Chemical Pregnancy
by Janelle Cordero
I.
My period is late, but the test is negative. I stopped taking birth control three years ago. I dreamt of our old house last night, the one in the bad neighborhood with the chain link fence and giant boxwood elm tree out front, the shotgun floor plan, the bathroom with the stained-glass window. If we stayed there, would we be happy now? If I’d gotten pregnant that first year, or even the second, would we love each other more or less? We’ve been tender these last few nights, holding one another under the patchwork quilt like the best friends, the lovers we once were.
II.
I pretend to be asleep by the time you come into the bedroom, when seconds ago I was on my phone researching how stress affects the menstrual cycle. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady and deep as you hang your robe on the hook, lift the quilt and lay down next to me. Our bodies don’t touch, our dreams don’t overlap the way they used to. We fall asleep separately, alone and unmoored, and wake to a new white world.
III.
This isn’t the time to get pregnant. Two days ago you said, “We communicate so well, but how do we communicate an end?” In other words, how do we call it quits when we still love each other, but that love has turned desperate and jealous? I asked what would happen if we had a baby, and you said a baby wouldn’t fix anything. New snow on the tree branches and power lines, orange sun rising in the east. All day I pray for blood between my legs.
IV.
Five days late. The second line on the pregnancy test is faint but I think, maybe. I buy a digital test at the store. Pregnant, it says in block letters. The bleeding comes a few hours later, quick and clotted and bright against white tissue. I search positive pregnancy test followed by bleeding. I learn of chemical pregnancies, how the body aborts what is unfinished, what will never develop. My blood is a baby and not a baby. I lie down in the bathroom, back against the cold tile with my knees up. I massage my lower belly to try and ease the cramps. I give birth to what I want, and then I say goodbye.
V.
I tell you about the miscarriage as we drive to Home Depot to rent an industrial snake for the clogged pipe in the basement. I tell you about the positive pregnancy test, the blood after, the pain now. You ask how I’m doing, and I say it fucking hurts. I ask how you’re doing, and you say you need time to process. We get the snake and drive home to thread its spinning metal coils through the pipe until it hits the blockage. Then we push, push until it’s all clear, until water can flow again.
VI.
Blood for a week, bright and heavy before suddenly, it stops. Dozens of geese in the field at sunrise. I pass a dead deer alongside the highway, red Ford pickup parked on the shoulder with flashers blinking. Steam rises from the body and blood pools beneath, wet and gleaming in the light. I am myself again—singular, alone. My body has no secrets to keep.
Janelle Cordero is an interdisciplinary artist and educator living in Spokane, WA. Her writing has been published in dozens of literary journals, including Harpur Palate, Autofocus and Hobart, while her paintings have been featured in venues throughout the Pacific Northwest. Janelle is the author of four books of poetry, including Impossible Years (V.A. Press, 2022). Stay connected with Janelle's work at www.janellecordero.com and follow her on Instagram @janelle_v_cordero.