“Lauren, Lahn is pregnant.”
Okay. Well shit. Just four months ago, Lahn had a celebration at her gallery commemorating the fact that she’d been celibate for a whole year. She literally boasted how “clear my mind and spirit are since making the decision,” and how she planned to stay that way until she met her “forever life partner.”
So why hide that she’d had sex and was pregnant when?—
Oh. Wait. Was Lahn trying to protect me from my feelings?
Neither Lahn nor Lauren ever wanted kids, however, after Lauren’s surgery four years ago, she could no longer have them naturally even if she wanted to.
“Okay La La, let’s look at this logically, because it’s not the end of the world,” Lauren said. “You have a three-bedroom house in Monterey and own a gallery. You have the wealth and capacity to care for a child, and if you chose not to give birth, you live in California, girl. You have optionsas well asa great health care plan.”
Lauren nudged her sister on the shoulder teasingly.
“So unless you intend to flood my apartment with enough tears to float all these boxes out of my condo and into the elevator—which would be a great help by the way—I suggest we get down to business and talk about next steps. I’m assuming you’re here because you know I can help; so how can I help, sis?”
“Just promise me you’ll forgive me,” her sister requested.
“If I could forgive you for ruining my chances at being a spoiled-brat of an only child all those years ago, I’m sure I can get over being forced into being the absolute most awesome auntie in the?—”
“Lauren, Lahn is pregnant with Ricky’s child.”
“Who the hell is Ricky! You know, it doesn’t even matter. La La if you choose to give birth, we can raise the baby with or without the father.”
Their mother stared at Lauren as if she were stupid.
Well, they could!
And it clicked.
Ricky was the name Ma Mable called Lauren’s fiancé Derrick when she wanted to piss Lauren off. That was a common tactic since childhood. Lahn gets upset over something, Ma Mable attacks something good in Lauren’s life to derail her confidence; and miraculously, Lahn wasn’t feeling so bad about herself anymore.
The manipulation hadn’t worked on Lauren in years, but she couldn’t stop wondering if her mother was referring to her fiancé Derrick or if she simply wanted Lauren to question her upcoming wedding to make Lahn feel less tormented about being pregnant.
Pulling away from her sister, Lauren scooted back to get a better perspective of the two women, then looked around her living room.
“I’ve been packing since four this morning—by myself—because my fiancé and family were too busy to drive to Oakland to help me. That wasn’t a problem, wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that here you two are. But not to help. So, tell me Lahn,youtell me why.”
For the first time since she arrived, Lahn fought to control her tears.
Although they weren’t blood sisters, Lauren’s love for her couldn’t tell the difference. Lahn was a year younger than Lauren’s forty-four years and breathtakingly beautiful with her half-Vietnamese and half-Black heritage. Unlike Lauren’s Amazonian curves, Lahn had a willowy build. With thick black hair that hung down her shoulders; her bohemian aesthetic; she was as artful as the works she displayed in her gallery.
“Sister, I’m pregnant with Derrick’s baby,” Lahn said, attempting to meet Lauren’s gaze, but when she couldn’t, looked down at her hands clutched in her lap as tears dripped from her chin.
Sister.
Lauren remembered that moment of pride when six-year-old Lahn, still with heavily accented English, looked at her with innocence and trust and claimed their connection.
Lauren rose from the couch and slowly moved away.
“What kind of reality-show-soap-opera hell are you guys trying to pull me into?” She snorted, picking up the stack of plates she’d held when they first arrived, and placed them in the box.
Snapping back up abruptly, she looked at her mother and smiled because she couldn’t look at hersister.
“For two days…for two days I laid in bed grieving over my teen crush being shot in that damn movie. I loved Morris Chestnut with my soul, but you always mocked me over mygrief, my hurt. Every time you called Derrick Ricky, you were mocking me.
“What you never understood was that Derrick could never be Ricky because he’s my Derelope.” Derek Morgan in sexiness and protectiveness, and Penelope Garcia in his analytic skills, but all rolled up into one. Her fiancé was hertype: mahogany skinned, athletic, caring, an intelligent technical analyst for the government, hence the nickname he hated. She smiled, thinking about the way he groaned in despair when she called him that, then she wiped away an errant tear and continued to pack.
“How many weeks along are you?” she asked pragmatically, detaching her mind from her emotions. It’s what she was taught to do. Because not everyone in the family could be emotional if they wanted to exist peacefully.
