Sixty-Five Year Old Martha Vance Held Three Positive Pregnancy Tests in Her Shaking Hand – America Focus
A small cardboard box with a pink logo sat wedged behind the ceramic flour bin on the kitchen counter. I slid it into my apron pocket just as James turned around with the glass pitcher.
The cold glass of the pitcher made a sharp clinking sound against the rim of his juice glass.
“The draft under the back door is getting worse,” James said.
He set the pitcher down and pulled his eyeglasses off by the frame, using the hem of his plaid shirt to polish the lenses.
“I can go down to the hardware store before the afternoon crowd gets there,” he added.
“That would be good,” I said.
I twisted my silver wedding ring around my finger, turning the band twice before letting my hand fall back into my pocket.
“Did the clinic ever call you back?” James asked.
He put his glasses back on and looked at me through the clean glass, his eyes small and questioning.
“No,” I said.
I had left three messages for Dr. Sterling since Tuesday morning, but his receptionist kept telling me he was in consultations.
“He is retiring in November,” James said, his voice dropping into his usual quiet rhythm. “Probably busy.”
“Yes,” I said. “Probably.”
James picked up his car keys from the wooden bowl near the microwave, the brass clicking against the oak.
“Back in an hour,” he said.
I waited until the low rumble of the garage door finished its descent before I pulled the box out of my apron pocket.
The instruction sheet inside was printed on thin white paper that rustled as I unfolded it. My eyes stayed on the black numbers showing the accuracy rate of the plastic stick.
I carried the box down the hallway, the hardwood floor cold against my house slippers.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind me.
The bathroom window was cracked open, letting in the damp autumn air from the side yard. I set the plastic stick on the edge of the porcelain sink and waited.
The digital display on my wrist watch showed 8:12.
The instructions said to wait exactly three minutes for the chemical window to clear.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
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A tiny drop of pink liquid began to creep across the small square window of the test.
I kept my hands flat against my thighs to keep my fingers from moving.
A single pink line appeared on the left side of the window, sharp and dark.
Then, a second line began to form next to it, faint at first, then darkening until it matched the other.
I dropped the plastic stick into the dry bowl of the sink.
The pink lines did not fade.
I gripped the cold porcelain edge of the basin with both hands, staring down at the white plastic.
“I need to know if this plastic stick is lying to me,” I whispered to the empty room.
My reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror looked back at me, the gray hair around my temples standing out in the bright light of the vanity bulb.
The plastic stick sat in the basin, showing two parallel marks.
The drive to the corner pharmacy took eight minutes, and a full tank of gas cost me forty-five dollars at the pump next door.
The store smelled of isopropyl alcohol and cheap soap.
I walked past the greeting cards and the seasonal candy to the back aisle where the blue and pink boxes were kept.
I picked two different brands, one with a digital screen and one with the double lines.
Sarah, a girl I had known since she was in junior high, was working the register near the front door.
She slid the two boxes across the scanner, the red laser light painting her fingers for a second.
The register beeped twice.
“Thirty-six dollars and twelve cents,” Sarah said.
She did not look at my face as she bagged the boxes in gray plastic.
I opened my purse and counted out two twenty-dollar bills, my fingers clumsy against the paper.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
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Sarah handed me my change without asking if I needed a receipt.
I walked out to the parking lot, the plastic bag rustling against my coat.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck noon just as I finished lining them up.
The three white plastic sticks sat side by side on the lavender-colored vanity counter.
The first test had two dark pink lines.
The second test had a dark blue plus sign in the round window.
The third test had the word pregnant spelled out in black digital letters.
I stood very still, looking at my own face in the silvered glass of the mirror.
At sixty-five, my body was supposed to be quiet.
The three tests on the counter remained exactly as they were.
My stomach turned before my eyes even opened.
The gray light of an autumn morning filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting long, thin shadows across our mahogany dresser.
I lay perfectly still on my side, my head pressed into the goose feather pillow, waiting for the cold swell in my throat to pass.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
It was the same heavy warmth that had kept me awake the night before, a physical weight that felt entirely foreign to my body.
At seven, I forced myself to stand and walk down the hall to the kitchen, my wool slippers quiet on the floorboards.
James was already there, his gray cardigan buttoned to the collar, standing near the window with a glass pitcher in his hand.
He poured two glasses of orange juice, his movements slow and deliberate, the way they had been since he retired from the high school history department two years ago.
“You are up early,” he said, setting the pitcher down on the clean counter.
“I wanted to get the coffee started,” I said, though the very thought of the steam made my mouth dry and bitter.
I reached into the wooden cabinet for my favorite blue ceramic mug, the one with the tiny chip near the base that James had tried to file smooth with his emery board.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
As my fingers closed around the handle, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged from my chest to my throat.
