Soraya Ward glared at the white stick, hoping that some latent mutant power would manifest within her and blow the cursed thing to smithereens. She didn’t know why she had even bothered to take the test; it treated her no better than the other two that she had taken during the last hour. Most women would have given up after the second pregnancy test; Soraya, however, was not most women. Instead, she glanced at the plastic bag that held a fourth box of the so-called “error-proof test” lying on the back of the toilet and tried to decide if the unlikely possibility of receiving a negative result was worth opening another container.
She snorted at her naivety and tossed the test into her wastebasket before trudging the ten feet to her bed. Once there, she flopped onto the comforter and began weighing her options. Looking around her West Hampstead studio, it was apparent that keeping it was not an option. At one hundred and fifty square feet, there was barely enough room for her, let alone her and a baby. Even the bed she lay on was only a twin; anything bigger wouldn’t have fit in the apartment. She couldn’t move to a larger residence, either. If there was one thing she missed about the United States, it was that she didn’t have to reapply to the Borough council every time she wanted to rent a new place.
What about adoption? came a voice from the back of her mind.
“No!” she screeched aloud as she sat up. “I did not work my way through the toughest journalism school in the United States and earn two Masters from the most-respected program in Europe just to put my dreams on hold for a…a…thing so that someone else wants it!” Her head collapsed back onto the pillow. There was only one option left—one that would solve her problem—yet she didn’t want to consider it.
Why not? the voice responded. It’s still early. Who would know? Your family? They’re on the other side of the ocean! Your colleagues? They’re dead to you the moment they hand in their assignments.
“But I’d know!” she cried. “I’m all for the right to choose, but that choice isn’t for me.” She sat up, leaned against the bare, white wall, counted to three, and inhaled deeply. “Grab a hold of yourself, Rai; you’re talking to yourself.” She breathed again. “Jesus H. I’ve known that I’m pregnant for all of an hour and it’s already driving me mad. I could use a cuppa.” She slowly walked the five steps to her kitchen—a refrigerator, microwave, sink with two cabinets below it, and a stove so small that it was barely bigger than her childhood Easy-Bake Oven—and prepared to make a mug of tea.
It amazed her how British she was becoming; before moving to Wales for graduate school, she would’ve never thought of tea as a cure-all. Tough day at work? Have a cup of tea. Feeling the first symptoms of a cold? Have a cup of tea. Pregnant by your best friend? Have a cup of tea. She supposed it was a healthier alternative to working herself like a Hebrew slave, but she was beginning to spend way too much money on English Breakfast. While she waited for the water to boil in her microwave, she pulled out her cell and scrolled through the contacts until she found the number that she was looking for. All the while, she cursed the exorbitant charges that she was going to accrue from the call.
“Aha!” Soraya exclaimed after tapping the name ‘Martin Stevens’ and hitting ‘send.’ “Thank God for touchscreens,” she muttered as the small phone rang.
“Hello?” a masculine voice slurred into the receiver.
“Martin, it’s me.”
“Rai? It’s six-thirty…and Saturday. What do you want?”
“Sorry to wake you up, but…” Soraya paused mid-sentence after hearing a noise on Martin’s end of the connection. “Are you alone?”
“Jesus, Rai! What do you think?” the irritation evident in his voice.
“Well, can you kick her out? I’ve got to talk to you.”
“She’s still asleep; the sun isn’t up yet. Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it.”
“Fine, then. I’m pregnant.”
“What?! How?!”
Soraya rolled her eyes. “Well, when two people get very, very drunk…”
“Ha. Ha.” Martin’s voice disappeared from the phone for a moment after his sarcastic response. Then Soraya heard it again, further away as if he had put his cell down. “Hey, get up; you’ve gotta go. I’m not treating you like a ho. Look, I’ll call you later today.” There was some rustling and what sounded like a door closing before Martin’s voice returned to the receiver. “I’m not going to call her.”
Unamused, Soraya added sugar to her cup and took a sip. “So…” she trailed off.
“When you are moving back?” Martin asked unexpectedly.
The mug of tea nearly dropped out of her hands. “Wait, what?!”
“You are moving back, right? You can’t fit a baby in that shithole of an apartment.”
“Of course I’m not moving back! What would even give you an idea like that? My job is here; my life is here!”
“You have degrees from Carolina and Cardiff. You could walk into the freaking New York Times and they would trip over themselves to sign you.”
That’s right; a man who likens writing for the Times to being a one-and-done college basketball player. You sure you really want to keep this guy’s spawn?
