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“Yes, you’re due about now, aren’t you?”
“My period’s a bit erratic since I quit taking the pill.”
He nodded. “A lot of women don’t ovulate for months after they stop. Your body is probably adjusting. You stayed up really late last night working on your paper. I thought you were finished.”
“Revisions. I want to get it done before Christmas so I can relax. I hand it in after the new year.”
He leaned over to kiss me. “Good. What’s for supper? I’m starved.”
I dished out the food and took only a very small portion for myself. I wasn’t all that hungry, but I got Drake talking about a patient he’d seen in the OR who needed to have emergency brain surgery and he didn’t seem to notice how little I ate. I took our plates off the table before he could comment and then we went to the living room where we snuggled together and listened to some music.
We fell asleep a few hours later, and ever the sensitive soul that Drake was, he didn’t even think of making any advances towards me, knowing I wasn’t feeling very well.
On Christmas Eve day, after Drake left for the hospital to check in on his patient who was in medical ICU, I had to rush to the washroom and throw up my breakfast. Luckily, I hadn’t eaten very much—a bit of oatmeal and some tea. I frowned and Googled the flu to see if vomiting was one of the symptoms and sure enough, the strain going around did often cause nausea and vomiting. Still, I’d never been sick like that before with a flu so I sat down and looked at my calendar on my iPhone. My period was due on…
I checked and double-checked. My period was due a week ago. I’d been so busy working on my paper and Christmas shopping, I’d completely forgotten. I ran to the bathroom drawer where I had a c
ouple of pregnancy tests stashed and took one out of the box. First Response was supposed to detect the hormones involved in early pregnancy before your missed period so I hoped it worked, although I didn’t expect to be pregnant so soon after stopping the pill.
“Here goes nothing,” I said to myself and sat on the toilet.
Later that afternoon, I finished wrapping presents. A collection of Nat King Cole CDs for my father, a Jamie Oliver cookbook for Elaine, some toys for Heath’s kids and a set of espresso cups and saucers for Heath and his wife. We agreed as a family to keep our presents under $25, donating the same amount to the Food Bank and the local Catholic Mission for their Christmas Eve dinner for the homeless. Drake and I donated money to a charity that gave goats and chickens to families in the hardest hit countries touched by war and famine in Africa. We had so much, I felt it was necessary to give away twice as much as we spent on our own families. Even that would be a drop in the bucket compared to the need out there, but at least it was something. Besides, Drake donated so much of his time and money already, but that only showed how much was needed.
I thought of Alika and Maya and my time at the UN camps in Niger, wondering how they were doing, hoping everything was okay with them both. I thought about Liam, who had been discharged and went back to California with his mother and Chris.
All of it conspired to bring tears to my eyes, and I laughed at myself for being so emotional, but I always felt that way during the past few Christmas seasons. Not unhappy, but nostalgic for the years when my mother was alive and we spent Christmas Eve eating Polish food and opening presents, as was the tradition on her side of the family. My mother and father would take me to the local Catholic Church where we’d do a late Mass at 6:00 p.m. at St. Stanislaus Bishops and Martyr’s Church in the Lower East Side. Then, we’d have a special feast of twelve dishes, including the traditional borscht, pierogi, mushroom soup, cabbage rolls, carp, herring and sauerkraut along with several desserts, like kutia, piernick, as well as poppy seed cake. Then, we’d troop back to St. Stanislaus for the carols, where I’d soak up the beautiful music and stained glass wonder of the old Cathedral.
After she died and my father started seeing Elaine, we stopped going to mass on Christmas Eve, and celebrated a more traditional American Christmas. We had a big meal on Christmas Eve as before, but now it was ham and potatoes, with cake and cookies. We still opened a few presents on Christmas Eve, because it had become a tradition that was hard to break, but I missed the rest of it – mostly, my mother.
Family truly was everything, the core of a person, who they are. I thought about poor Drake, who had a completely different kind of upbringing. How would he react to my family’s Christmas? I thought he’d probably eat it up like candy.
I’d give him the tickets to Africa as my Christmas Eve gift and keep the others for Christmas morning when we were alone.
My father called me after lunch. Drake made a quick stop off at the hospital to check on patients, and so I was alone.
“Are you feeling better?”
I took in a big breath. “I’m a little better now.” There was no way I was going to admit I’d thrown up my breakfast for then he’d be all concerned.
“You two coming over tonight I hope. Heath and the kids will be here. I’d like to be able to go to St. Stanislaus but I’m not really up to it.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll come.”
“It wouldn’t be the same without you and Drake.”
“We’ll be there,” I added. “I don’t have a cough or anything so I think I’m just tired from staying up late all week to finish the first chapter of my thesis.”
“That’s my little workaholic. We’ll see you at 6:30 for cocktails and dinner at 7:30 as usual.”
“Okay, Daddy. See you then.”
Drake arrived back at the apartment at about five, smiling, excited about dinner at my father’s. He put some music on the sound system, an album titled “Christmas” by Mannheim Steamroller.
“My father wasn’t much on Christmas, calling it a capitalist plot to separate people from their money but before he became such an old curmudgeon, he used to play this at Christmas.”
While the music played, he had a quick shower while I did my hair. He chose a grey suit, a white shirt and black tie, which made him look like a million—or a billion—dollars. He finished fastening the top button of his shirt while I stood in the bathroom doorway and watched him.
“Do you approve, Mrs. Morgan?” he said, quirking an eyebrow at me.
