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I last maybe five minutes before I stumble into the bathroom and puke my guts out.
“You okay, little girl?” Nana gives me a sympathetic frown as I stagger into the kitchen. “I made you ginger tea and toast.”
“Thanks, Nan.” I kiss her cheek and sit at the table, feeling wretched. Just a few more hours before it starts to fade. Unfortunately, I have a diner shift in thirty minutes. I sip the tea and nibble at the toast, since I’ll regret it if I don’t.
Nana watches me from her stool. She’s propped in the corner with a cigarette and a mug of coffee. The window’s open and her fan’s blowing outside since technically she’s not supposed to smoke indoors here. I can’t get her to stop, even though she knows we’ll never find a two-bedroom apartment this cheap anywhere else. I’ve got my own room, Nana’s got hers, and Jason sleeps on the pull-out couch.
“You tell him?” She blows a jet of smoke into the fan.
“Yep.”
“How’d that go?”
“Not great.”
She nods. “Never does.”
I snort. “How did Pop react when you told him you were pregnant with my mom?”
“He told me to fuck off.” Another long drag. “True story.”
“Wow. Straight out of a Hallmark movie.”
“He was nicer when he sobered up. Your pop would’ve loved you. He did love you.”
“I know, Nan.” Her husband died of prostate cancer when I was barely three months old. “Think Mom would’ve freaked out if she were still around?”
“Your mother would’ve loved it.”
“No way.”
“I’m serious. She loved babies. Even when you and your brother were a total pain in the ass, she couldn’t get enough of you two.”
I smile and drink some more tea. Talking about Mom a couple of years ago would’ve made me cry, but I’ve made my peace. Now it’s comforting, like we’re not letting Mom’s memory disappear. She died from fentanyl when I was nineteen, back before it was the cool thing to do. My mother was always a pioneer. She made sculptures from tinfoil and sold fake Prada bags on South Street. She was an artist, a singer, an addict, and an incredible person. I miss her all the time. She would’ve been an awesome Nana.
“I don’t even know what I’m going to do,” I murmur, staring into my drink. The steam rolls up into my face. “We can’t afford a baby.”
It’s true, but it still hurts when Nana agrees. “Babies aren’t cheap, little girl.”
“There has to be a way, right?”
“You could get a third job. Jason could quit community college and go deliver packages for Amazon.”
I grimace and rub my face with both hands. Suddenly, I feel sick again. “I don’t want any of that.”
“I know you don’t. Just trying to make you see it all though.” She hesitates, takes a long drag, and blows out. “Whatever you decide, I’m on your side, little girl. I promise.” She stretches her back and sighs. Poor Nana’s arthritis makes it hard for her to get around.
“Thanks,” I say, blinking rapidly. I try a bite of toast but that doesn’t help.
“You gonna cry or hurl?” she asks, squinting at me. “I honestly can’t tell.”
“I’m not sure. A little bit of both.”
I take deep breaths through my nose, but the nausea wins. I hurry into the bathroom, puke again, take a shower, and head out to my diner shift.
* * *
My feet feel like I’m walking on hot coals. My back hurts for some bizarre reason. Every half-eaten burger makes me want to puke, and it never bothered me before. At one point, this cracker-laden soup makes me retch in my mouth and I have to tell my friend Marsha to watch my tables while I yack in the bathroom. My stomach’s a twisted mess.
