When I discovered I was pregnant, I didn’t experience the violent range of emotions most women claim to. Perhaps a lack of emotion is within the range, and experiencing nothing could be equated to experiencing everything, as both are painful and impossible to understand.
I’d vomited toast that morning, seeds coming loose from my throat as though hastily aborted from the root of a plant. The day before, shepherd’s pie and six ounces of red wine escaped me in three waves of retching. I watched the hues of blood-red flush out of sight and hoped I was just bleeding from my stomach, that an ulcer was spreading inside me like cancer. The metal of a surgical tool felt much more reasonable to me. Wielding it was another person’s responsibility. All I had to do was lie there and wait for it to be over. I reasoned with myself that I was fine with coming to in a tangle of hospital sheets, a sensitive incision of black nylon finely laced into my abdomen, like a spider gorging on my insides.
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant at first. I didn’t quite know what I was going to do about it. On day one, I smoked an entire package of American Spirits one by one. I did so while lying splayed by the window, light falling across my stomach in ivory shards, hoping they’d impale me.
On day two, I went to a speakeasy with some girlfriends. I didn’t want to see them, but I did want to drink. The consumption of alcohol always made me feel more optimistic about the future. Life felt far more malleable, the solutions to my problems suddenly within reach. I felt I could actually envision my life while drunk. It helped me to feel as though the future wasn’t just a theory, that I couldn’t be struck by a vehicle tomorrow or have an aneurysm burst in my brain. It was like I knew I would live no matter what, and I both loved and hated that notion with equal completeness.
My boyfriend didn’t like my keeping alcohol in the home, so the purchase of it would have garnered criticism I wouldn’t have been able to stand. As much as I respected him for his discipline, it also irritated me. Though he’d never implied I was inferior for enjoying a drink, it felt like it categorized us. It’s not that I would prefer that he get blind-drunk with me. I would just prefer a world in which I can get blind-drunk every night, and everyone would still love me, and nothing bad would ever happen.
I met my friends at the door, and we tried dozens of knobs to access the bar. It was one of those places relying on a schtick to mask the fact that they just serve eighteen-dollar cocktails like everywhere else. My friend Beth eventually leaned down, her underwear flashing blue beneath her skirt, and pushed the door open. I wondered if they placed the knob down below just so the bouncers could watch women bend over.
I ordered a martini and finished it quickly, before anyone had even touched their drinks. Then I ordered three more. I could feel them eyeing me, but I don’t respect their opinions, so I didn’t care. If I’d told them I was pregnant, they surely would have been squealing like idiots. I wouldn’t have been able to stomach their joy; I could feel my soul fizzing out of my ears at the very thought.
The bar eventually became flush with people, and therefore, much louder. We were shouting back and forth to no avail, and then resorted to primly stirring our cocktails and glancing around. What were we hoping for? What does one ever hope for in a bar? Free shots in small plastic cups that taste vile and are meant to buy access to your body. A man to fall in love with you. People began to dance when the band came out, tables and chairs now stacked, lemon wedges and paper straws already mashed into the floor.
“I want to dance,” I said, surprising myself. Everyone looked eager to oblige, because they had nothing better to do. It was very burdensome to make all of the decisions in a group. I hated them more than ever in that moment. I moved onto the dance floor without checking if they were behind me. It was framed by men stiffly moving back and forth with their brandished cans, rhythmless, desperate. Women were pulling down their skirts and adjusting each other’s bra straps, wiping excess mascara from beneath their eyes with the pads of their thumbs.
I approached a group of men and grabbed the hand of the least handsome one. He was drinking from a plastic cup of water, frightened by my sudden appearance.
“Will you get me a drink?” I asked, and he nodded, accompanying me to the bar, his grip on my hand loose and unsure.
“What do you want?” He shouted in my ear, and I winced before ordering a vodka soda. He ordered the same. We stood there for a minute with our drinks. He was holding it gingerly. It was obvious he didn’t want it.
“Let’s drink these fast so we can dance, okay?” I said, this time offering a genuine smile. I could feel that I was transparent, that he could see through me all the way to the other side of the room.
“Sure,” he said, tipping the contents into his mouth, playing along. We returned to the dance floor, and I slid my hands under his t-shirt. I could see his discomfort as his friends watched and howled, laughing from a place I couldn’t see.
“You’re very pretty,” he told me, smiling shyly.
“I’m pregnant!” I shouted back. He laughed uneasily.
“Really?” He asked. I smiled and nodded, reaching for his hand, spinning myself around. Who could care right now? I was very intoxicated. He wasn’t that ugly. I wasn’t that pregnant. Life wasn’t so wretched.
I leaned forward to kiss him, my hands again reaching under his shirt.
“Stop,” he said, suddenly grave, “If you’re joking, it’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking,” I laughed, placing his hand on my abdomen, “can you feel them kicking?”
“I’m an OB/GYN,” he said flatly, and I laughed, because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Congratulations,” I started to say, but then it ceased to matter, because he was gone.