Soraya rolled her eyes, not sure if she was rolling them at Martin or the voice. “The Times does not work that way and even if it did, I wouldn’t move back to the US.”
“I won’t let you raise my baby without me, and I’m sure as hell not packing up and flying across the Atlantic!”
He won’t let you?! You’re not really going to take that, are you? the voice piped up.
“So you’re trying to control me now?! What gives you the right?! And who said I was keeping it, anyway?” she shouted in anger. “And even if I was, I sure as hell don’t need your help!”
“Oh, you don’t need me?” Soraya could tell from Martin’s voice that he was just as furious. “Then why’d you call me, Rai? You have it all figured out; you always have a plan, right?” An audible inhalation came across the receiver before he continued. “So where in your perfect plan were you supposed to end up pregnant from a drunken one-night stand on –”
Click, the voice said with a snigger as Soraya closed her cell and hurled it at the wall, not giving Martin the opportunity to finish his sentence. The phone bounced off the wall with an unsatisfying thump and landed on her bed. Still filled with ire, she followed it with the blue mug, still half-full of tea. The ceramic shattered, spraying the light-brown liquid everywhere and staining the wall, bed linens, and armoire. Unfortunately, this led to a deep angry voice coming from the next apartment over, “Oi, keep it down over there! Some of us are trying to watch telly!”
“Sorry!” she called back, massaging the back of her neck. This was just not her day, and she didn’t think it was fair. All she wanted to do was work hard, live her life, and not bother other people. How did she manage to wind up with so much drama?
“I thought I told you to keep it down over there, you stupid cow!” came her neighbor’s voice again, clueing her in that she had voiced her thoughts aloud.
“Sorry! I –”
“I don’t want excuses; I want you to shut the hell up!”
Frustrated, Soraya fought back the urge to yell back. Instead, she picked up the shattered remains of her mug and deposited them in the wastebasket before stripping her bed of the tea-tinged sheets and duvet and dropping the items into a basket. She then reached into the white-washed cupboard under the sink in an effort to grab a bottle of laundry detergent and found that she was out, as well as being nearly out of dishwashing liquid.
Grrr-rowar. Her belly rumbled with a noise that sounded not unlike a bear mating with a mountain lion. It was then that she realized that she hadn’t eaten since the night before, when she ate an entire package of chocolate-chip cookies with her tea. Deciding that she could just grab some lunch while she was out, she tied her sable hair into a ponytail and grabbed her wallet and keys. Finally leaving her small apartment, she headed in the direction of the West Hampstead Tube.
As she reached the station, Soraya could see the train rapidly approaching. Breaking into a run, she managed to reach the platform and swipe her Oyster card just in time. She quickly found a seat beside a door in the back and glanced around, noticing how crowded it was.
Ugh. It’s so loud in here; you should’ve brought your iPod to drown out all this noise, the voice in her head stated matter-of-factly.
Trying to ignore both the noise of the Tube passengers and the growing worry that she was going mad, she remained as motionless as a corpse while she waited for the sign in front of her to flash “Entering Kilburn Station.” Eventually she was able to swipe her Oyster card once more and begin the short walk to Little Bay Restaurant.
Once she arrived at her purple and gold-painted destination, she was greeted by a rosy-cheeked, overly-enthusiastic hostess. “Welcome to Little Bay, Kilburn!” the hostess beamed, her short, blond bob moving with her words. “Would you like to be seated now, or would rather wait for the rest of your party?”
Soraya bit her lip and started playing with her hoodie strings. Despite their fight earlier, she missed Martin. When she lived stateside, he was usually the one that dealt with other people to keep her anxiety and anthropophobia to a minimum. Outside of professional settings, she had no idea how to truly communicate with people, so she didn’t know how to respond to that question. Should she yell at the hostess for assuming that she was with a larger group or should she just ignore it?
After what felt like forever, she decided on the latter. “Um, it’s just me, thanks,” she mumbled as a slight blush crept up her sepia cheeks.
Wrong answer, Rai. She should’ve paid for insulting you!
The hostess’s smile faltered, but returned to its hundred-watt brilliance so quickly that Soraya thought that she imagined it. “Oh, that’s quite alright. Follow me.” She grabbed a menu and trotted toward the back of the restaurant, finally stopping at a small table behind red velvet curtains. Grabbing a pitcher, she filled Soraya’s water glass and remarked, “Lisa will be your server. Can I get you a drink while you wait?”
