Uncertainty Principle

Ines

Ines sat on the toilet with her hand stuck between legs and her eyes squinting. She felt sick and worried, but mostly vulgar. Still though the task was done, it was impossible to stand. With her t-shirt pulled up over her thighs and lying low on her neck, she held her breath and tried not to think of the consequence. She could not wonder how Marc would take it when she had no idea how she felt.
The test didn't take long, yet those few seconds were stretched and mobile. She saw the results appear and closed her eyes. When they opened, nothing had changed.  She studied the instruction, searching for a way out, hoping even with the sickness rising in her stomach more pronounced now that it had a name that it was a mistake, and wondering how many women were hoping the same thing, staring at the little cross(was that there for irony?) wishing that it lied, and she was not pregnant.

Ines's legs felt foreign, as if she had forgotten their use. While clasping the cold porcelain of the sink, deep breathes fought nausea that tumbled in her belly like a child in a bouncy castle. It hit off walls and somersaulted to leave no place untouched. She thought she heard Marc's breathing shimmy through a small square hall to lie at her feet. He never snored, but it was close; nostrils flaring, his mouth would open to let out air and always shut before the rumble, like a party that never gets going, and she wondered if he ever forgot himself (but this she is remembering wrong, she only considered when all was said and done that his self-absorption did not dissolve even in sleep.) That morning she listened to the evenness of him, the certainty held in his movement, and went towards him through the gloomy door lit space.   
 "Marc." He moved in the bed, grunting.  
 "Marc, I need to talk to you," Ines insisted, her hand went to his shoulder and stayed until he turned to her. "What is it?"
She tried to smile, but it was shaky and unfounded. "I'm…" she fumbled, as her fingers dug into the quilt.
"What?" 
"I'm pregnant." 
He lay there, "Are you sure?" 
"Of course I'm sure."
"Did you just take the test?"
She nodded.
"They're not always accurate." He was looking at her, yet she couldn't help feeling he was retreating. His blue eyes had dulled.
She tried not to feel scared. "There's no room for debate."
"I think you should do it again." 
"What?" 
"Get another test." 
"No." 
He sat up. He hadn't touched her yet, "Please, just to make sure." 
"But I am sure. I'm late, my boobs hurt and I feel like shit."
"Come on."
She felt dizzy with his distance. "Why can't you just accept it?"
"And why are you being such a baby, all I am saying is that we should be 110% certain."
 "A baby," her voice quivered. "How can you say that? I've spend the last half hour on the toilet having to pee on a stupid stick, and I feel so disgusting, I can't even begin to describe it. You're the baby here, not wanting to believe. Does it scare you that much?"
"I'm not scared. I'm just not convinced."
"Jesus Marc, do you think its wishful thinking on my part to be pregnant with your child?"
"I don't know, maybe you ate something bad, maybe you got the date of your period wrong." 
"I've only had them for the last ten bloody years."
"You don't have to shout, will you just go?" 
"I don't fucking believe this." She was going to cry, or get sick, or both. "You mean you want me to go out and get another test?"
"You're up."

 Jonah

The last photo of Yuki was sent to Jack two months before Hiromi died. His father's daughter was captured in the garden wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, with her hair pulled back from in a pony tail. She was standing beside a bush whose foliage drooped downwards. Her face leaned towards green, and though she was smiling there was something sad about the image. Jonah couldn't figure if it was the leaves that reminded him of rain or her smile, which had barely creased her face.
He wondered if Yuki had pictures of him.  Would she know who this stranger was the moment she opened the door or would he have to explain, would he be able to say the words? He practiced them, his lips moving, "Hi, I'm your brother," sounded stale.
Jonah's bones were stiff from the long flight and his eyes were sore as he watched the sun move up slowly as if trying to escape. The land of the Rising Sun, he thought, as Yuki's sitting room blinds were opened.

Once, in England Yuki had been on a crowded street when a passing man made her stop in her tracks. Closing her eyes, memory was inhaled. She imagined the past flowing down her throat and into her heart. She wouldn't have remembered her father wearing after shave until that scent found her, weaving through the years and a flash of being lifted up in his smell brought a smile.

Now, seeing the tall, blonde man on the other side of the road made her crumple inside. Her father had stood like that almost every day, separated by more than the street and she had placed her hand on that window, wanting him to breach the distance and put his hand on the other side.
When the front door opened Jonah's relief was thorough. He had almost reached his half sister when the glinting window caught his attention, and he saw the smudge of her hand print, its fingers splayed. 
 She was standing behind the door, her head lowered as if the sight of him was unbearable, "Who are you?"
 He glanced at the hand print, "you know who I am, Jack's son Jonah."
"I don't know that?"

"Look at me Yuki."
She sighed, "You're blonde so what. How do I know you're his son?"

Andre.

They walked into the grounds of the church and passed the building, to the hall which was derelict. The door was open in shock, and the smell made Andre stall for a moment but not long enough to be noticed. He smelled shit, and something else, something that made the air heavier, like silt. Later when he remembered this scene, he thought it was despair he smelled, that it went through his nose and rested in his blood, laying its head and rising when he needed to remember things could get very scary if he wasn't careful.
  He often thought this day saved him. Walking inside as candles were lit to pierce the darkness, he saw the top of coke cans used to cook up gear, foil and needles pointing from the ground, like commanding, hypnotic fingers and the innocent looking bottles in the shape of lemon that he had seen in the kitchen at home, which seemed sadder than everything else, and felt the impatient nudge, "wake up, give us your water."
His dumb face brought a smile which made Carlo look like a grotesque clown, "I need it for cooking."
Carlo handed a bag to Manny, who was like a flickering shadow. Andre couldn't take his eyes off the smaller boy but heard rustling of foil from behind, as he handed over the bottle of water, and saw Carlo sit on a block of concrete. He wanted to get away from the smell, the dark dankness and the single mindedness of his company, "give us what you owe me," was stuck in his throat. It would have come out shaky, but he was also frightened speaking would make him cry because the words were blocking his emotion. (Long before this day Andre had turned away from talking, but this was the nail on the head, the final realization that silence allows you to accept anything.)
And just as speech was caught, he felt trapped. His body was frozen, and he understood at fourteen how the monstrous can hold you with a lot more ease than the mundane.
A bag was taken out which held a spoon and citric acid. The gear was put on the spoon, then the citric, water was sucked up, and Carlo started cooking it with the lighter. His hands were steadier than Andre's, who had to clench his loose change to stop them from rattling.
The needle sparkled like the flash of a knife as it went toward the vein. Andre wanted to run outside but when Carlo's head fell back he was pulled forward as if they were connected in some squalid tug of war. He saw the blood racing through the syringe and had the strange idea that it was trying to get away, and when the needle fell, he saw the hole, black as the very building they stood in, a budding whirlpool.
 "You want?"
He turned to see foil being handed to him from the gloom and went the other way, to the lolling head, "give us my bags." He got one bag, but didn't argue, he needed to get away fast. As he walked out he heard laughter, like a serrated knife edge. He retched in the open air and swore he'd never use a needle. He'd never find himself going to a place like that for a hit. He would be able to wait.
  Whenever he went to Meath Street, always alone, Andre would thrill with anticipation on the bus journey home. Like an alcoholic waiting for the hand to reach five, he would be blinded by an interpretation of strength which was merely a step up from despair, and was so easy to fall from.