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“Not feeling well, dear? You’re looking pale.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Go ahead then. Holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and go to my room. Fall asleep within minutes, wake up later of my own accord. Even more tired.I don’t understand.
I get out of bed and go to my desk to use the laptop. I got the desk when I was a freshman in high school. Made of reclaimed wood and pretty basic. A drawer in the middle and three on each side. I grab the handle on the bottom left-hand drawer and open it halfway. Kick it shut.
No. I won’t do it.
I had stuck my phone in there the second I got here because I didn’t want to look at it anymore. Noah keeps trying to contact me, and I don’t want to hear from him. Don’t want to think about him.
LIAR!
I open the laptop and begin searching. Google:Are expectant mothers tired all the time? It brings back 4,690,000,000 results.
“Over four and a half billion,” I mumble. “Jeez.”
I stay stuck in that rabbit hole until Mom knocks on my door. I eye the clock. A little early for dinner, but probably close enough. “Amber, you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Come on down.”
“Be right there.”
I close the lid on my laptop and yawn. Run a brush through my hair and step out the door. Pause at the top of the stairwell. It sounds like my siblings are here in the living room, and they’re talking about me.
“What’s the deal with Amber?” my brother, Charles Jr., asks.
“Was wondering the same thing,” my sister, Julie, adds.
“I don’t know,” Mom replies. “She hasn’t said anything, but something’s wrong. Doesn’t want to get out of bed.”
“Maybe I should talk to her,” Charles says.
“Let’s give her some time, okay? Whatever it is, she’ll talk when she’s ready.”
“Guess you’re right,” Charles agrees, and that’s my cue. I march down the steps.
“How are you guys?” I ask in a cheerful tone.
Charles is on the couch, and he stands up. He’s long and lean with brown hair, like my dad. “Good to see you, Amber.” We embrace.
“Hello, Amber.” Julie pushes out of her chair. She’s blonde and petite and the spitting image of our mother.
“Hi, Julie.” We hug and then all sit down and begin the small talk. They ask the questions I was afraid they would, and I tell them I don’t want to talk about it. With Mom in the room, my siblings have no choice but to honor my wishes.
“I’m home and look who I have with me.” It’s Dad, and he’s come through the door with Bobby.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Hey, Bobby.”
“Something burning?”
You seldom ever hear Mom swear, but she does now. “Oh, shit. Dinner.” She jolts from her chair and darts for the kitchen. “You girls set the table.”
Supper is fantastic as usual, and the dinner conversation is pleasant. Mom and Dad talk about the past, rehashing our youth. Those were good times.
