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Sorry, babe, I have to go. I have a new life to bring into the world
From Marissa:
Gah
Marissa sends a cheesy GIF of a couple kissing in the rain—probably from some movie—that says “you complete me” only she captions it “you revolt me.”
As I walk to the delivery room, I can’t wipe a stupid smile from my face. Maybe Amada had a point, I am being obnoxiously optimistic.
37
MARISSA
To say I’m on edge as I arrive at my parents’ house on Thanksgiving would be a euphemism. I’m not looking forward to spending the afternoon a few yards from John and his entire family while secretly carrying his baby. Not to mention hiding the pregnancy from my parents.
Also, I don’t feel well. The morning sickness, which turned out to be all-day sickness, is getting worse each week. And the idea of consuming a huge meal, of having to sit at the dinner table for hours, is even less appealing.
The only thing I’m really excited about is seeing Teresa. We were supposed to go out for drinks last night—or sorry, virgin substitutes in my case—but her flight got delayed, and my pregnant body had me collapse in bed before 10p.m.
To shorten my stay at my parents’, I arrive as fashionably late as I can without raising questions. I’m also slightly overdressed for a family dinner in a BOHO-chic, long-sleeved dress, and brown leather boots. But pants were even less in my wheelhouse today.
As I walk up the driveway, I can’t help but throw a furtive stare at John’s house. At least the curtains are all drawn as he promised. At the door, I give the bell a perfunctory ring to announce my arrival and then push my way inside without waiting. Even if we live in New York, this neighborhood of Brooklyn is more small town than metropolis, and on festive days, hardly anyone locks their doors.
The moment I step inside my parents’ house, I’m assaulted by all the fragrances of a typical Thanksgiving dinner. Garlic mashed potatoes, the turkey, freshly baked bread, Mom’s usually mouth-watering apple pie… My stomach revolts.
I take a minute to get the nausea under check before walking past the entryway. I find Dad and Teresa catching up in front of the fireplace. We hug, kiss, and say happy holidays.
“Can someone come give me a hand?” Mom yells from the kitchen.
I cross into the open-space dining room and find her standing at the stove, grumbling.
“Hey, Mom.”
She turns toward me. “Marissa, finally! This turkey was going to burn if you arrived any later.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m barely twenty minutes late.”
Two pies are cooling on the kitchen island: apple and pumpkin. While a slightly burned odor lingers in the air.
“Something did burn for sure,” I add, removing my coat and kissing my mom on the cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“To you too, darling. And yeah, the caramelized onions caramelized a bit too much. We’ll have to do without this year.”
And just as well. Every smell in this kitchen is making me want to throw up.
Taken up with her cooking, Mom hands me a gravy boat. “Take this to the table, please. We’re almost ready.”
The rich aroma wafting up from the gravy boat makes my stomach turn even more. I rush to the table and drop it in the middle, saying, “I’ll go to the bathroom real quick.”
I shut myself in the downstairs bathroom and dry heave over the sink. Once I’m sure nothing is actually coming up, I wash my face and go back outside.
I bump into Teresa in the hall. She takes one look at me and low whistles. “Nice dress.”
I take in her jeans and the University of Michigan sweater and feel even more overdressed.
“Going somewhere fancy?” Teresa teases.
“Only on my knees in front of the toilet if the nausea continues this way; every smell is making me sick.”
