by Mysti Parker
"No, thanks!" My stomach growls and lurches. How can I be hungry and nauseous at the same time?
"Okay, just meet me at the car."
"Okay!"
Fifteen seconds. I start to look, then turn around. Hugging myself tight, I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing to worry about. It's fine.
Someone beats on the door. Is he still out there?
“Just a minute!”
Another rap on the door. It’s an older woman’s voice. “You almost done, honey? My water pill’s kicking in, and I really need to tinkle.”
“I’ll just be a minute!”
I peek at the clock. Five seconds. I'll just touch up my lipstick. That'll kill the last few seconds. I grab it from my purse, pop open the cap, and...
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
She bangs on the door again. “I’m still waiting.”
I drop the lipstick. It clatters into the sink, leaving Berry Pretty red streaks on the porcelain. "For the love of God, lady, just go to the men’s room or grab a pack of adult diapers and give me a damn minute!"
“Well…I never!”
I hear her shuffling off. The hinges on the men’s room door across the hall creak, and the dead bolt clicks. Deep breaths. Nothing to worry about. Keeping my eyes on the sink, I reach over and grab the test. Inhale, exhale...
"Okay, look."
Two lines stare back at me.
"Oh. My. God." I drop the test stick in the sink with the lipstick. They rattle around together. The test end soaks up some of the red. All the air leaves the room. My legs turn to jelly. I have to grab the sink to keep from falling.
How could this happen? Okay, I know how, but…how when I’ve been on the pill consistently for years? Hands trembling more than a 9.0 earthquake, I rummage around in my purse until I find the pack of pills. I haven’t missed any days – I even double-check the calendar on my phone. No time warp, no amnesia.
Wait a minute… I flip the package over, scanning the foil for anything printed on it, and finally find the expiration date on the corner. My legs go limp-noodle again. These pills – if the date is correct – expired over a year ago.
I throw them in the sink to join my lipstick and pregnancy test. Hands balled into fists, I pound on the sink and let out a silent scream. Jack or the water-pill lady could be out there right now, discussing how best to extract me from the bathroom.
If I keep Jack waiting any longer, he'll know something's wrong. I have to tell him, but I...I have to think first. No, I can't tell him yet. Not while we're traveling. Not until I get confirmation from my doctor. Not until I know what to do with the...
The baby.
Shock kicks in. I’m too numb to cry or scream or do anything except go through the motions. We have plans. We have to go. I pick up the test, drop it into my purse along with the lipstick. My face is bone white, so I pinch my cheeks, wet a paper towel, and hold the cold dampness to my skin until I can fully breathe again. The only thing I can do right now is play it cool until the timing’s right.
Which will be never.
Jack has pulled up right in front of the store to wait for me. I get back in the car, buckle up, and pick up the bridal magazine I'd been reading.
"Feel better?" he asks. "I thought you might have fallen in."
"No, I'm fine." My voice is bland, my mouth dry. I open my ginger ale and sip it. "Let's go."
"Okay."
I can feel his eyes on me as he starts the engine.
∞∞∞
Soon, we’re back on the road to my parents’ house. Though still in the county, it sits on a twisty, narrow country road twenty miles from downtown. I hope Jack doesn’t mind driving his expensive car on a dusty gravel county road.
We ride along in silence except for the radio, which Jack turned up to drown out the road noise. I pretend to take great interest in the Country Brides & Grooms Magazine summer edition, though honestly it’s all a blur of lace and flowers and smiling, happy people. All I can think about is how I’m supposed to tell a man who wants nothing to do with marriage or fatherhood that his fake fiancée is expecting his child.
There’s still a week left before our wedding. Will I still fit in my dress?
Most importantly, how am I supposed to face my family all weekend without them knowing that I’m a big fat liar who screwed up and got knocked up?
With some families, it might be easier to keep such secrets, but some families aren’t all up in each other’s business like mine is. My sisters and mother don’t keep quiet about anything. We all know when Andrea is ovulating, when Allison tries a new sex position with her husband, when Astraea takes a dump. Nothing’s sacred with them.
