Six Weeks

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I'm in college. I own nothing.

Pam tapped her foot anxiously on the tile floor of the ladies' room of Dunder-Mifflin Scranton while she waited out the longest three minutes and sixteen seconds of her life. She thought she'd throw up from sheer nervousness, though she knew that her stomach was completely empty.

At first, Pam thought she had a stomach bug; one of those 24-hour things that went away without a trace by the next morning, but this was the second day in a row that the mere sight of Ryan's lunch, a ham and cheese sandwich, sent her to the ladies' room, her own lunch of mixed-berry yogurt suddenly unwelcome in her stomach. If she and Jim still spoke, he'd probably find it funny that the sight of someone eating his old lunch in his old desk made her physically ill.

As soon as she'd made her way back to reception, Dwight called her to check her symptoms on WebMD. At first she'd humored him, answering each one of his questions. The symptoms had persisted for two days, and were made worse by certain foods. She'd had a mild fever, but nothing brain-boilingly serious. She giggled when Dwight's cheeks reddened, knowing what his next question was.

"Pamela, when was your last, uhm, menstrual period," he mumbled into the receiver, his hand covering his mouth.

Pam couldn't resist. "When was my last what, Dwight? I couldn't hear you."

Dwight glared at her. "Your last, you know." He cleared his throat and cupped his hand over his mouth and the receiver again. "Menstrual period."

Deciding he'd suffered enough, she checked her calendar and replied. "It looks like…April 15th."

"A month exactly from Michael's birthday," Dwight said matter-of-factly. Then, his eyes widened and his head snapped upright, his eyes meeting Pam's and mirroring her look of utter shock.

It was June 8th.

"No," she whispered. "Impossible."

Dwight watched the color drain completely from Pam's face. The phone slipped from her hand, landing on the desk with a loud clatter. The sound seemed to snap her out of her dizzy reverie, and she quietly placed the phone back in its cradle, pressing a hand to her abdomen. Then, she ran to the bathroom with a hand over her mouth, barely making it into the handicapped stall before her stomach began to convulse yet again with the sobs that racked her small body.

Pam heard the bathroom door open with a creak and quickly attempted to compose herself. She wiped the sweat from her brow with some toilet paper and straightened her clothes and hair. She flushed the toilet and took a few deep, cleansing breaths before exiting the stall. Standing right outside the door was Dwight, a home pregnancy test in hand. A startled noise escaped Pam's mouth.

"Dwight, what are you doing in here? This is the ladies' room!"

She looked down at the object in his hands. "Why do you have that?"

"I always have one. In my drawer, next to the pepper spray. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case of this. Someone in the office thinks they're pregnant and needs results. FAST." He handed her the small box. "Here. First Response. I found that it delivers the fastest results and withstands the Dwight Schrute five point pregnancy test durability test."

Pam could only nod. If Jim were here, they'd be laughing like hyenas right now. Dwight had just implied that not only had he taken a pregnancy test, but strength-tested it as well. They would've spent half the day trying to figure out what the five points were. She smiled slightly, sadly, at the thought. Now was not a time for laughing.

"It takes on average three minutes and sixteen seconds to provide results. I have another one if you need it."

Tests. Dwight had taken several, perhaps assorted, pregnancy tests. And timed them.

"You have two pregnancy tests in your desk at all times?"

"Yes. I found that accuracy is an issue with such a small target."

"Well, um, thanks Dwight. I'm gonna go ahead and, you know…" she motioned toward the stall.

"Oh, right. Yeah," Dwight said. He made no move to exit the ladies' room.

"Get out, Dwight."

"Shy bladder, Pamela?" He smirked.

"Women's restroom, Dwight."

"Right. I will be waiting outside if you need assistance."

"I think I've got it under control. Wait, Dwight, did anyone see you come in?"

"No. Michael has everyone in the conference room so he can rehearse his toast for your wedding. I slipped away undetected."

Oh, no. Breathe, Beesly, she thought. One thing at a time. For some reason, the calming thought came to her in Jim's voice. That was probably why it actually worked. Pam took the test from Dwight and set her shoulders. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line of determination. One thing at a time.

"Okay. Thanks, Dwight."

He nodded mechanically and exited the restroom, leaving Pam alone.

… … …

Pam checked her watch for the eleventh time in the same minute. One minute and thirty seconds left. One minute and thirty seconds until the stick balanced on the toilet paper dispenser turned either pink or blue and decided her fate.

She'd gone through all the different reasons for her menstrual tardiness. Maybe it was stress from planning the wedding that was making her late. She'd heard of women fretting their periods away; it was a possibility. Maybe it was Jim's absence, the sudden loss of her best friend wreaking havoc on her system. Maybe it was a combination of the two.

But Pam knew, deep in the pit of her soul, exactly what it was. She knew what color the stick would turn, and she knew what she'd have to do.

It wasn't going to be pretty.

… … …

For Roy Anderson, today was just like any other day. It didn't really matter that it was two days until his wedding day. Honestly, that was really more for Pam than for him. He'd be happy being engaged forever, except that for the past three months Pam had been withholding sex, saying she wanted their first time as a married couple to be "special." Roy had told her that unless she wanted it to be over quick that was a bad idea, but she just laughed and told him he'd manage. In that sense, he was pretty excited about the wedding. The wedding night, anyway.

That morning, Roy and the warehouse guys had gotten their A.M. shipments out early and played basketball until lunchtime. When the clock struck twelve, he toweled the sweat off himself haphazardly and made his way up to the office to see Pam, but found the receptionist's desk empty.

"Hey, uh, Dwight? You seen Pam?"

"Pamela has gone home sick today."

"Huh. I didn't even know she was under the weather."

Roy tried Pam's cell once and got her voicemail. He didn't leave a message. He took his lunch out of the fridge and went back down to the warehouse.

"Hey, guys!" he called. "Game ON!"

He was only going to ask Pam if she minded him eating downstairs anyway.

… … …

Pam's legs dangled from the edge of the green vinyl covered bed in her doctor's office as she waited for him to return with the sonogram equipment. He had confirmed the test, and now it was time to "see how photogenic this fetus is!" Sometimes her doctor reminded her of Michael, which, Pam decided, was more than a little unsettling. She made a mental note to look for a different OB-GYN.

About an hour later, Pam emerged from the clinic with a bottle of prenatal vitamins and her baby's first picture. She'd been done in the office thirty minutes ago, but her doctor insisted that she wait to leave until her crying had subsided. She couldn't see through all of the tears, anyway.

Six weeks along, the doctor had said. Six weeks.

Casino Night.