“What happened?” My friends asked later as we ate pizza in the cab, Beth knocked out on my shoulder.
“Nothing. He was an asshole,” I told them, looking out the window. On the third day, I vomited, ate a tin of cold tuna, and vomited again. My boyfriend had been calling, but we’d been in an argument, so I wanted to make him sweat a little longer. I also didn’t really care to speak to him again.
On the fourth day, I watched television for sixteen hours. Beth called. My mother called to see if I could come for dinner on Sunday evening. I took a few Benadryl and turned off the television to focus on nothing in particular. Then I began texting everyone that I loved them so much and wouldn’t be able to live without them, when none of that was true.
On the fifth day, I relented and told my boyfriend at a cafe. The cafe was one I didn’t like, so I wasn’t particularly concerned about creating a negative association with it. We were crammed into a table on the patio with an umbrella that had come off its hinges on one side, listlessly stirring in the wind coming off the water. The seagulls hunted for food on the sand below, teenagers screeching as they lunged for their potato chips.
“Is it mine?” He asked, unfolding and refolding his napkin, looking everywhere but at me.
“Of course it is, idiot,” I replied, even though I actually didn’t know.
“I need to think about this,” he said, and then I never saw him again. He left his latte there, and I gave it to a homeless person donned in trash bags, his skin smeared with glitter.
On day six, I went to a dinner party. I brought a bottle of Malbec that cost less than a cup of coffee. I’d been in bed all day, so I looked terrible. The dinner party was at a colleague’s place. I’d wanted his house to be shitty, but it wasn’t.
When I rang the doorbell, his wife answered, and she was neither beautiful nor ugly. It would’ve been more interesting if she were one or the other.
“Clara?” She asked. Her dress was a little too short, but I could tell it was expensive.
“Nice to meet you,” I replied, stepping into the dimly lit foyer without being invited in. She took my coat and disappeared briefly, returning with a flute of champagne.
“You can come with me. I’ll show you where everyone’s chatting,” she said, starting into the hallway. “You like champagne, right?” She asked. I nodded. “Perfect,” she replied, “we have plenty of it. Everyone is just in here.”
She opened a heavy set of doors to reveal a study. I forgot I’d been holding the bottle of wine and practically thrust it into her hands, nearly causing her to drop it.
“Oh – this is for you,” I said. She smiled, eyeing the label.
“Thank you so much,” she said graciously, “I’ll put it with the others.”
“Great,” I said for no reason, and she left me standing alone. Some people looked up absently, uninterested in both me and their conversation. A gorgeous, lanky woman was splayed on the arm of a sofa, holding her champagne with her elbow at a ninety-degree angle, smiling idly. I was instantly envious of her and planned to avoid her. I couldn’t bear the patronization of my life, her pretending to care about my meaningless job. I assumed she earned money through something eccentric, an art curator or a boudoir photographer, something with a hint of scandal, something worth telling strangers at a dinner party.
“Clara!” My colleague Martin shouted, and I walked over, awkwardly infiltrating the tight circle near the hearth of the fire. Photos of some ugly children were arranged above our heads.
“Hey,” I said, realizing he was attempting to embrace me, one arm outstretched. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“No sweat. Liz was just telling us her exciting news.” I glanced at Liz, modest and vaguely Mormon as ever in her argyle and starched white collar.
“Oh, really? What’s that?” I asked, already bored to death. I looked again at the ugly children, the smattering of blonde, and a sea of glassy eyes.
“I just started telling people,” she said, and my eyes fell on her seltzer water.
“Telling people what?” I asked, voice flat.
“I’m seven weeks,” she squealed, beaming. “Seven weeks without a glass of red, too, unfortunately,” she added, the room laughing halfheartedly.
“Wow. Excellent. Congratulations,” I told her, because that’s what’s expected, and perhaps she would let us move on now. I downed my champagne.
“Do you have any names in mind?” Someone asked her. I turned to see Dolores from the accounting department. The first day I laid eyes on her, I correctly suspected she’d worked there nearly her entire life. Today she wore burgundy tights pulled over her swollen diabetic feet, a gold necklace turning brassy against her neck.
“Oh, no, it’s way too early for that. Maybe you can help me narrow it down,” Liz said kindly. Dolores smiled into her champagne. She had so little to live for.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, feeling Liz glance at me, disappointed.
“Osso bucco,” Martin told me evenly, “Joan’s specialty.”
The beautiful woman was staring at me, and I wished she’d stop. I knew she thought I was a bad person. Her perceived judgment actually pained me. I adjusted my hair and my t-shirt. I wished I had something stronger than alcohol. The beautiful woman broke from her own group, ascending upon me.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi, I replied, guarded, semi-rude. I glanced around, wondering when someone would offer me another drink. I tried to make a show of displaying my empty glass.
“Great news about Liz,” the beautiful woman remarked, tilting her head at me.
