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The smile on Teresa’s face dies, and she’s at my side in a few quick strides. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, it’s only morning sickness. The doctor says it’s normal, but you have to help me cover.”
Teresa frowns. “How?”
“I don’t know, but just… don’t let Mom and Dad guess I’m pregnant.”
I still haven’t figured out how to deal with the situation, or where I stand with John. The last thing I need is for my family to butt in. I know what they’ll say, marry him, be a family, move in next door… But I’m not sure that’s what I want, and I don’t need the added pressure.
We walk back into the dining room, and I’ve never wished more for the kitchen and its smells to be enclosed in a separate space. But our little Brooklyn heaven is still in New York and, townhome or not, space is limited around here.
The meal is spread out on the large oak dining table, over a white tablecloth decorated with an orange pattern. Mom has scattered a few pomegranates around as decorations alongside centerpieces made with wild rose berries.
Dad sits at one head of the table, Mom is at the other—the one nearer to the kitchen, and Teresa and I are on the longer sides opposite each other.
While the golden-crusted turkey rests majestically on the kitchen island, Mom brings over all the side dishes: corn salad with bacon and honey, Parker House rolls, roasted squash with goat’s cheese and poached cranberries, baked two-cheese rigatoni, and traditional cornbread.
As she drops the broccoli and cauliflower gratin next to me, I quickly pass it over the table to Teresa with a face that says, please take this rotten thing as far away from me as possible.
She grabs the pot and drops it in the corner near Dad.
Mom comes back with the turkey and there’s no escaping from having it placed in the center of the table right in front of me.
“Mmm, this smells heavenly. Thanks, Mom.” I voice the exact opposite of how I feel.
Teresa gives me the stink eye, and I scowl at her.
“Thanks, darling,” Mom says and hands Dad the BBQ fork and kitchen knife for him to start carving.
While Dad is busy working the turkey, we pass the sides along. I fill my plate with carbs: the rigatoni, the cornbread, and a Parker House roll. I steer clear of everything green or icky looking and avoid all strong-smelling foods.
I eat a few bites of the rigatoni and nibble the cornbread.
The nausea gets slightly better.
“Turkey time,” Dad says. “Ladies, plates please.”
I have no choice but to offer mine as well, even if any meat feels disgusting lately.
Before I can take the plate back or protest, Mom is pouring gravy on it. Oh my gosh, I’m going to die.
I attempt to smile, but my hands shake as I pull the plate back toward me. While my family gets busy with small talk, I have to concentrate all my energy on not throwing up.
It’s just turkey—and lumpy, thick sauce. I love turkey. I can do this.
No, I can’t.
I ignore the meat and eat more pasta at least until my mom asks, “Something wrong with your turkey, honey? You haven’t touched it.”
I fake-smile. “No, no, just your mac and cheese is too good.”
She stares at me expectantly, and I have no other choice than to grab my knife and cut into the slice of turkey going cold on my plate.
I bring a bite to my mouth and chew on it, wishing I were a vegetarian and had a legitimate excuse not to eat it.
“This turkey is fantastic,” I say, hoping I don’t get my words twisted around.
Mom sets her fork down and narrows her eyes at me.
