Chapter 4: The Awakening
1228 Words
"So." Vivian sits across from me, coffee growing cold between her hands. "How did this happen?"
I've been avoiding this conversation. But the positive test sitting on my bathroom counter makes it unavoidable.
"The elevator," I say quietly. "During the blackout. His name was James."
Her eyes widened. "You slept with the elevator guy?"
"Don't make it sound so..."
"So what? Spontaneous? Reckless? Completely unlike you?" She leans forward.
"Kennedy, I'm proud of you. For once in your life, you did something just because you wanted to."
"And now I'm pregnant." My voice cracks.
"Vivian, I can barely afford my rent."
"What are you going to do?"
The question hangs heavy. I've thought about nothing else for three days. Abortion would be practical. Sensible. The responsible choice for someone in my situation.
But I can't.
"I'm keeping it," I whisper.
"Kennedy…."
"I know it's stupid. I know I can't afford it. But I can't not keep it." I press my hand to my stomach. "Does that make sense?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches across the table, gripping my hand tight. "Okay. Then we figure it out together."
The relief almost breaks me.
Six months pregnant, and every day is a battle.
My morning shift at the coffee shop starts at five. I drag myself out of bed in darkness, feet already aching before I even stand. The uniform doesn't fit anymore. I've safely-pinned the pants and worn the largest shirt we have, but my belly still strains against the fabric.
"You okay, Kennedy?" My manager asks when I grip the counter, breathing through a contraction.
"Fine." I force a smile. "Just Braxton Hicks."
I can't afford to seem weak. Can't afford to lose this job.
By noon, when I clock out and head to my second shift at the restaurant, my back screams with every step. I pop two Tylenol and keep moving.
The restaurant is worse. Six hours on my feet, carrying trays, smiling at customers who don't tip. My ankles swell until my shoes cut into my skin. But I pick up every extra shift they offer.
Every dollar counts. Hospital bills. Diapers. Formula. The numbers keep me awake at night, growing larger and more impossible.
I skip lunch most days. Save the money. Tell myself the baby gets what it needs from the prenatal vitamins I can barely afford.
At home, I collapse into bed without even changing clothes. Sleep comes in brief, uncomfortable bursts. The baby kicks, and I wonder things I shouldn't.
Does James ever think about me? Has he moved on, found someone new? Would he even want this child if he knew?
Maybe that night meant nothing to him. Maybe I was just a distraction, a moment of weakness he's already forgotten.
I'm seven months along when I realize I haven't bought a single thing for the baby. No crib. No clothes. Nothing.
The panic hits hard and fast. I pull out my phone, open a spreadsheet I've been avoiding. Income versus expenses. The gap between them yawns like a chasm.
I add more shifts.
Across the city, James stared at the photos spread across his desk.
"These are the final candidates," Derek said, tapping each image. "Six women named Kennedy in the Seattle area who match your description and work multiple jobs. I've narrowed it down as much as I can without more information."
I studied each face, willing recognition to strike. But the truth is, I barely saw her clearly. Just glimpses in red emergency lighting. The shape of her face. The curve of her smile.
"I'll visit each one," I said.
Maxwell looked up from his laptop. "James, maybe it's time to…."
"Don't." I cut him off. "I'm not giving up."
The first Kennedy worked at a tech startup downtown. I watched her through the glass walls, laughing with coworkers. Smart. Professional. Pretty.
Nothing.
No spark of recognition. No instinctive pull.
The energy was completely wrong.
The second Kennedy bartended in Capitol Hill. I sat at her bar, ordered a drink I didn't want, and listened to her talk. She was funny. Confident. Charming.
Not her.
The third Kennedy taught yoga in Fremont.
The fourth managed a bookstore in Ballard.
The fifth did freelance graphic design from a shared workspace.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
By the time I met the sixth Kennedy, a nurse at Swedish Medical Center, I already knew.
The moment she spoke, I felt nothing. No connection. No chemistry. Just another stranger.
I sat in my car afterward, head against the steering wheel, exhaustion crushing down on me.
Six months of searching. Thousands of dollars to private investigators. Dozens of dead ends.
Nothing.
"Maybe she doesn't want to be found,"
Maxwell said gently when I told him. "Maybe she's moved on."
"She promised she'd call." The words sounded pathetic even to me.
"People make promises they don't keep."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist what we shared was real, that she felt it too. But doubt crept in, cold and unwelcome.
What if Maxwell was right? What if I'd built up one night into something it never was?
Still, I couldn't let go.
"Keep looking," I told Derek. "Expand the search."
"James…."
"Please."
He sighed but nodded. "I'll keep trying."
Somewhere in this city, Kennedy existed. I had to believe that. I had to believe I'd find her eventually.
Because the alternative, that she was gone forever, was unbearable.
Eight and a half months, and I can barely move.
My body isn't mine anymore. It belongs to this baby, to exhaustion, to constant aching pain. But I force myself to work. Two more weeks until my due date. Two more weeks of paychecks I desperately need.
Tonight, I'm alone. Vivian's out of town for work. My apartment feels too quiet, too empty.
The pain starts just after midnight.
Sharp. Low. Radiating through my entire abdomen.
I sit up, breathing through it. Braxton Hicks. Has to be.
But twenty minutes later, another contraction hits. Stronger.
Oh no.
I grab my phone, dial Vivian with shaking hands. It rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
"Viv, I think something's wrong. Call me back."
I try again. No answer.
The next contraction doubles me over. I gasp, gripping my sheets, and when I look down, I see it.
Blood.
Too much blood.
Panic claws at my throat. I call Vivian again. Again. Again.
Nothing.
"Please," I whisper to my empty apartment.
"Please pick up."
Another contraction, vicious and consuming. I force myself to stand, stumbling toward the door. I need help. Need someone, anyone.
I yank the door open, lean into the hallway.
"Help!" My voice comes out weak. "Someone please help me!"
A door opens down the hall. Mrs. Chen appears, eyes wide.
"The baby," I gasp. "Something's wrong."
She's moving, pulling out her phone, calling 911. But her voice sounds distant, like I'm underwater.
My legs give out.
I hit the floor hard, cheek against cold tile.
Blood pools beneath me, warm and terrifying.
Mrs. Chen is shouting. Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.
But all I can think is: I'm alone. I'm doing this alone. And I'm so, so scared.
D
arkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is my phone, still clutched in my hand, Vivian's name on the screen.
Unanswered.
- Writer
