Two Lines

I place the test on the flattest part of the bathroom floor. Yes, I checked that it’s the flattest, and yes, I used a level. Am I paranoid? Of course I am. You’d be too if this were your thirteenth pregnancy test and the instructions said to “put test on flat surface with result window up.” 

Flat surface. 

Window up. 

Okay. 

I glance at my phone. One minute has passed. Which means I have one more to go. Or maybe it would be better to wait longer. Maybe the floor isn’t flat enough, and my pee isn’t spreading the right way on the test. Or maybe the fact that it’s already been a full minute and there isn’t even a ghost of a second line is a divine sign that there won’t be a second line at all. That this is the thirteenth failure. No, no. The instructions said to wait two minutes. Forty-five seconds to go…. 

Is it dumb to hope? I don’t think it is. Not when I’ve been showing signs. I’ve had bloating. And cramps. And fatigue. And this is definitely the most swollen my boobs have ever been! There was even a smidgen of blood on my underwear yesterday, and according to my ovulation app, I’m technically within the window of time when implantation bleeding is possible. But according to the internet, these are all signs of my period coming. But also according to the internet, early signs of pregnancy are all similar to signs of my period coming!

I grip the rim of the sink and bow my head as I inhale deeply then exhale slowly. I look at myself in the mirror and try to focus on my reflection instead of the usual memories that haunt me at the fifteen-seconds-left mark. I try not to think about the first time my husband told me that it’s always been his dream to have a big family. I try not to think about my mother-in-law sliding a printout across the table and how the printout had all the fertility clinics in the greater area of Los Angeles in order of how qualified she thought they were. I try not to think about my divorced parents and how I’ve always nursed the hope that I would one day have a family to call my own. A whole, unbroken family to replace the one that was broken. 

I try not to think about the panic that would flood me if the second line did appear on the test. Don’t get me wrong. I’d feel happy first. I’d be elated, ecstatic. “The thirteenth time was the final time! I always knew thirteen was actually a lucky number!” That’s what I’d tell myself.

But then I’d think about my drug-addicted brother and how he ended up that way even though I know my parents tried their best. I’d think about my job and the pathetic few weeks they call “maternity leave.” I’d think about the money. I’d think about the years of work I’d lose and how the child we had hoped and hoped for would become the ball and chain that would pull me back down to entry-level jobs.

I’d think of how it’d all be worth it because we’d have a child. 

My eyes fall on my phone, and I realize that it’s been three whole minutes already. A tsunami of dread and hope floods me. 

Will the thirteenth time be the final time?

I look at the pregnancy test.

One line. 

There’s only one line. One.

Damn. Thirteen really is unlucky after all. 

I start sniffing. Then shaking. Then crying. You’d think you’d be used to all this by now. That you’d be strong enough to face the truth headlong, the truth that there is no little peanut growing inside of you and that you had tricked yourself into hoping yet again. 

My husband opens the door, stares, then hugs me without another word. I hug him back, and we stand there like that for minutes on end. 

“Do you want to stop trying?” he asks.

I’m silent as the hollowness inside my chest continues to spread. But then the determination comes. It’s a seed, a spark. It’s so small, but it’s there, and I fan the flames desperately and then methodically. This is the determination that I’ll pass down to my children someday.

“I want to try again.”