We drove to the apartment in silence. I counted the traffic lights.

Nineteen.

Jack wanted me to take the test right away. I sat on the sofa and opened the box, reading the instructions in their entirety as he shifted canvasses around, holding them up to the light and examining them. Once, twice, and a third time. My eyes scanned the words—four, five, six times. I balled up the paper and stuffed it back in the box.

“It says you should take it first thing in the morning.”

“Okay.” He was separating the pieces into three piles. “So you’ll take it when you get up tomorrow?”

I nodded.

I wanted to savour this time. I didn’t want anything to be certain just yet.

I woke up at five o’clock and had to pee. I carefully removed Jack’s arm from around my shoulder and climbed out of bed, making my way to the bathroom. It was still dark outside, so I switched on the light and grabbed the pregnancy test from the cupboard below the sink. I opened the box and turned it upside down, allowing the plastic-encased contraption to slide into my hand. I used my teeth to tear it open, digging in the box for the crumpled instructions:

Place directly below the stream of urine for five seconds.

It sounded easy enough. I pulled down my underwear and sat on the toilet, placing the pregnancy test between my legs, and started to pee. It was harder to manoeuvre than I’d thought.

“Fuck,” I muttered as I peed on my hand.

The instructions said the results would take a couple of minutes. I put the cover back on the testing strip and laid it flat on the counter. I lathered my hands with soap and rinsed them in the sink, wiping them with an indigo hand towel that hung nearby. The smell was overwhelming, so I paced back and forth in the bathroom, trying not to throw up, reciting the words that I had long ago memorized from the framed poem on our wall.

One day at a time,—this is enough.

Do not look back and grieve over the past, for it is gone;

and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come.

Live in the present, and make it so beautiful it will be

worth remembering.

Chapter 50

Heart racing can’t feel left arm can’t feel left leg shake leg make sure it’s working left arm so heavy lift it lift it above head vein in neck throbbing check pulse head so heavy can’t hold anymore down lay down Ativan where the fuck look up down grounding exercise five things see television coffee table water drink water mouth so dry can’t swallow swallowing you’re fine you’re fine tongue numb smile is smile normal stroke panic attack five things mirror book four things hear cars driving clock ticking fan whirling buzz television three things smell coffee peaches cleaner two things taste mint bile the last thing oh fuck chest tight heart attack breathe deep breath one breathe deep breath two breathe deep breath three breath deep breathe four deep breath breathe five breathe breathe breathe you’re fine you’re fine no you’re not you’re fucking not fine.