Just don’t tell them, you might be thinking. To really understand why I’m mortally terrified of our weekend visit, you have to understand my family dynamic. My mom, Doris, is a control freak. She hovered over me for years after the accident, monitoring my friends so much that the only one I really had left was Leigh, who was also a hospital frequent flyer. She’s president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary Club, has weekly game nights with her bridge and bunco groups, and never misses her women’s Bible study on Wednesdays.
My dad, Lorne, is an army vet and six feet three inches of intimidation. He’s had the same crewcut since he left the service and now owns a successful medical supply business. If you cross him, you better be able to outrun him or outwit him. He respects people who can stand up to him, but those are few and far between.
My oldest sister, Andrea, is a hypochondriac who’s been trying to get pregnant (seems counterintuitive to me) with her husband, Greg, for the past three years. She’s a microbiologist of all things, so you think she’d be cool with germs, but on the contrary, she knows too much about worst-case infection scenarios. So now every sneeze, cough, red spot, and minor ache could mean dysentery or something just as unpleasant.
My next oldest sister, Allison, is the quintessential soccer-mom type. Three kids, whom I adore, but whom she fusses over more than our mother ever did. They’re all on a gluten-free, low-sugar, organic, sustainable, blah, blah, blah diet. And they’re miserable, the poor kids. Auntie Avery sneaks them candy every now and then, and I might just have some in my purse right now.
Of course, there’s the third-born sister, Astraea, who unlike the rest of her siblings, is freakishly tall at six feet one inch. She’s convinced that marriage and having children is for weak-minded women who are wasting their chance to contribute to society. Our mother would like nothing better than to see her married, but Astraea’s still young. She’s made a career out of the army and works at Fort Knox now, much to our dad’s delight.
Last but not least is my little brother, Adam, the baby of the family. He just started college, but for now he’s living in the basement, and Mom still does his laundry. He’s majoring in some sort of philosophy and thinks in terms of famous philosophers and historical figures in every situation, so you never know if he’s going to spring some advice from Plato on you.
As I expected, Mom and Dad come out on the porch when we arrive. Dad’s hands are in his pockets, the creases on his forehead deepening the more he frowns. In contrast, Mom’s expression is as idyllic and secretive as the Mona Lisa’s smile.
“Jack,” I say, catching his arm before he gets out. “Not that you aren’t, but be as gentlemanly as possible.”
His brow wrinkles for a moment, then his eyes grow wide. “Oh, yeah. Hang tight.”
Jack gets out and jogs around to my side, opens the door, and offers his hand to help me out. It’s a good thing, too, considering my legs still aren’t fully cooperating after receiving the shock of a lifetime.
“You okay?” he whispers. “You look pale.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I try to smile, but in the sun visor mirror, I look plumb deranged.
Thankfully, my feet remain underneath me while Jack and I start up the porch steps. My dad towers over us, blocking the path.
I’m supposed to do something, I know it. Oh, right. “Um, Jack, this
is my dad, Lorne. Dad, Jack, my…husband.”
“Mm-hmm.” He offers his hand.
Jack hesitates, but accepts the handshake, wincing slightly. Dad’s normal handshakes are a hair shy of bone crushing, so I imagine he didn’t hold back with Jack. But Dad steps aside so we can step onto the porch, so Jack has crossed the first hurdle.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” Jack says, taking my mother’s hand next. In stark contrast to Dad’s handshake, hers is like a dead fish. Cold and limp. “And nice to meet you again, Mrs. Price.”
“Thank you. I’m glad it’s under more proper circumstances this time around.”
“Agreed.” Jack withdraws, sticking both hands in his pockets, not that I blame him.
The screen door opens and snaps shut. My brother Adam smiles brightly. He’s wearing a University of Louisville T-shirt with orange smears on it, most likely from eating a whole bag of Cheetos in one sitting. Though technically an adult, he’s still lanky with a baby face and scattered acne.