My hand went completely slack.
The blue mug fell, striking the edge of the dishwasher before it shattered on the green linoleum.
A piece of the handle rolled under the refrigerator, disappearing into the dark.
The dark brown liquid splashed across my white leather shoes and ran into the grout lines between the tiles.
James dropped his dish towel and knelt by the sink, his knees making a dull thud on the hard floor.
“Do not step down, Martha,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp with concern. “There are small pieces near your heels.”
“I am sorry,” I said, my voice barely reaching past my teeth.
I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning the color of lard as I tried to keep my knees from shaking.
James picked up the largest pieces of glazed blue clay, placing them carefully into the plastic wastebasket.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
“This is the third morning you have looked like this,” he said, looking up from the floor with his eyebrows pulled together.
“It is only a mild bug,” I said, pausing between my sentences. “A seasonal thing.”
“You do not get seasonal bugs that make you drop your cup at seven in the morning,” James said.
He stood up, his knee joints popping slightly in the quiet room, and reached for the roll of paper towels.
“You are twisting your ring, Martha,” he said, pointing a finger at my hand.
I let go of my silver wedding band, pulling my left hand away from my right finger and hiding it in my apron pocket.
“I need to go to the hardware store for the weather stripping,” James said, wiping the wet tile with long, even strokes. “But when I get back, we are going to see Alan.”
“Alan is busy preparing to close his clinic,” I said. “He does not have time for a stomach ache.”
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
“We will make time,” James said, carrying the wet paper towels to the trash bin.
He did not wait for me to agree, but reached for his wool cap hanging by the door.
He stepped outside, the dry latch of the back door clicking into place with a quiet, metallic snap.
The drive to the clinic took twelve minutes in our old Buick.
The sky had turned the color of wet slate by two in the afternoon, and the air outside smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke.
I parked near the side entrance, where the delivery trucks usually stopped, to avoid the crowd of sedans at the main entrance.
A tank of gas had cost me forty-five dollars at the Texaco station on the corner, a practical reality that usually made me pause, but today my mind was elsewhere.
The Sterling Family Clinic had been in the same brick building on Maple Street since James and I were newlyweds.
Inside, the lobby smelled of floor wax and the faint, sterile tang of isopropyl alcohol from the back examination rooms.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
Nurse Betty sat behind the high reception counter, her computer monitor reflecting a pale blue light off her reading glasses.
The wall behind her held a row of brown clipboards, each holding a patient intake form.
“Martha,” she said, looking up with a small, familiar smile. “I did not see your name on the digital schedule today.”
“I need a blood test, Betty,” I said, leaning close to the glass partition so my voice would not carry to the three patients waiting in the vinyl chairs. “An urgent beta HCG panel.”
Betty stopped typing, her fingers hovering an inch above her keyboard.
“A hormone panel?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“The blood draw,” I said. “I need to know the exact numbers.”
She clicked her mouse three times, her eyes scanning the digital schedule.
“Alan is fully booked with his physicals,” she said, shaking her head. “He is trying to see everyone before the clinic closes on November fifteenth.”
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
“I do not need to see Alan,” I said. “I only need the lab to draw the vials.”
“We still need a physician order to process the blood,” Betty said, her gold pen tapping against her desk calendar. “And Alan is running forty minutes behind.”
“Just put my name down,” I said. “I will wait as long as it takes.”
Betty looked at me for a long moment, her eyes moving down to my silver ring which I was twisting again.
“I can squeeze you in at nine tomorrow morning,” she said, her voice softening. “But you will have to wait in the small alcove by the back office.”
“That is fine,” I said. “Thank you, Betty.”
“Is everything all right at home?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We are just keeping an eye on things.”
She nodded, though her eyes remained curious as she typed my name into the screen.
I walked back to the car, the cold steering wheel hard against my palms as I started the engine.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.
The house was silent when I unlocked the back door at four.
James was still at the hardware store, likely caught in a conversation about lawn mowers with the clerk.
I went upstairs to our bedroom, where the air was cool and smelled of the cedar chest that sat under the window.
The chest had belonged to my mother, its heavy oak lid dark with sixty years of wax.
I knelt on the faded wool rug and lifted the lid, the sharp, clean scent of cedar rising to fill the small room.
I remembered the day we bought this chest at an estate sale in Lancaster, back when we still believed we would fill our home with children’s laughter.
At the very bottom, beneath the heavy winter blankets we rarely used, lay a flat cardboard box.
I pulled it out and set it on the mattress of our bed.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue paper that crackled like dry leaves, were the tiny baby clothes I had bought three decades ago.
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Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.