![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Gravitas
Word Count: 1133
Summary: One woman who is pregnant with a child she doesn't want, and another who is at risk of losing a pregnancy she does, bond over the things they're not "allowed" to feel.
Notes: For![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo prompt: difficult pregnancy, and for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
angst_bingo prompt: pregnancy.
Jo’s belly had grown big enough to become a problem. No longer was she at the indeterminate stage of pregnancy where people side-eyed her, wondering if it would be impolite to draw attention to her state, wondering if there was a state to draw attention to. She was unmistakably pregnant now, her belly sticking out round and high, like she was trying to secret a soccer ball under her shirt, and she hated it. Everywhere she went, she was greeted with congratulations and excited smiles, as if she were doing something unique, that billions of women before her hadn’t succeeded in doing. She was bombarded with questions and sly, knowing glances, at the mercy of grabbing hands that all reached for her as if her protruding stomach were the golden ring.
“Oh, god. I know exactly what you’re talking about,” Cally remonstrated with a long sigh. She cupped her hands mournfully around the cup of weak tea that was her latest attempt to keep something down. “It’s hard enough figuring out how I feel without everyone telling me how I’m supposed to feel.” Cally had shifted her home-base from her bed to the couch in the front room for the day, pillows propped behind her back, and a thin afghan draped over her legs, its fringes brushing the floor.
“Required to feel,” Jo replied, not bothering to hide her bitterness. She and Cally had long moved past the need to negotiate what it was safe to tell the other person. Though they had been work-acquaintances for years, the timing of their pregnancies is what had pushed them into friendship.
Cally nodded, accepting the correction.
Jo brushed back a stray lock of her curly brown hair and frowned into her glass of ice-water. As soon-to-be-mothers who were both married and acceptably old enough for their roles, the only emotion they were allowed to feel was elation. “You must be so happy,” everyone said, emphasis on the must. “You must be happy,” not a description, but a command. Must. Jo had to bite her tongue in nearly every interaction these days; all she wanted to respond was “Why?” So far, pregnancy had been less glowing-happiness and more bloating-diarrhea-vomiting, and she regretted every second that moment of baby fever weakness that had made her think that motherhood would ever be a good idea. How could it be good if this is the way it started and was only bound to get worse once the baby arrived?
Cally moved a hand to the top of her bump, pressing down the ache from where the baby’s limbs dug into her ribcage, and trying to hold back the nausea that was always building. “I’ve done nothing but lose weight,” she lamented. She swallowed hard and pushed the cup of tea back on the tray table, removing its smell from right under her nose. She had decorated her own tight black curls with a plethora of tiny, multi-colored bows, insisting that she needed to do something to feel pretty.
“I wish I could say something to make you feel better,” Jo said, and she meant it. She might not find pregnancy to be the whole uplifting experience she had been promised, but it was worse for Cally. The older woman had been trying for years to get pregnant and now had to bear the constant worry of whether she would make it to the end of the day still pregnant. She’d been put on bed rest two weeks ago with four months left to go and no one able to offer more than careful, insincere assurances
“You do.” Cally smiled. The beauty of that smile made Jo rock back in her chair; she hadn’t realized until that second how used to the tight, strained, forced smile that Cally had taken to wearing like a mask. She was about to ask what she had done to earn that smile when Cally went on to supply the answer: “You’re the only one who lets me tell it how it is. Everyone else insists on me being cheerful for them.”
Jo cringed because it was the same for her, though nowhere near as bad since no one was worried about her being a failure; so far her pregnancy had been uneventful from a medical perspective.
Cally wiped tired hands over her face. Her brown eyes had taken on a yellowish tinge and hung heavy with bags. “It’s hard enough keeping my own spirits up; why do I have to be responsible for everyone’s else’s, too?”
“You don’t,” Jo stated. “You aren’t, and never with me.”
“I know,” Cally replied, the relief strong in her voice. Her smile slipped away and for a long moment she contemplated the fringes of the blanket, playing idly with them. At last she asked, “Do you think it’ll all turn out OK?”
There was a part of Jo that was conditioned and trained to supply the “correct” answer, the dismissive, “Of course it will,” and for a split second she almost gave in to that part. The words were half formed in her mouth before she was able to bite them back and really think about what Cally had asked. “Do you?” she managed to ask, instead.
Cally frowned, once again pressing down on her belly with her fingers, massaging slowly across the top of the bump as if searching for a pulse. “No,” she finally replied. “It won’t be.”
Jo shifted in her seat, pulling up closer to the arm of the chair so she could lean against it. She thought about the strength it had taken Cally to admit such a painful possibility, and she thought about how unfair it was that she, the one who never wanted to be pregnant, should have such an easy time of it, and how Cally had never once indicated any sense of that unfairness; that, in fact, what Cally wanted from her was a person who was unhappy being pregnant, as if to remind herself that a whole spectrum of emotions were valid and possible. “Oh,” she said, for lack of knowing what else to say.
“Yeah,” Cally responded, her tongue skimming over her bloodless lips.
Jo raised her glass of water to her lips and swallowed a large gulp, sucking in an ice-cube in the process. She crunched the ice, feeling the tingle of the cold on her enamel and the sharp edges from the crystalline shards on her gums. Her pregnancy had advanced to the point where she could no longer deny it, and Cally’s pregnancy had never been anything but a problem. While they could find solace with each other and in their ability to be honest about their experiences, Jo had to confess that that made Cally’s clarity all the more troublesome to deal with.
