Pregnant!. Charlotte Hughes

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She looked over to tell Brit not to worry. She was okay, just a bug of some kind.

      But her mouth stayed shut. Her fingers went nerveless; the toothbrush clattered into the sink at the same time her other hand let go of the rim. Then her knees gave way. She sank to the cool smooth tiles of the floor as, far in the distance, she heard Brit frantically calling her name.

       Chapter Three

      Liv opened her eyes. She was flat on her back on the bathroom floor.

      Brit was bending over her. ‘‘Livvy?’’

      Liv frowned as she studied her sister’s face above her—upside down and way too pale.

      Brit said, ‘‘Can you hear me?’’

      So strange, Liv thought dazedly, the way a mouth looks when it’s moving upside down, as if the top were the bottom and the bottom the top.

      Brit’s turned-around mouth continued asking questions. ‘‘Do you know what happened? Do you know who I am?’’

      ‘‘I fainted. You’re Brit.’’

      Brit’s upside-down mouth formed what must have been meant as a smile. ‘‘Welcome back.’’

      ‘‘Why are you grinning?’’

      The forced smile flattened out. ‘‘Damn it, I’m trying to be reassuring.’’

      ‘‘Well, it’s not working—and really, I’m okay.’’

      ‘‘I’d better get a—’’

      Liv grabbed Brit’s arm before she could jump up and rush off. ‘‘I don’t need a doctor.’’

      ‘‘But—’’

      ‘‘I mean it. I am fine.’’ She did feel a little warm. She fumbled at the silk frogs that buttoned her pajama top.

      ‘‘Here.’’ Brit scooted around beside her and gently pushed her hands out of the way. She unhooked the first three frogs—and then she gasped.

      ‘‘What?’’ Liv popped to a sitting position and looked down at herself.

      Her Chinese-style tangerine silk pajamas gaped. She could see her upper chest, the shadows of her breasts. Everything seemed to be right where it was supposed to be. She looked closer.

      Liv felt her mouth drop open. ‘‘Omigod.’’

      Beside her, Brit said in an awed whisper, ‘‘My sentiments exactly.’’

      Liv met her sister’s astonished eyes. ‘‘It can’t be.’’

      ‘‘But Mom always said—’’

      Liv didn’t let her finish. ‘‘Help me up.’’

      ‘‘Are you sure? You just fain—’’

      ‘‘Help me. Now.’’

      Brit took her hand and half dragged her to her feet. Together, they turned to the mirror above the sink. Liv pulled the sides of the mandarin collar wide. The skin of her upper chest was a florid red—blotched and welted with a livid rash.

      ‘‘It can’t be,’’ Liv said. ‘‘I refuse to believe it.’’

      ‘‘But, Livvy. You’re showing all the signs.’’

      Liv shifted her angry glare from her own chest to her sister’s wide-eyed reflection. ‘‘Oh, please. You know very well it’s only a family superstition.’’

      ‘‘Call it what you want. It did happen. To Mom and to Aunt Nanna and Aunt Kirsten, and to Granny Birget, too.’’

      ‘‘So they say.’’

      ‘‘Why would they lie?’’

      ‘‘I don’t know. I’m sure they didn’t lie—not exactly. I’m only saying, it’s a story. A family myth.’’

      ‘‘But your symptoms are exactly the same. You threw up. You fainted. And now, there it is. The rash.’’

      The Thorson sisters had heard it over and over all their lives: The women in their family—on their mother’s side, the Freyasdahl side—always knew right away when they conceived. They’d all discovered they were pregnant within twenty-four hours of conception. They knew it every time, without fail. Partly, it was a simple feeling of certainty—that it had happened; there was a baby growing within them. But beyond the certainty, there were, each and every time, the family signs: they’d throw up, followed by a fainting spell and then by a bizarre bright red rash across the upper chest.

      Liv spoke firmly to Brit’s reflection in the mirror. ‘‘I just don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. It’s a family superstition, that’s all—and besides, he used a condom.’’

      Brit’s gaze slid away, was drawn inexorably back.

      Liv wanted to strangle her. ‘‘Will you stop it with all those sneaky sideways glances? You’re starting to remind me of the maid.’’

      ‘‘Sorry—and are you sure? About the—’’

      ‘‘Positive. He’s a Gullandrian.’’

      Brit blinked. ‘‘Right. And that means…?’’

      Liv let out an impatient sigh. ‘‘Remember what Elli told us about Gullandrians? How it’s such a big stigma to be born illegitimate around here?’’

      Brit still wasn’t getting it. ‘‘And so from that we can deduce…?’’

      ‘‘Well, it stands to reason that if you’re not married around here, you use contraception religiously.’’

      ‘‘So you’re saying you specifically remember that he used—’’

      ‘‘No. I’m not saying that.’’

      ‘‘You’re not?’’

      ‘‘No. I mean, yes. I mean, I do remember.’’ She fervently wished she sounded more convincing. ‘‘I do…’’ She looked at her welted, inflamed chest again and let out a moan.

      Brit spoke flatly. ‘‘You’re not sure.’’

      Liv found she couldn’t meet her sister’s eyes. She began hooking the silk frogs, buttoning all the way up, until she couldn’t see the rash anymore, until she could almost pretend it wasn’t even there.

      ‘‘Liv?’’ Brit asked carefully. ‘‘Are you sure or aren’t you?’’

      Liv whirled on her sister. Fisting her hands at her sides, she spoke softly through clenched teeth. ‘‘All right. I suppose he didn’t. I suppose we were both kind of…carried away.’’

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