem to convince him that time spent on aesthetics wasn’t wasted at all. She liked how the pillows looked on the bed, how the entire room’s decor came together. That was worth an hour of her year.

      She peeked in her equally neat and appealing office. She’d spent three weekends stripping, then refinishing the oak floor. She’d used a high gloss on them and they truly shone. The deep red walls, the pulled back curtains…her office was an oasis.

      This time she didn’t try to convince herself that glancing at her watch was an accident.

      Two minutes to go.

      She went to the kitchen, hoping she’d left a glass or plate in the sink, something she could rinse, but there was nothing.

      Her

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