BUMP: A Cautionary Tale

Chapter One

"And have you? Been having a hard time, I mean."

I hesitate. What all has my mom already told her? "I mean, yeah," I croak. "I have."

Janine nods again. "I see. I'm sorry about that. Do you think something caused you to feel that way?"

I furrow my brow. "What do you mean?"

Taking a large, deep breath through her nostrils, Janine purses her lips to one side as she taps her pen against the yellow legal pad sitting in her crossed-legged lap. She's the professional type: black slacks, high heels, and a white button up shirt. Classic. I bet she's worked hard to get where she is - or maybe not. It really goes one way or the other: either they start from the bottom, or the top. People born in the middle are the real winners. They've nothing to really reach for, and nothing to live up to. My mother started at the bottom, and worked hard to get us - to get me - where I am.

"You know, when you think of past and current, even ongoing events, does something stand out to you that you can say, 'Yes, this is when I started having a hard time.' If not, that's okay, I'm not looking for yes or no answers here I just want to understand a little more about your situation." Janine raises her eyebrows expectantly. She thinks that explanation does it for me; she thinks I'm going to crack.

My situation.

I gulp. "No," I say, too fast. "I'm just depressed I guess."

Janine nods. "I see."

Crickets.

We are both quietly staring at each other for what feels like three years. My face feels hot. "What all did my mother tell you?"

Janine sighs, not in an exasperated way, but more of a 'that's where it is' kind of way.

"I'm not here to discuss your mother and I's conversations, Cressida. We can talk about your mother if you want. How is your relationship?"

I blink a bunch of times and shake my head. "Look, whatever you're thinking, I don't have mommy issues - or daddy issues for that matter. That's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here, then?"

"She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Janine asks, pointedly. She knows.

"That I'm - " I catch myself. I know this is a therapist's office, but after years of being chased by the paparazzi and almost a month of being careful not to say this out loud can you blame me for triple checking? "That I'm pregnant." I say the word "pregnant" quietly, leaned in towards Janine.

Janine nods, writes something down in her yellow legal pad. "I'm glad that you trust me enough to tell me that." She scribbles some more words down. Probably things along the lines of: "maternal," "skank," or "knocked up." She looks up to me again. "And how has that been for you so far?"

I look down at my still-flat tummy. If you ignore my occasional digestive upsets, you couldn't even tell. How has it been for me so far? I don't know how to answer that question. Between my mother wanting me to get an abortion, my best friend already calling herself an aunt, and my boyfriend - well, not being my boyfriend - it had been a little hard to tell. I don't think that I've even processed it yet. The only thing that I knew for absolute certain was that having a baby at barely eighteen, unmarried, and in the limelight of conservative media was career suicide - or homicide? I suppose it depends on how you look at it.

Janine meets my low gaze, beckoning me to lift my head up and talk. Time is running out, of course.

A breath of exhaustion, relief, and I don't know what else escapes me. "Weird," I reply honestly.

* * *

Molly has been my best friend for as long as I can remember, from before I was, how People described me, "America's Sweetheart." She is completely supportive and, at times, completely oblivious to what is happening. Don't get me wrong, she knows that I'm famous in the general sense of the word, but she doesn't realize that it comes with repercussions. She doesn't seem to understand that my pregnancy will come with repercussions, either.

She keeps saying things like, "I'll help you however I can!" and "I know it's not part of the plan, but it's a blessing." It's not the help that I'm worried about. I could hire someone to take care of this baby just as easily as I could go spend the $500 to get it "taken care of" as my mother put it. Hell, it's not even having this baby that I'm worried about. I have money, I have resources - I could carve out my own maternity leave. But will there be a career for me to go back to? Will the consumers still buy into me and my image - will they still think I'm a diamond?

And what about the father? It's not like I can keep this a secret from him. Once it's out, it's out, and he's going to know it's his.