“Oh? Great!” he said, and he slurped down another oyster and reached for the final one. She pressed her lips together.
“Honey? I want to have your full attention.”
“Okay. Sure.” Brad put the oyster down. “All done. What’s exciting?”
She smiled. “Well, honey, this wasn’t planned, but I’m—”
Bradley, for some unknown reason, couldn’t resist that last oyster. He lifted it to his mouth, slurped, swallowed, swallowed again, his throat working.
Then Melissa was vomiting. All over the table, all that food, barely chewed, gobs of veal and bits of carrot, and the cream from the chowder . . . another racking convulsion and a stream of garlic-flavored vomit from the Caesar salad.
“Jesus!” Brad yelled, leaping up and away from the table. “Honey! What the hell!” He held his fist to his own mouth and gagged.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” someone was saying. “Do you need an ambulance?” People were grimacing, moving their chairs farther away, holding napkins to faces to ward off the smell. She gagged again.
“Babe!” Bradley barked from ten feet away, fist still at his mouth. “Is it food poisoning? What’s the matter with you? A little warning next time?”
“I’m pregnant, you idiot!” she yelled. “You and your stupid oysters made me barf!”
Suddenly, she was sobbing. Oh, God! She had veal puke on her beautiful dress! And clam chowder? Why? Why had she ordered that?
Brad’s face was a mask of horror. He approached （finally!） and said, “Oh, man, this mess . . .”
Then he caught a whiff of her vomit, and he threw up, too, splattering his shoes and pants. Melissa puked yet again, right into her lap, warm, garlicky spoiled cream instantly soaking through her dress to her skin.
There were people all around her, whisking away the tablecloth and glasses, offering her napkins, asking if she needed an ambulance.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” she shrieked. “Just give me some air.” They were more than happy to do so. She couldn’t blame them.
Brad looked at her, wary. “Honey? What did you say? Before?”
“I’m pregnant,” she snapped. “Are you happy?”
“Oh, hooray!” said an older couple seated across from them, and they started clapping. For crying out loud! She was covered in vomit! This was not how it was supposed to be.
“This is . . . um . . . wow. Unexpected. But, but . . . you know. Great,” Bradley said, dry heaving. “I’m so . . . happy.” He threw up an oyster, and good golly, she’d never eat them again.
* * *
Tanner the waiter had apparently filmed the whole thing, but on his phone, not hers. Then he posted it, which, according to Google’s definition of copyright, he was allowed to do.
It went viral, all right. Seven million views in twelve hours. At least he didn’t tag her, but it was already being shared by a few Lillie-loyal Wellfleeters, and apparently one or two of them had become Facebook friends with one or two of the New York housewives, and it was everywhere. Tanner had entitled it You and Your Stupid Oysters. The next morning, Jimmy Kimmel’s people saw it, shared it, and by the afternoon of Day Two, it had been watched twenty-one million times and shared tens of thousands of times.
Melissa didn’t know if she’d ever recover. She hadn’t left the bedroom since she’d gotten home last night, nor spoken to Bradley, the cause of this mess. He’d left for work already, and she hoped he’d stay late. Or never come home.
Sitting in bed, tears leaking out of her eyes, Melissa watched it again.
So humiliating.
A knock came on the door. “Melissa?” It was Ophelia, backpack on, ready for school, her hair still snarled.
“Come in,” she said, sitting up in bed.
“I saw the video,” she said.
“Oh.” Humiliation washed over her again. “Well, shoot. I wanted to tell you myself.”
Ophelia bit her lip. “It’s pretty funny. Sorry, but I mean, it’s hilarious, Melissa.”
“Not to me.”
“So . . . how far along are you?”
“About thirteen weeks.” Even Bradley didn’t know that, because she’d been too mad at him to talk last night.
“So . . . springtime?”
“Yeah. April.”
“How are you feeling?” Ophelia asked, fiddling with her backpack straps.
“Not great.”
“I guess that’s normal, right? I mean, everyone feels like garbage when they’re pregnant, right?”