“Hey sis! So it’s true – fortune and love favor the brave.”
Yep, there he goes. Sighing, I ask, “And who said that?”
“Ovid, of course.”
“Right, how silly of me.”
Jack pipes in, “Ovid was an ancient Roman poet, I think.”
Adam’s eyes widen. “Yeah, that’s right!” Jack’s made a friend in him already, it seems.
“Anyway, I’m so glad you came,” Mom coos. “Avery, honey, are you feeling ill? Want me to fix you some tea?”
“That’s okay. Maybe later.”
“I hope you’re staying for the weekend?”
“We are.”
“Good. Everyone’s down by the creek collecting rocks to paint. We’re grilling some hot dogs for lunch, and we’ll have some rocky road ice cream for dessert.”
“Sounds good.”
“What’s with the rocks?” Jack asks.
Mom blinks at him as though he ought to know this. “It’s Collect Rocks Day – every sixteenth of September.”
“Okay…”
“Mom likes to celebrate obscure holidays,” I tell him.
“It’s not that obscure,” she says.
“Yeah, it kinda is, Mom.” I’m still holding my ginger ale, so I take a drink, hoping it will settle my stomach and my nerves.
My dad clears his throat. “So, what’s this about you getting married and not telling us? You’re not knocked up, are you?”
I suck ginger ale down the wrong pipe and start coughing. Jack rubs my back, staring at me, his eyes heavy with concern and questions.
“No, no,” he says. “We just didn’t want to make a fuss. Avery handles weddings every day, so having one is too much like work, you know?”
“Hmm.” Dad crosses his arms. “Well, you should have told us. Your mother’s been upset ever since she found out.”
Hand on my chest, I finally stop coughing long enough to speak in a raspy, wheezing tone. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Your older sisters’ husbands had the decency to ask me first. I guess your people don’t do that,” he says to Jack.
“I guess they don’t,” Jack says unflinchingly, holding eye contact with his fake father-in-law.
Dad nods. “Hmm, well it’s too late now. Adam, help Jack bring in the bags.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” Jack nods back. A second hurdle crossed. Standing up to my dad isn’t easy. I had a couple boyfriends in high school who refused to come back after trying and failing to hold their ground. He goes back to the car and opens the trunk.
“Hey, man, this car is lit.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty lit, I guess,” Jack says, winking at me.
Adam grabs the bags – there are only two – and bounds onto the porch and into the house.
“Come on inside, Avery.” Mom holds the door open for me, though I look back at Jack. My dad’s sitting on one of the wicker porch chairs. He’s waiting to speak to Jack alone. Poor Jack. He may decide to ditch me and our plans after all once Dad gets done with him.
“Maybe I should…”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
Mom follows me in. “I have your rooms all made up for you.”
“Rooms?”
“Your father insisted.”
“Um, okay…”
She draws close, speaking in her someone-might-hear-us quiet tone. “I know you two are…doing it, but I didn’t tell your father that we found Jack naked in your tub. He didn’t see you get married, so he’s not ready to think his baby girl is…doing it.”
I rub my eyes, already exhausted from being here, and it hasn’t been five minutes. “Yeah, okay, Mom, I get it. It’s fine.”
“Come on in the kitchen. Get something to eat. You look pale.”
“I know. You’ve said that already.”
It’s not a good idea to refuse food too much, or she’ll insist on intervention for an eating disorder or giving me a pregnancy test herself.
When we walk in the kitchen, Huff and Puff, my mom’s Shih Tzus, come running through the dog door that leads to the covered porch, barking furiously at whoever has invaded their territory. Once they realize it’s me, it’s nothing but tail-wagging and jumping on my legs, begging for my attention.
“They’ve missed you,” Mom says and hands me the dog treat jar before arranging condiments in a basket to take outside.
“Aw, did you miss me, guys?” I screw off the lid and take a few treats out. Bending down, I hold my hand out and offer them, laughing as their wet, eager tongues lap the bacon-flavored nuggets up.