Word Count: 1133
Summary: One woman who is pregnant with a child she doesn't want, and another who is at risk of losing a pregnancy she does, bond over the things they're not "allowed" to feel.
Notes: For
hc_bingo prompt: difficult pregnancy, and for angst_bingo prompt: pregnancy.Jo’s belly had grown big enough to become a problem. No longer was she at the indeterminate stage of pregnancy where people side-eyed her, wondering if it would be impolite to draw attention to her state, wondering if there was a state to draw attention to. She was unmistakably pregnant now, her belly sticking out round and high, like she was trying to secret a soccer ball under her shirt, and she hated it. Everywhere she went, she was greeted with congratulations and excited smiles, as if she were doing something unique, that billions of women before her hadn’t succeeded in doing. She was bombarded with questions and sly, knowing glances, at the mercy of grabbing hands that all reached for her as if her protruding stomach were the golden ring.
“Oh, god. I know exactly what you’re talking about,” Cally remonstrated with a long sigh. She cupped her hands mournfully around the cup of weak tea that was her latest attempt to keep something down. “It’s hard enough figuring out how I feel without everyone telling me how I’m supposed to feel.” Cally had shifted her home-base from her bed to the couch in the front room for the day, pillows propped behind her back, and a thin afghan draped over her legs, its fringes brushing the floor.
“Required to feel,” Jo replied, not bothering to hide her bitterness. She and Cally had long moved past the need to negotiate what it was safe to tell the other person. Though they had been work-acquaintances for years, the timing of their pregnancies is what had pushed them into friendship.
Cally nodded, accepting the correction.
Jo brushed back a stray lock of her curly brown hair and frowned into her glass of ice-water. As soon-to-be-mothers who were both married and acceptably old enough for their roles, the only emotion they were allowed to feel was elation. “You must be so happy,” everyone said, emphasis on the must. “You must be happy,” not a description, but a command. Must. Jo had to bite her tongue in nearly every interaction these days; all she wanted to respond was “Why?” So far, pregnancy had been less glowing-happiness and more bloating-diarrhea-vomiting, and she regretted every second that moment of baby fever weakness that had made her think that motherhood would ever be a good idea. How could it be good if this is the way it started and was only bound to get worse once the baby arrived?
Cally moved a hand to the top of her bump, pressing down the ache from where the baby’s limbs dug into her ribcage, and trying to hold back the nausea that was always building. “I’ve done nothing but lose weight,” she lamented. She swallowed hard and pushed the cup of tea back on the tray table, removing its smell from right under her nose. She had decorated her own tight black curls with a plethora of tiny, multi-colored bows, insisting that she needed to do something to feel pretty.
“I wish I could say something to make you feel better,” Jo said, and she meant it. She might not find pregnancy to be the whole uplifting experience she had been promised, but it was worse for Cally. The older woman had been trying for years to get pregnant and now had to bear the constant worry of whether she would make it to the end of the day still pregnant. She’d been put on bed rest two weeks ago with four months left to go and no one able to offer more than careful, insincere assurances
“You do.” Cally smiled. The beauty of that smile made Jo rock back in her chair; she hadn’t realized until that second how used to the tight, strained, forced smile that Cally had taken to wearing like a mask. She was about to ask what she had done to earn that smile when Cally went on to supply the answer: “You’re the only one who lets me tell it how it is. Everyone else insists on me being cheerful for them.”
Jo cringed because it was the same for her, though nowhere near as bad since no one was worried about her being a failure; so far her pregnancy had been uneventful from a medical perspective.
Cally wiped tired hands over her face. Her brown eyes had taken on a yellowish tinge and hung heavy with bags. “It’s hard enough keeping my own spirits up; why do I have to be responsible for everyone’s else’s, too?”
“You don’t,” Jo stated. “You aren’t, and never with me.”
“I know,” Cally replied, the relief strong in her voice. Her smile slipped away and for a long moment she contemplated the fringes of the blanket, playing idly with them. At last she asked, “Do you think it’ll all turn out OK?”
There was a part of Jo that was conditioned and trained to supply the “correct” answer, the dismissive, “Of course it will,” and for a split second she almost gave in to that part. The words were half formed in her mouth before she was able to bite them back and really think about what Cally had asked. “Do you?” she managed to ask, instead.
Cally frowned, once again pressing down on her belly with her fingers, massaging slowly across the top of the bump as if searching for a pulse. “No,” she finally replied. “It won’t be.”
Jo shifted in her seat, pulling up closer to the arm of the chair so she could lean against it. She thought about the strength it had taken Cally to admit such a painful possibility, and she thought about how unfair it was that she, the one who never wanted to be pregnant, should have such an easy time of it, and how Cally had never once indicated any sense of that unfairness; that, in fact, what Cally wanted from her was a person who was unhappy being pregnant, as if to remind herself that a whole spectrum of emotions were valid and possible. “Oh,” she said, for lack of knowing what else to say.
“Yeah,” Cally responded, her tongue skimming over her bloodless lips.
Jo raised her glass of water to her lips and swallowed a large gulp, sucking in an ice-cube in the process. She crunched the ice, feeling the tingle of the cold on her enamel and the sharp edges from the crystalline shards on her gums. Her pregnancy had advanced to the point where she could no longer deny it, and Cally’s pregnancy had never been anything but a problem. While they could find solace with each other and in their ability to be honest about their experiences, Jo had to confess that that made Cally’s clarity all the more troublesome to deal with.
