Eleven Weeks by Lauren K. McKellar Page B

when was your last period?” He clasps his hands together over his crossed knee.
    “It was …” I do the mental maths, and feel like that idiot girl in every pregnancy movie. You know the one. Oh, how didn’t I realise that my period is, like, ninety weeks late?
    “It should have started around seven weeks ago,” I say. “So I’m kind of … three weeks late.”
    Damn idiot. I was an idiot.
    “Right.” The doctor pauses, scribbling some numbers on a chart. “Your periods are usually quite regular?”
    “Yes.”
    “And when do you think you conceived?” He turns his head to look at me.
    “About five weeks ago.” I swallow.
    “That would have put you at the peak ovulation period in your cycle.” He nods, tapping his pen against his lip. “I’ll get you to do a test, just to be sure, but yes, it certainly does sound like you are pregnant.” The doctor jerks open a drawer and rifles through its contents until he finds a small plastic cup with a yellow lid.
    “Here.” He holds it out in my direction.
    Oh God no. Please, no, don’t make me—
    “You’ll need to urinate in this cup. Try and catch it mid-flow, not after the initial burst.” He smiles and jiggles the cup a little, as if that will make it more appealing.
    Again?
    I take the cup and walk out of the room, my shoulders slumped, and head toward the toilet sign I’d seen down the hall. As I pass the reception area, I try to hide the plastic cup of shame in my pocket, but it’s obvious what’s happening. The elderly man gives me a knowing nod, and the middle-aged woman winks at me. You never just ‘forget to go’ before you see a doctor and have to break up your appointment to pee. This is a urine test, people.
    I shut the door behind me, pull down my shorts, unscrew the lid on the cup and—
    Nothing.
    Waterfalls, rushing water, open taps …
    Dry as a bloody desert.
    I imagine the cup of coffee I’d sucked down this morning speeding through my throat, down into my stomach and my intestines or whatever the hell path liquid goes through, and filling up my bladder, all the way to the brim. I squeeze. I push.
    Zero.
    I wish I’d know there was going to be a pee test.
    I stand up and waddle—well, my pants are around my knees—over to the sink where I wrench open the faucet and stick my head under the tap, drinking as much of the spewing water as I can. I gulp so much down I feel my stomach expanding, to the point where I could be sick.
    Then, leaving the tap still running at full ball, I waddle my way back to the toilet, hover and try again.
    After three minutes, I finally pee, and start the awkward should I shove it under now/is this mid-stream enough dance, followed quickly by the where the hell is my pee and—crap it’s on my hand routine.
    Altogether, the experience is rating very below par.
    I finally wash my hands—four times—and head back to the doctor’s office, pee cup firmly sealed. I cringe, trying to find a way to hold it so I can’t feel how … warm the liquid is. Shudder.
    “Here.” I shove the cup of liquid onto the good doctor’s desk and sit down, turning my head away. Something about seeing my pee makes me feel nauseous.
    When I look back, I see Dr Simpson has opened the lid on my pee jar—ew!—and stuck a little thing in it. Looks like his pregnancy test is very similar to mine.
    “May I ask, is this a planned pregnancy?” The doctor fishes around on his desk for a little mouse and right-clicks, bringing his computer to life.
    “Not exactly, no.” I shake my head. “Or at all, really.”
    He turns to me, and I swear, there is something like sympathy in his eyes. “Are you in a relationship with the father?”
    “No.” My voice is quieter this time.
    “Do you know who the father is?”
    “No,” I squeak. My fingers fidget with each other on my knee.
    Dr Simpson sighs, then leans over as if he is about to squeeze my hand, jerking his arm away at the last minute.
    “Sorry, I—you remind me of my own