When I stand up straight again, a wave of dizziness hits me, so I grab the kitchen counter to keep from falling over.
“Avery!” Mom runs to me and guides me into a chair. “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No, I don’t need an ambulance, for heaven’s sake. I just haven’t had any lunch.” Or breakfast, come to think of it.
“Then here. Eat some of these crackers your sister brought. I’ll make you some tea.” She slides me a bowl of pale, round crackers.
I grab one up and take a bite, spitting it out in a napkin a second later. I gulp down some ginger ale, hoping it will wash the taste out of my mouth. “What the hell are these? They taste like moldy cardboard.”
“Oh, they’re not that bad. They’re gluten-free crackers. Allison says glutens can cause bloating and a host of other problems.”
“Allison’s full of shit.”
Mom slaps the counter, her eyes flashing with that famous Price temper. “Young lady, watch your language in this house.”
“Sorry.”
Adam comes in and goes straight for the pantry. I join him there to look for something edible. My inner cookie monster sings for joy when I stumble upon a package of Oreos that still have a few left. They’re slightly stale, but I don’t care.
I munch them happily as Adam whispers, “Like Mark Twain said, ‘Let us swear while we may, for in Heaven it won’t be allowed.’”
Mouth full of stale cookie, I laugh and try not to choke. Allison comes in from the patio, holding my niece Annabeth’s hand. She’s three and already a drama queen who would make any Price woman proud.
Annabeth looks like she’s been crying, which could be anything from her brother stealing her rocks to a stain on her favorite shirt. Her eyes light up when she sees me.
“Aunt Avery!”
She runs to me, and I pick her up, still holding an Oreo.
“You know those are full of preservatives and sugar.” Allison goes to the counter and pours some kind of thick green smoothie from a blender into a cup and sucks it through a straw.
My stomach turns. “You know that looks like swamp scum.”
She smacks her lips, but I can see her eye twitching. “Tastes…fabulous.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll stick to the Oreos.” Before she can stop me, I hand the cookie to Annabeth and set her down. "Shoo, get out of here while the gettin’s goo
d.”
Annabeth giggles and runs back outside, Oreo crumbs falling from her mouth as she goes.
“Seriously, Avery?”
“An Oreo once a blue moon isn’t going to hurt her. You ate plenty of them growing up and you’re fine.”
Allison is, in fact, in great shape, but a good bit skinnier than the rest of us, even with her cute little baby bump previewing child number four. I have a feeling she’s perpetually hungry, no matter how much she extols the virtues of a fun-free diet.
“Well, you look pale. You should try green smoothies. Spinach has lots of iron.”
“I’d rather eat my foot.”
She rolls her eyes, but comes over and hugs me. “So, you’re married, huh? What’s up with that? Why all the secrecy?”
“I don’t know. We just didn’t want to bother with a big show.” Explaining my reasons for getting “married” like I did is getting old really fast.
“That’s not like you, Avery. You’ve always wanted a big wedding. You used to pretend to get married with all your stuffed animals, remember? You’d line them up along the hallway and put on your bride costume while Astraea played the wedding march on her toy keyboard.”
“That was a long time ago.” The memory pinches my heart and brings a lump to my throat. That is what I wanted, what I still want…someday. But now, it looks like the only wedding I’ll ever have is a fake one.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t very thoughtful. I’m glad that you planned Leigh such a beautiful wedding though. Annabeth loved being a flower girl. She still has the petals and basket and pretends to get married just like her aunt used to.”
While I usually find it adorable that my niece mimics me, now I feel guilty for putting fairy tale dreams in her head that most likely will never happen. “Maybe you shouldn’t let her do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not always a fairy tale.” My stomach lurches. Bile rises in my throat. “I’m sorry, excuse me.”
I hurry up the stairs, praying I don’t hurl all over everything on the way, and dash into my old room. Shutting the door, I throw my purse on the bed and get to the private bathroom just in time to lose my newfound Oreos right into the toilet.
