It took me a few tries, but eventually, I got the record player going. Now Frank Sinatra is singing about riding high in April as I load my sheets into the dryer, singing along loud enough that the house no longer feels so sparse. With no neighbours sharing a wall to worry about, I belt out the lyrics with flair. Laughing toward the ceiling when dear old Frank refers to himself as having once been a pirate. Becausethatis exactly what landed me here.
And, dammit, I’m going to pick myself back up and get back in the race too. Just as Mr. Sinatra suggests.
I glide around the house, smoothly waltzing with a hand on the top of my wannabe baby bump and stopping along the way formanyice chip breaks. When my sheets finish in the dryer just as the last track on the B-side fades out, I make my bed and crawl into it.
Pulling out my phone, I immediately check my texts from Bo. He asks how I’m settling in, provides instructions for the faucet in the shower—which was apparently installed backward and can be temperamental—and lets me know he’ll be back tomorrow before lunch. I quickly respond before pulling up my texts with my mom. I type out a few apologies before I decide to just call her instead.
It rings only once before she picks up.
“She lives,” my mother declares as a form of greeting.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry. Things have been really busy lately. I’ve missed you.”
“Sarah said that too. She didn’t say much else, though. Keeping your secrets, as always. I assume that’s why you’re calling? She didn’t want to play middleman?”
“No! Well, yes, she did tell me you called. But things really have been busy. And yes—thereissomething I need to tell you.” I look up to the ceiling, willing the words to come. Or, alternatively, willing the well-timed beginning of an alien invasion or apocalyptic event. “I’m pregnant,” I say.
Two words. That’s it. Simple. Out there now. No taking it back.
The line goes quiet. Painfully quiet.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Did—did you hear me?”
“Hear what? Sorry, my show is on.”
“La Reina del Sur? Mom, it’s on Netflix—just pause it.” Some traditions, like Sunday night telenovelas, never die. That’s probably what Sarah is doing in bed right now too. That was always their thing, and sometimes Marcie and I were invited to join. Only if we didn’t ask too many questions like: Wasn’t he dead? Who is that? When did she have time for an affair between the murdering sprees? Isn’t that herstepfather?
She grumbles, her chair squeaking as she reaches for the remote. “Fine, fine, fine. Just, you caught me during a juicy bit. Teresa just called—”
“I’m pregnant,” I interrupt.
“You?” she says abruptly, accompanied by a stunned laugh.
I don’t know why her surprise offends me, but it does. “Yes,me.”
She makes a sound like sputtering. It’s half amusement, partial shock. “Well… who’s the guy?”
Of course. Nohow are you feeling?Orhow far along?Or—okay, I suppose the next question might bewho’s the guy,but the first two matter more. “His name is Bo. He’s a friend of mine. We got caught up at a party, and… you know the rest.” Not acompletefabrication. My mom doesn’t need to know I fucked the guy the same day I met him. Some things don’t need to be shared with the woman who began preaching abstinence-above-all to me when I was ten.
“Birth control zero;McNulty women two,” I joke flatly.
“And? Is he aloseror a decent man?”
I look around the nice bedroom inhishouse while sitting on mynewbed that he provided and nod to myself. “A decent man. We’ve, uh, we’ve actually moved in together.”
I hear a whimper down the phone. A happy sort of relief mixed with a contented sigh. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Winnie. Truly, truly wonderful.”
I probably should have mentioned the context in which we are moving in together, but why bother now? I’m not going to set myself up for a more difficult conversation if I don’t have to.“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier; it’s been a whirlwind. I’ve been really sick, and—”
“What’s he like?”
“Yikes,” I respond before I can help it.
“What?” she snips back.
