Five
Jocelyn
“Mom, please.” I clutch her hands in mine, trying to send her the most pitiful look I can muster. “Please don’t make me go. I’m begging you.”
We’re standing in the middle of my parents’ master bedroom, her open suitcase on top of their massive bed. She was packing for the long drive to Oregon when I came into her room and launched into my speech.
The speech about me not wanting to go to Oregon. Just the thought of pretending everything is normal when my entire life is in complete upheaval sends me into a tailspin of anxiety. I can’t do it. I can’t act like I’m fine, when I’m not.
The expression on my mother’s face tells me she’s close to cracking. I know that look. I’ve seen it plenty of times, and it’s a good sign. A positive sign. “Your grandparents will be so disappointed.”
“No matter what I do, they’ll be disappointed in me, Mom. You know this,” I remind her, because it’s true.
“What about your father?” she asks.
“He doesn’t want me there.” I let go of her hands and plop down on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor. “He wants to hide me away for the next six months or whatever and pretend I don’t exist.”
“That is not true—” she starts, but I send her a measured look and she clamps her lips shut.
We both know it’s true. There’s no point in her arguing it.
A weary sigh leaves her and she collapses onto the mattress right next to me, slinging her arm around my shoulders and pulling me in for a side hug. “If you stay home, I’ll miss not having you around.”
Victory makes me want to smile, but I restrain myself. “It’s just Thanksgiving, Mom. A totally made-up holiday to celebrate what was really about the slaughtering of indigenous people and how the pilgrims stole their land.”
Mom’s expression tells me she never quite thought of Thanksgiving like that before. “I like the idea of being thankful for family. That’s what I celebrate.”
“I know.” I exhale loudly. “I just—don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not in front of Dad’s family.”
“They’re your family too,” she reminds me.
“Of course they are. But still. We’re not that close to them, and I’ll feel so fake when Grandma asks me what I’m up to and what college I want to attend. I can’t tell her the truth. Why put myself through that?” I lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes, telling myself I won’t cry.
It’s become my new mantra. It feels like lately I’m either royally pissed off or crying uncontrollably. No in between. I looked it up online and I’m pretty sure it’s a pregnancy symptom.
Being pregnant really messes with you.
“You’ll be here all alone for almost an entire week, though. I’m not so sure I want you here at the house by yourself,” she says, tapping her finger against her pursed lips.
“I’ll be fine. I’m almost eighteen.” My voice drops. “I’m going to be a mom soon. I think I’m responsible enough.”
Mom actually laughs, which surprises me. “That’s true, isn’t it? But to me, you’ll always be my baby girl.”
She gives me another side hug before I pull myself from her embrace and stand. I start pacing. “Come on, Mom. Let me stay home.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk about it with your father,” she says.
That’s always her standard line. I used to think it was because she couldn’t make any decisions without seeking his approval first, but now I realize they’re a team. They’re in this together. And they like to discuss things before automatically assuming the other will agree to something.
I like that. I respect my parents’ relationship, even though I’m not too thrilled with the way my father is treating me since I confessed I was having a baby. He flat out ignores me most of the time. Doesn’t ask me very many questions or show much concern. It’s like he wants me to disappear.
And that hurts.
I stop in front of her just as she rises to her feet. “Thank you,” I tell her, just before I give her a quick hug. “It would be such a relief if I’m able to stay home.”
“I know.” She pats my back almost awkwardly, and I swear I hear a catch in her voice. “I know.”
They left for Oregon without me.
My younger brother Liam, and my sister Addison were furious, screams of “That’s not fair!” resounding throughout the house when our parents made the announcement. Mom took it in stride, giving them a bunch of nonsense about how I’m a senior and I’ve earned the privilege and blah, blah blah.
Dad seemed almost relieved I wasn’t going after all, which pained me, but I concentrated on the fact that, in the end, I got my way. He gave me a big hug before they left for their trip early Sunday morning. Told me that he loved me and that he would miss me.
It felt nice. Normal.
It’s already Tuesday, but the day is dragging. While it’s been nice having the house to myself and I get to sleep in as long as I want and take all the naps, I’m getting bored. Yesterday afternoon, I got together with Marley at Starbucks and we sat at a table outside, freezing while we sipped our holiday drinks. Mine was decaf since I’m off caffeine. I envied Marley’s Pumpkin Spice Frap with an extra shot of espresso.
Then I reminded myself I’m doing what’s right for the baby and that made me feel better.
A little, anyway.
Today, though, I’m lonely. I miss my family. I miss my friends. The day stretches on and feels almost endless. Mom called earlier to check on me, but she was distracted. They were getting ready to go to a farm that’s close to my grandparents’ house, where there was still a pumpkin patch for photo ops and live turkeys roaming free.
Hearing about it made me regret not going. Maybe I should’ve. It would’ve been a nice distraction, and I could’ve had some fun. I also could’ve focused on family instead of thinking about being alone all the time.
But I can’t change my choice. I’m stuck here all by myself until Saturday night.
I’m fixing a grilled cheese for a late lunch when I feel it. A fluttering low in my belly that’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I come to a complete stop, my hand automatically going to the spot where I felt it and I press my palm there, waiting breathlessly.
It happens again. A gentle, rolling feeling that’s so faint, I could almost convince myself it didn’t happen.
But it did. I think…
It was the baby.
My grilled cheese forgotten, I stand in front of the stove, my hand still pressed to the side of my stomach, holding my breath as I wait for it to happen again. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more until…
I smell something burning.
“Shit!”
Grabbing a spatula, I flip the sandwich to find the one side completely black and literally smoking. I turn off the burner and scoop up the entire sandwich with the spatula, walking it over to the garbage can and dumping it inside.
Once I’ve cleaned the pan and put everything away in the dishwasher, I decide to go out for lunch instead. I run a brush through my hair, throw on a hoodie and hop into the car, driving the near fifteen minutes it takes to get into the main part of town.