Chapter One: And so it begins.

Except I don't really know where to start. There's so much to this story. Every so often, as I look back on my life, I can see the line of my path winding and twisting through the world. It's almost like that Family Circus kid, but on acid. There's the hospital, there's the Pines, there's the shitty old apartment I used to live in, still infested with roaches and flaking lead paint from the walls.

You hear people talking about 'walking the line', but I'm not sure we really have much choice. Seems like I can't get off the line, no matter how hard I've tried. Sometimes the days flow into one another, slipping by like a slow fast-forward, but some days stand alone, proud sentinels of the crises in my life. Those are the days I'd rather forget, but instead, it seems to work the other way ‘round.

Some days, like today, just feel like a complete waste. I found a parking space in the alley behind the Pines and shoehorned my old Accord into it. I should've walked, but it's freezing out, literally; I can see my breath in puffs as I stroll up to the back door. I start bouncing on my toes a little, to stay warm while I search in my cavernous bag for my keys. I can hear my mom's voice, "What I do, sweetie, is I would find the keys before I got out of the car. Especially when it's so cold out." "Bite me, mom," I mutter around the cigarette I just placed between my teeth. Now I'm looking for the keys and the lighter. I find the keys first.

I love the way the Pines smells first thing in the morning. Since the front half's a bookstore, it adds this lovely tinge of dusty books to the air. I drop my purse on the kitchen floor and set my unlit smoke on the counter above it, moving forward through the dark kitchen towards the bar. Jason was supposed to close up last night, but he usually leaves a few things undone, especially if it was slammed.

Sure enough, there's still a half dozen pint glasses in the sink, and the mop looks all lonely setting in the corner just as I'd placed it two days ago. "Fuckin' kid," I say aloud to the empty room. Doesn't look like he even swept up. I make a mental note to read him the riot act when he comes in tomorrow.

I decide to have that cigarette before I start in on cleaning and all the rest of it. I go back through the kitchen to where I left my bag, and start rooting around trying to find the lighter again. If all else fails, I can just light it off the stove. Finally my hand touches the lighter, but just as I'm standing up, a wave of nausea hits me like a fuckin' brick and sends me flying to the sink on the kitchen wall. I just barely make it.

I wipe my mouth and can't help a small chuckle at what the health inspector would say to puking in the sink. But my stomach is churning and it's not just from the nausea. I know what this feels like. I know exactly what this feels like. I couldn't be pregnant again... could I?

I turn on a thin stream of cold water and cup my hand under it, putting the cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out with it. I replay the last few times I've had sex, trying to remember whether condoms were involved. Two months ago, when I laid Brian again, I know we used condoms because the first one broke and we had to get another one. A couple weeks after that, I'd hooked up with Christian, but we didn't sleep together; he was too drunk to even get it up.

But as I'm staring into the sink, watching the water stream down the drain, I feel a cold chill run down my spine. There was that party a month ago, at Jason's. I'd felt ancient, out of place among all his fresh-from-college hipster friends. I drank too much. Way too much. And then Otto showed up, the only other thirty-something there, and, well, I sort of have a weakness for guys like Otto anyway.

My stomach turns over again. I couldn't remember if we'd used a condom. I could barely even remember the sex. We must’ve both passed out right afterwards, because we woke up still intertwined the next morning. He could’ve taken the condom off the night before, I tell myself, but even I don’t really buy it. I retched into the sink again, watching the water take it down the drain, hiding the evidence of my fucked-up life. Finally I put my mouth to the thin stream of water coming from the faucet and I drink as if my life depended on it. Then I straighten up, reach unsteadily for my cigarette and lighter again, and half-stagger outside. The cold air shocks me, brings me back into the present. I light my smoke and lean my head against the brick wall behind me. My hands are trembling. My brain is racing around at a hundred miles an hour. Maybe it's just from a hangover, I tell myself; I had a lot to drink last night and that's just the leftover beer my body couldn't digest. ...It didn't feel like a hangover, part of my brain responds that I wish would just shut up. I couldn't possibly be pregnant, I tell myself, scoffing at the thought before it's even finished.

I need to remain calm, I tell myself. "Be cool, Av," I say aloud. Panicking isn't going to help either way. I stub out the cigarette at its halfway point and leave it on the little brick ledge that runs shoulder-high around the building. Stepping back in, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, then step over to my purse and feel around til I find my one-hitter. I take a couple hits of pot and exhale into the still, quiet air around me. I sit for a moment, then go back out into the alley to finish my smoke.

When I come back in, I feel a lot calmer. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that I am pregnant," I debate with myself. "Otto's not such a bad guy. He'd make a good dad. Not a good husband, but he's cool with kids. And I don't need to get married. What the fuck - we'd probably kill each other." But I am not talking about what is rising in my throat, the hellish feeling of dread threatening to choke me. Because if this ends up anything like the last time, I might as well go to the abortion clinic right now.

I wonder if I should call Eric. What would I say? "Hey, I got knocked up again. Hope this one doesn't die." Fuck's sake. I walk briskly to the bar sink and start running the hot water. I have 45 minutes to get the place clean before we're supposed to open. I decide the pint glasses can wait and hook up the short length of hose we use to fill the mop bucket. While it's filling up, I pour myself a beer. It's 10:15 in the morning.

My hands are still shaking.