“Yeah,” I said absently, still surveying the room. Where was boring Joan? Where was the abundance of champagne she’d promised me? “Sorry, do you know where I can get a drink?” I asked. She frowned.
“You seem stressed,” she told me. I rolled my eyes, walking off in search of the kitchen. Joan and Martin seemed like the kind of people who diligently stocked a wine cellar, or at the very least, kept expensive vodka in the freezer for guests. I found Joan in the kitchen singing along to Nora Jones, and I wanted to slit my wrists.
“Hey, Joan,” I said, instead of killing myself, showing her my empty glass. “Came for a top-up.” She looked up, hands oily, mixing a green salad.
“Oh. It’s in the study. There’s a wine fridge to the left of the bookcase. You can help yourself.”
I watched her salt a bowl of greens. She stared at them as if they might tell her something.
“What are you making?” I asked, although I already knew.
“Arugula salad,” she replied evenly.
“Sounds delicious,” I offered, my ingenuity hitting both of us starkly. “It’s too bad you’re stuck in here cooking by yourself,” I continued, feeling like an idiot. This had to be the most forced conversation I’d had in years. Not to mention, I was beginning to think I was the one deserving of criticism, not her. She was assembling a meal for fifteen, singing in her beautiful kitchen. I was a jaded, secretly pregnant woman falsifying a connection to secure a drink.
“Yes, well,” she replied, turning away, “I find it taxing to be around Liz right now, anyway. But this is her moment. I don’t want to take that away from her.” She began rolling fresh herbs together with her fingers, severing them with the press of a knife.
“Liz?” I asked, failing to understand.
“Maybe Martin never mentioned it. I had a miscarriage a few months ago.” I had nothing to say to this.
“I see,” was what came out. She shrugged.
“It was my third in two years. We’ve started to figure it may just not be meant to be. Not everything is.” I nodded, still ruminating over my empty glass. I tried not to think of what was packed tight in my abdomen, more finite than the seed of an apple.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. Ever the gracious host, she smiled, jerking her chin towards the door.
“Go on, then. Get a top-up. And please let everyone know dinner will be ready in fifteen.” I did as I was told. I paused in the hallway to look back, perhaps to smile, a gesture to provide proof of commiseration. Joan had stopped moving completely, staring straight ahead, eyes neither here nor there.
In the study, I poured a glass, then another, in quick succession. I forgot to relay the message about dinner. The room was suddenly chic, the guests compelling. I was listening to some of the men discuss subtle changes to our company’s payroll system when Joan came in, a stained towel thrown over her shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said briskly, “The fifteen-minute warning has long passed. Dinner is on the table.” I was surprised by how short she seemed, her eyes having darkened slightly.
“Sorry, love,” Martin said, “I didn’t catch your warning. Paul was busy complaining about the updates I’d made to our payroll system, failing to realize it took six weeks to finalize them.” Everyone laughed. I turned crimson, knowing I’d irritated Joan. She looked at me once, then away again.
“It’s not a problem. Let’s eat, everyone,” she said, leaving ahead of us.
One by one, we filed out. The beautiful woman was finally treating me like I didn’t exist. To my dismay, there seemed to be a seating chart, white name placards propped against plates now teeming with food. I was disappointed to be seated next to Joan and Dolores.
“This looks lovely,” Dolores exclaimed, taking her seat. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since my daughter left home. I have no reason to cook anymore, really.” Everyone seemed to ignore this. I averted my gaze as she took out her cell phone to take a photo, the flash going off like her own personal Hiroshima.
“What a spread!” Martin cried out, kissing Joan as she took a corkscrew to the first bottle.
“Incredible,” I remarked, even though I’d already seen it, and it wasn’t. The salad looked far too oily. Joan poured me a notably small glass.
Everyone began eating, generating a loud silence outside of the scraping of silver against china. Joan was glancing around obsessively, as though trying to gauge the group’s contentment or criticism from our facial expressions.
“Who are the children in the photos?” I asked. No one spoke.
“Sorry?” Martin asked, half-smiling.
“In the study. I saw photos of some children. I know you don’t have any, so I was just curious.”
Joan looked at me, something unreadable in her face. “My nephews,” she said.
“They’re so cute,” I offered.
“They’re nightmares,” Martin said, and everyone laughed. Thankfully, this ignited a boring conversation about everyone’s kin. Joan was no longer eating and had resorted to sliding her gaze back and forth to whoever was speaking.
“And you?” Joan suddenly asked, angling her body towards me. I looked at her, confused.
“And me what?” I responded.
“Do you have children?”
“Oh, god no. Never.”
Jessica Daly is a fiction writer based in Vancouver, Canada, whose work explores the speculative, experimental, and uncanny. A finalist for the 2026 Solstice Literary Magazine Fiction Prize, her fiction appears in Expat Press, Misery Tourism, and Rough Cut Press, with additional work forthcoming in BULL, Solstice Literary Magazine, and Midcult.