“A glass of white,” Soraya responded automatically, briefly forgetting her condition. “I mean, the water will be fine.”
Fuck, why shouldn’t you drink? Does it really matter? Adoption or abortion, it’s not going to be your problem much longer, came the ever-persistent voice in her head.
“I think I will have that glass of white, after all.”
The hostess tilted her head to the side and cocked a perfectly-arched eyebrow at her customer’s seeming inability to make up her mind. “A glass of white it is, then,” she said before leaving in the direction of the bar.
Soraya buried herself in the lunch menu, trying to decide if she wanted something heavy like the char-grilled lamb steak or something lighter like the duck salad.
You should get the salmon fillet.
“Isn’t fish loaded with mercury? Isn’t that bad for, well, it?” she responded, not realizing that she was speaking aloud.
Does it matter right now? You’ve already ordered the glass of white; what’s a little piece of fish going to hurt?”
“I don’t know…I’m not really in the mood for…” She trailed off as she noticed a glass of white wine that was had not been there earlier. Looking up, she saw a plump brunette waitress holding a notepad and pen, appearing as if she wanted to drop them and run for dear life.
“Uh, h-hello. I’m L-lisa, your s-server for the day. C-can I s-start you off with one of our s-starters?” the waitress stuttered, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
Oh for the love of…You’ve frightened the poor girl with your crazy, Rai.
Feeling that it wasn’t best to say anything to that lest the waitress really think that she was crazy, Soraya instead took a deep breath, counted to ten, and tried to ignore the embarrassment she felt at being caught talking to herself in public. “Uh, no, thank you, Lisa. I’d like the Belsize Chicken.”
Lisa, finally getting herself under control, wrote down the order. “Would you like that with a mixed green salad, French fries…”
“I’d like mash for my side.”
That’s right; say “mash.” Try to hide that you’re an American even though your accent gives it away.
“Very well, then. I’ll get that right out to you,” Lisa continued, unaware of Soraya being mocked by her own mind.
Soraya’s lunch finally arrived, a chicken breast stuffed minty minced lamb and a side of mashed potatoes. After declining another glass of wine, she dug in. When she finished, she motioned for the check, turning down dessert even though the apple cake with custard and vanilla ice cream did sound yummy. Her stomach full, she ventured back outside to complete her original quest: to find some laundry detergent and some dishwashing liquid.
Walking down Belsize Road toward Kilburn High Street, she was – once again – left alone with her thoughts. Having already decided against keeping what she considered a foreign invader to her body, she went back to the two options she hadn’t yet ruled out. “Adoption…” she muttered as she plodded along the pavement. “Can I handle that? What if I get attached?” A gust a wind blew and she shoved her hands in her pockets. “Would I have to take maternity leave from work? What does the insurance plan actually cover? What if there are complications? What if –”
What if, what?! The voice in her head interrupted her meltdown. I’ve already told you what to do. Go to Family Planning, make an appointment, and get it over with.
“For the last time, I’m not doing that!!!” she screeched, coming to a complete halt on the sidewalk. “Just…just shut up! I don’t need you! I’ve never needed help before and Icertainly don’t need it now!” As she stood in the middle of the pavement, a dark-haired teenage boy on his cell walked into her. She turned to apologize for standing in the middle of the walkway, but he just pushed past with a grumble that sounded suspiciously like “Nutter.” She rolled her eyes, disgusted with his rudeness, and continued down the sidewalk.
Well, he was a right ass, the voice in Soraya’s mind commented. It was greeted by silence. You can’t ignore me just because you don’t like what I’m saying, it went on. More silence. I’m still part of you, you know. Soraya still didn’t say a word aloud. You’ve passed the Tesco.
“Wait, what?”
Thought that’d get your attention.
“I passed the Tesco? Where? When?!”
About half a mile back. It was while you were rambling like a great rambling thing.
“Two words. Screw. You.”
That and your need to “have fun” – and, yes, that was in inverted commas – is what got you in this mess, innit?
“Now who’s acting like a native Brit?”
What? You’re the only one that can hear me speak; all of North London can hear you.
Soraya turned around to walk the half-mile back and closed herself, blatantly ignoring the voice’s words. Why was she answering it audibly, and why was she listening to it at all? It talked her into having a glass of wine at lunch, when she knew better. What kind of decision was that? Where did it come from, anyway? In her twenty-six years, she had never heard it once. And why did it choose now to appear? More importantly, where was it when she had actually needed it? Where was it when she was sitting on the fuzzy green couch debating whether to meet Martin in a crowded bar to self-medicate her anthropophobia? Why didn’t it scream that sleeping with a known man-whore was among the stupidest things a person could do, even if said man-whore was her best – and only – friend? Hell, why didn’t it tell her when she started applying to graduate school that in case of an emergency, no one could hear break glass because she was moving across an entire ocean?!
