missing you, missing me by bronwen lam

Your period is missing.

Has been missing for a minute.

Has been missing for four months.

The first month is: whatever, thanks for some time off. She never comes regularly and

tends not to visit for a while here or there even though you’ve tried to keep in routine contact

with her by taking a little white pill every morning for much of your life.

The second month is: weird, but not that weird because the cramps are so bad they

completely distract you.

The third month is: feelings are hurt but can’t deal.

And the fourth month, when you realize it’s the fourth month and not still the third, is:

sirens, wave of panic, file a missing person’s report pronto.

You avoid things you’re afraid of and your disappeared period is something you fear.

In her absence, you grow incredibly fond of her, appreciating her for reasons you hadn’t

thought of when she was present, and you really, really want her to come back. I’m sorry for

resenting you at times, you apologize profusely. I promise not to take you for granted. Please

return, please?

You sit on the steps of your building smoking a cigarette, thinking about the amount of

substances you’ve consumed, imagining a tiny fetus intoxicated when you’re intoxicated,

hungover when you’re hungover. Harmed by you. Angry with you for not taking better care of

your body and its precious cargo.

You think about thinking about a fetus and how strange that is because you don’t think

about fetuses very often, and the truth is, never about them being inside of you.

You think about the scenario that will ensue after taking the test. After peeing on the

funny little stick that holds a silent, faceless answer, all-powerful in its determination. You

imagine doing it alone so as not to make him panic in case there is no need for panic, then when

there is need for panic (which you are becoming more and more certain there is), texting him that

you need to see each other as soon as possible. Spelled out like that because it’s gentler, ASAP

too alarming. You imagine you and your fetus sitting beside him on the bed or the couch,

somewhere soft, lighting soft, you looking into his eyes, saying, “Baby I’m pregnant.” Or should

you say we? “Baby, we’re pregnant?”

A big ball of shock inflating between you. Crying. Distorted faces. Laughter maybe, but

anxiety-filled, panic-filled. Not with excitement and not with joy.

You imagine his reaction, his movements, straining to look supportive but all that dread

seeping through, both of you thinking FUCK in all caps.

The following day, you work up the courage to act out your fantasy, except it doesn’t go

as planned. You spend the whole day together and can’t put it off any longer, so after picking up

two egg and cheeses from the deli, you try coyly to stop by the drugstore without letting on why,

except when you say, “I just need to stop by the drugstore real quick,” he says “What for?” and,

not the best at lying on the spot, you find yourself immediately showing all your cards, saying,

“A pregnancy test.”

He holds your hand tightly while you cross Second Avenue and repeatedly says he is

sorry.

He stands in the doorway while you hover over the stick, missing slightly, peeing on your

hand. You laugh, he laughs. But loudly, nervously, the bathroom echo a little acidic. You cap the

stick, place the stick face down on the sink, wash your hands, splash water on your face, and

linger there in the mirror examining your reflections, imagining things you don’t want to

imagine.

In the living room, his hand clenched around yours a little too firmly, you sit next to each

other on the couch, facing forward. Looking at your knees, the carpet, the wall, not each other.

Nothing soft about the lighting, nothing soft about the way your heart pounds in your chest, the

way your breath feels shallow, the two minutes that drag on forever.

And when you uncap the stick as he stands behind you, chin over your shoulder, hands

around your waist as if warding something off, there it is: not two lines but one. You don’t blink

in case a second line appears and open another packet to repeat each step and double check.

The all-powerful little sticks return results you hope for without expressing. You finally

exhale. You cry from somewhere way deep down. In relief, in sympathy, in anger. He kisses

your cheeks, dabbing your tears gently. Wiping away tears of ire for those who infringe, many of

whom will never know what it is to be a girl, to be looking at a pink stick for two minutes

praying to a God you do or do not believe in.

Turns out it was the pills making the irregular more irregular. Turns out you want to face

your fears and not evade them. Turns out maybe one day you both want the stick to show the

other thing, but right now, instead of making babies, you want to make tea and macaroni and

maybe make a few plans for the future, because it’s looking pretty bright.

Bronwen Lam lives in NYC. Her work has appeared in Forever Magazine, the Drunken Canal, Spectra, and in emails to her mom.