I ran into the living room, past the guests, little children in bright outfits, almost tripping on the carpet, dragging Marina after me. The Indonesian maids staring blankly. Clutching the banister up the stairs. Into the bedroom. The bathroom. And face over the toilet bowl. I retched violently, the remnants of the pink drink and then streaming yellow bile. My face was drenched with sweat, and I imagined streaks of Mac powder and mascara running down my face.

Ya Allah, Del, what is going on with you?

I stumbled to my feet, and saw my face in the mirror. Lipstick smeared, eyes watery. I looked pale. My mouth still dribbling with saliva.

Del, do you think you’re…

The bathroom door opened and Omar uttered the word.

Pregnant?

I threw up once again.

I rinsed my mouth. Our faces together in the bathroom mirror. Husband and wife.

Gently, he took my hand and sat me down on the bed.

Marina smiled, her manicured hand covering her mouth.

Oh darling, darling Del. He kissed me on the forehead, then gently on my cheeks. And we fell onto the white, embroidered pillows and started laughing.

* * *

I threw up every day for 39 weeks.

The doctor said, It’s severe morning sickness, one in every ten women gets it.

Every morning it was the same. Bright yellow bile, doubled over, head in the toilet bowl, then the sink, then the toilet bowl again. Omar couldn’t take it anymore. In the first weeks, he would stand behind me, holding my waist with both hands, while the violent retching pulled at my back and neck muscles. When I got bigger, he couldn’t reach around me and I couldn’t bear to have him near me. My body felt like it was being torn apart and the sounds that came out of my mouth were that of a wild animal. The deep guttural moans would range in registers from reptilian to feline.

He said he felt guilty. Sorry, my god. Jesus fucking Christ. Del, I am so sorry.

Sorry for what? Getting me pregnant?

For months I only ate crackers, dried sesame-flavoured seaweed and soupy noodles with tofu. Nothing else would stay down. If it was bland, it was good. The scent of laundry detergent made me nauseous. Traffic made me nauseous. Music made me nauseous. My body had become an unknown creature. I yearned for soft pillows and lemon scented candles, new-age music and long stretchy black skirts, snow, maple syrup on thick buttermilk pancakes, sticky fudge on vanilla ice-cream, bread soaked in balsamic vinegar. I was in danger of becoming anaemic. Apart from the folic acid and multi-vitamins, I had to take iron, zinc, magnesium. More pills. I could not eat meat; I could not face a lamb cutlet, pink, dead chicken thighs, fish with glassy eyes. I stared at animal parts in supermarkets, trying not to gag. Instead, I caressed apples, peaches, grapes, avocados. I could not watch any violence on TV, no machine-gun wielding heroes creating carnage. No wars, no alien invasions, no winged creatures with supersonic eyes. No haunted houses, or dead girls with long, wet hair. No ghosts or exorcisms, no demonic possession.