Because you wouldn’t have listened, the voice managed to sneak in. You always had things planned out. You just knew you were going to UNC; you were so confident that you didn’t even bother to apply to another school. You were going to do your post-grad work in Cardiff; you even got jobs in high school and college and saved to be sure you could afford it when the time came…
“So? I worked hard to get where I am!” she fired back, tapping her chest to emphasize her point. “I won’t apologize for it.”
No one is asking you to. All I’m saying is that you have always tried to be so self-sufficient. You never ask for help, even when you do need it. You only have one friend, and I don’t think you quite understand the irony of being a journalist that doesn’t know how to talk to people. The voice paused as if waiting for Soraya to say something. When a response didn’t come, it continued. Your ambitions have cost you a social life, and you’ve never had a meaningful relationship because you don’t believe that anyone could be more important than the perfect life that you’ve always dreamed of achieving.
“Of course. I’ll be damned if I let something as trivial as some guy ruin what I’ve worked so hard to get.”
And you’ve done such a brill job of it, haven’t you? Knocked up and the father on another continent? And you have no one to blame but yourself. You tried to control your fears without therapy because you’re always in control, and now you can’t handle the consequences.
“Says the person who keeps suggesting I abort it.”
One, I’m not a person; I’m you. Two, I keep telling you to abort it because you’ve never had any problem doing what was necessary to keep your dreams alive. And if you want your perfect plans to stay in their perfect box, then that’s what you need to do.
“That’s it! I refuse to entertain your asinine words any further. You don’t know what you’re talking about; you don’t know me. I’m through listening to you, since your only goal seems to be insulting me and driving me mad.”
Hey, you’re the one talking to yourself in the middle of the Kilburn High Road. I’d say you’re already nutters. Oh, by the way, you’re about to walk past the Tesco again.
Soraya stopped and whipped her head right; a Tesco Express was indeed there. She walked in and groaned immediately at the sight of one her colleagues. Not wanting to be forced into awkward small talk, she continued straight and turned left to duck down the nearest aisle. She managed to navigate to the cleaning supplies without being seen and picked up a bottle of Persil aloe-scented dishwashing liquid. Moving a little further down, she found a bottle of Persil Bio Small and Mighty.
See, this is what I mean, the voice declared. You are so concerned with appearances that even your cleaning products have to match brands. Maybe you have OCD, too. Soraya said nothing as she trudged back to the front of the store to pay for her items and begin the trek back to the tube station.
She had a few minutes before the train arrived once she reached the station, so she sat on a bench and started thinking about the things Martin and the voice in her head said to her. Martin was right; she couldn’t blame him entirely. Yes, he had a part in this situation, but she had been the one to get drunk and suggest sharing a bed. And the voice that she had been deliberately snubbing was more accurate than she cared to admit. She always planned ahead, and she always had a contingency plan in case reality conflicted with her first strategy. Except now. She sighed in frustration at the choices that lay before her. If she didn’t want to make amends to her plans, there was only one thing that she could do. But was she woman enough to make that choice? To forego everything she’d ever been taught in favor of what was best for career?
The train finally arrived and Soraya swiped her Oyster card and got on. The entire ride back to West Hampstead and walk back to her apartment, that was all she could think about – whether or not she could make that choice and end the life that was growing inside her. When she finally reached her apartment, she picked up her laundry basket and made her way ot the communal washing machine. While her bedding was being cleaned, she put away the dishwashing liquid and picked up her phone to check it for damage. Surprisingly, it was quite durable and still worked, despite being chucked at the wall in a moment of rage and being splashed with tea.
Carefully she dialed Martin’s number, but his phone went straight to voicemail, forcing her to leave a message. “Hi, Martin, it’s me. Um, we need to talk. Civilly and without me being a bitch. Call me back when you get this message. Thanks. Bye.” Next, she picked up her phone book and flipped to the services section. She traced down the page until she found the organization that she was looking for. She dialed the listed number and a cheery woman’s voice answered.
“Hello. This is Samantha at the Family Planning Association Helpline. What can I do for you today?”
“Um, hi, Samantha. My name is Soraya, and I need help.”
