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So I bring another bite to my mouth.
Chew.
Swallow.
“Mmm, delicious.”
The word has barely left my lips when I gag. Oh, gosh. I won’t be able to keep this down.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Dad asks.
I stare around the table in a panic. I’m not going to make it to the bathroom. My eyes land on the huge country-chic metal bin next to the kitchen island, and I make a run for it.
I’ve barely lifted the lid before I’m already throwing up inside.
Chaos explodes around me.
“Oh my gosh, Harry, she’s ill.” My mother stands up. “Call Dr. Murray.”
With my face still half in the bin, I shake my head.
“You can’t call him on Thanksgiving,” Dad says.
Thank goodness someone is still being reasonable.
“Then I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Mom, she’s fine,” Teresa says.
“Fine? How can you say she’s fine? Your sister can’t stop throwing up.”
“I’m sure it’s just indigestion,” Teresa continues. “No need to call the hospital.”
“Indigestion? You’d have to have started digesting to have indigestion. The food barely touched her mouth.”
“I’m fine,” I try to say in between heavings.
“You’re not fine,” Mom insists, grabbing the old-fashioned phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “I’m calling Dr. Murray. He’s always so available, he can give us an opinion on the phone.”
Teresa joins her in the kitchen and they begin wrestling for control of the receiver in a battle of she’s-ill, she’s-not-ill until Teresa screams, “Mom, she’s not sick, she’s pregnant.”
From my position on the floor, I manage to keep my head up long enough to glare at my sister.
“Pregnant?” my mother repeats.
Dad, now also standing in the kitchen, asks, “By who? Who’s the father?”
“The baby has no father,” Teresa explains.
Ah, if only.
Mom opens her arms, exasperated. “What do you mean no father?”
“That’s not possible in my book,” Dad offers.
Exhausted, I sit on the floor and wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my fancy dress.
Mom turns to me. “The baby has a father, right, honey?”
