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How? How did she know?
I looked to my father who made it worse by chugging the evidence.
“What drink?” I asked her trying to be his lawyer. “There is no more drink, and as such, there is nothing spiked.”
She marched over and even my father sat up straighter.
“It was just one—”
“Just one glass. You know with your heart condition that you shouldn’t be drinking even drop.”
“You already have me eating grass three times a week—”
She snapped her fingers at me, and I stared at them for a moment. Then back at her. Sighing, I handed her the flask. But she wasn’t done there. She took my glass too.
“He’s the one with the condition!”
“Are you the prosecutor or the defense?” my father muttered.
“And you’re the one who takes after him, so you’re welcome in advance,” she replied.
My mouth dropped open, preparing to say something, but my father shook his head, but I went forward to my death anyway. “At least let me finish the glass. Dad drank his.” If I was throwing him under the bus, I might as well drag him a little too.
She paused, turned back to me, and I froze, recognizing that look. She rejoined Thea, who was trying her best not to laugh at me.
“Thea, dear, don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you can’t drink for nine whole months while you carry your soon-to-be husband’s child?”
Karma had no grace period. Just as I’d thrown my father under the bus, so had she done to me.
“Absolutely!” Thea said passionately. And just as I’d dragged my father, she decided to rub it in. “I’m also barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen while he’s just having a grand ol’ time.”
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“I lied actually,” my mother continued as she poured my glass and flask down the drain. “It’s actually much longer than nine months … breast feeding time, too.”
“Really?” Thea pouted.
“Don’t worry. You have a whole support team, right, Levi?” There it was—the final nail in my coffin.
I looked to my father who just nodded like he knew it was coming.
“Levi?” Thea called.
Closing my eyes, I forced myself to smile. “Sure.”
Nine months plus without alcohol?
“The first eight months are the hardest,” my father said softly, reaching for his chess piece again. “After that
, you get so busy preparing and panicking that you’re too scared to drink.”
“She did this to you too?”
“Twice,” he said, and it sounded just as painful as I thought. “You got off easy. I’d gone out to drink with a few buddies at the firm, and she was so upset. Irrationally upset, was what I told her. But she told me if I drank again without her, she’d raise you on her own.”
I took his pawn and asked, “How did she even know?”
“Don’t ask questions, son. The answers will scare you. They pick up.” He shook his head, and for some reason, the thought made me laugh. “What? I’m being serious.”
