The sharp ringing of my phone snapped me out of my trance, and I quickly turned the water off, wrapping myself in a towel before struggling with still-wet fingers to slide to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her voice came through the same way it always did—saccharine and coated in a feeling of home. It comforted me every single time, and today was no exception. “Hi, Darcy girl. How are you?”
I had to answer carefully. If moms were superheroes, then Shelby Adler’s power was the ability to see right through your words. The key was to speak in half-truths. “I’m good, for the most part. A little stressed and tired, and I’m really sore today, but other than that, I’m good.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Is there anything I can do to help? I don’t know the first thing about meal prepping or lifting weights, but I could try my best.”
I knew she meant well, knew she didn’t mean for it to sound like a dig—my mom wouldn’t know what a dig was if you put a shovel in her hands and led her to a pile of dirt—but something about boiling my career down to “meal prepping” and “lifting weights,” had my heart dropping slightly.
This was where our relationship was strained. There was no point in saying anything to her because my sweet, overly devoted mother would promise all day long that she was just as proud of me as she was of my siblings. But she had to say that. Over the years, I’d heard how she talked about my siblings’ professions; how brave and selfless Garrett was for being a police officer, and how compassionate and dedicated my sister was as a labor and delivery nurse. Never once had she said anything remotely as positive about me being a personal trainer. Maybe parents loved all of their children equally, but love and pride were two different things, and I was a lump of coal sandwiched between two diamonds in the pride department.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. How are you? How’s dad?” The safest move was a topic change, and either she didn’t notice, or she let it slide.
“We’re doing great, though, your father is going a little stir-crazy—you know how he gets in the off season.” I could hear her affectionate eye-roll through the phone.
“He should try getting a hobby that isn’t berries.”
When my father retired from the law firm he worked at, my parents’ original plan was to do some travelling and “relax for a goddamn second,” as my father had so eloquently put it, but that lasted all of a single winter. When spring rolled around, he ran outside like the house was on fire and began tearing up the grass in the backyard. He leveled it, tilled it, added more nutrient-rich soil, and planted some seeds. The berries became histhing, and he spent all day every day taking care of and monitoring theirprogress. He was so proud of his first harvest, he dragged all of us outside to show us.
I think my mom had thought it would be a couple of plants and a fun little hobby for my dad—something she could use to make some baked goods to give as the occasional gift. Then my father built the stand in the front yard, and she realized it was going to be a bigger endeavor than she’d originally thought. Thus, Adler’s Berries was born. My father tended to and grew the berries, they both harvested them, and my mother made the jams and pastries. It had actually gotten quite popular in their little suburban neighborhood, and last I’d heard, they started going to a few farmer’s markets too.
My dad loved having something to do with his hands, and my mom simply loved spending time with him. It was cute.
Her laughter through the phone was genuine and light. “You tell him that the next time you see him. Which speaking of . . . you’re coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”
Crap. How had I managed to completely forget the fact that the holidays were right around the corner? I hadn’t thought about how I was going to hide the pregnancy from my family while I was under the same roof as them for multiple days, but I was now.
I could bring my own alcohol, dump it out in the bathroom and fill it back up with water. Or I could bring my own bottle of wine that I’d replaced with cranberry juice and not share with anyone. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d hogged and consumed a whole bottle by myself. Clothing wasn’t a big deal since I still wasn’t showing, but what would I look like two weeks from now? Could I hide a pregnancy at sixteen weeks? It seemed unlikely, but at the moment, I only appeared a little bloated, so maybe I’d stand a chance.
A quiet voice in my head reminded me of the option that I could always tell them, but I shut that thought down. I wasn’tready. When I would be, I didn’t know, but I knew it wasn’t now. This pregnancy would be one more thing on my family’s list of “Things We Don’t Talk About When Anyone Asks About Darcy,” and that list didn’t need to be any longer.
“Darcy?”
I snapped back to the conversation. “What? Yeah, sorry. I zoned out. Yes. I will be at Thanksgiving.”
“Oh good! I’ll tell your father. He’ll be so excited!”
I smiled. My dad and I had always been closer than me and my mom. His contentment with quiet made me feel like not being a bubbly Adler woman was okay. “Me too.”
“And will you be bringing anyone with you? So I know how much food to make.” She tacked the last part on quickly, like she knew she’d poured salt in a wound, and had water on standby to immediately rinse it.
“Nope! Just me, per usual!” My voice came out too chipper and I mentally scolded myself. She’d spend the next two days reading into that, mentally replaying it to dissect it like a sports broadcaster.
“Well just you is more than enough!” she said, before continuing on about what she’d been up to since closing their stand for the winter. The conversation very rarely strayed to me, but when it did, I gave up little bits and pieces before turning it back towards her. As a rule, I didn’t love talking about myself—I didn’t love when the attention and focus was on me, but especially not now. I didn’t trust myself not to slip up and say something stupid like that I’d had a doctor’s appointment, or that I needed to relocate my office space. It was safer to let her carry the conversation. And carry it she did. For forty-six minutes.
My hair had almost completely air-dried, and I was still in my towel, but was now sitting on the couch in my living room.
“All right, Mom, I should probably get going. At some point I’m going to have to make food here.”
“Okay, darling. I love you! We’ll see you in two weeks. Don’t be a stranger. Call us anytime!”
“I love you too. Bye.” I hung up the phone and let out a sigh. My first interaction with my mom since finding out I was pregnant and I survived it. Now I just needed to figure out how I was going to survive Thanksgiving because even ifIcould manage to pull it off, I wasn’t convinced Linnea could. And that was a problem, but I’d deal with her another time because as the grumbling of my stomach reminded me, I really did need to make food.
Once I was dressed and had water on the stove to boil, I shot off a text to Linnea.
Me:We need to prep you for Thanksgiving so you don’t blab.
