“My period has been all over the map the past few years. I swear last week I had a full-on hot flash sitting around scrolling Instagram,” I explain, attempting to prove to Marisol and myself that I have a better chance of being perimenopausal than pregnant.
“Yeah, that was Friday, and you were wearing a wool-cashmere blend turtleneck and it was sunny and eighty outside. You were pushing sweater weather before the rest of us were ready, including Mother Nature.” Marisol remembers dates and events by what outfits we wore. It’s actually very effective for memory recall.
“Who would even want to do this in their midforties, Marisol? Hell, it sure never crossed my mind. When it comes to having kids, I was always one and done.”
“Yeah, I tried to give you one of my kids years ago, and you wouldn’t even consider it.”
“There’s no way I’m doing this again.” Saying it out loud, even to Marisol in this stripped-down bathroom, feels like sacrilege. I have the money, I have the house, I could give a kid the best education in the world . . . but I don’t want to. Besides, I can’t even get my supposed boyfriend to call me back.
Marisol wraps her arms around me, holding me close like she fears someone will rip us apart. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Nina, you absolutely don’t. I’ll admit, it’s not the perfect beginning to the second half of your life, but it’s up to you. Your life can be whatever you want it to be.” Damn straight, I think to myself. I’ve put in the work for everyone else, it’s my turn.
“But, if you decide you do want to have this baby, between the two of us, we have three kids, I know we can figure out what to do with one more.” I can feel the calming hum of Marisol’s voice through my back, her cheek pressed hard against me, but for the first time in my life it doesn’t help.
Xandra 6:18 PM
I saw you called. Give me fifteen to finish up my chapter.
The house is semidark. I’ve been home for thirty minutes with the lights off, not ready to look at myself in any of the decorative mirrors down the hallway. I close my eyes, tilt my head up, and thank the lucky stars Dad’s at a dominoes tournament with a few fellow retirees he met at the Pasadena YMCA. Fitzroy Morgan loves to chat while logging miles on the treadmill.
Lying corpse still on my bed, I wonder in what order I should tell my people about this pregnancy. I suppose it should be Xandra first, since I’m talking to her in a few. Or maybe Dad who, if I don’t tell him first, will be able to read it all over my face in the morning. It might be best to keep it on lockdown until Leo and I talk. Leo needs to come to his own quick conclusion to what I already know: having a baby at our age and unmarried—not to mention hardly even knowing each other—is a terrible idea. Or I don’t have to tell anyone at all, I can just take care of this business at a clinic right away.
Ring.
Ring.
Cursing myself for getting into this mess at my age, I set aside my thoughts and settle into a better frame of mind to talk to the baby girl I already have.
“Hi, Mama. I know you swear grandma’s rum cake is by far the best dessert in the world, but Dash just got these toffee-almond cluster things in the mail from her mom, and they are off the hook! Definitely gives the cake some competition,” Xandra says in between chews.
I want to reply, Don’t be disrespecting the memory of your grandmother’s baking. You know Dash’s store-bought cookies couldn’t touch her skills. But I don’t. I know better than to dump my personal disappointment on my daughter.
“So good to hear your voice, sweetie. Tell Dash, hey,” I offer, keeping it light. Besides, it was firmly established during Xandra’s freshman year that I am a subpar care package constructor. I can’t help it, the educator in me takes over in a Target, and I end up sending printer paper, pens, and three-ring binders.
There’s not yet been the right time to bring up Graham’s conspiracy theory with Xandra, but every time she mentions Dash, I listen a little bit harder for hints of what may be going on. Peer pressure from Dash? Or just flat-out teenage-level poor decision-making on Xandra’s part? And who am I to be calling out anyone’s decision-making right now? I certainly can’t put Dash in the “she’s a bad influence” category for sharing goodies at nine at night. “How was the first drama meeting today?”
“I’m so frustrated, Mom. You know I’ve been thinking about trying out for a theater show for a while. Dash and I both decided to go for it. And you know what?” I bristle at her acerbic tone but wait to hear more. “The teacher’s a total asshole!”
I refrain from telling Xandra to clean up her language. For her to throw around curse words twice in one day means there’s a bigger issue at play than her vocabulary. I’ve listened partway through a half dozen podcasts from New York Times bestselling shrinks on the right language to use to keep communication open with your teen. Time to put my listening skills to the test and see if the professional advice works. “Really? Tell me more.”
“The audition was long and kind of boring. Dash and I were just trying to entertain ourselves while all the upperclassmen were on stage doing nothing, and in the middle of it, the drama instructor turned and yelled at Dash and me to stop monkeying around in our seats. Can you believe that?!” Xandra shouts, worked up by the time she finishes her story.
“Can I believe what?” My mind’s preoccupied with this afternoon’s revelation, so I’m afraid I may have missed an important detail.
“That the teacher called us monkeys!” Xandra’s voice teeters on total indignation. Okay, I don’t like it either, but I think Xandra’s missing the subtle misuse of metaphor for the bigger issue at hand, the fact the girls were playing around when they were supposed to be quiet and paying attention. I continue to tread lightly here; I can tell Xandra’s feeling unfairly called out.
“It doesn’t sound to me like the teacher called you a monkey, it sounds like he didn’t like your joking around behavior and being disruptive. I agree with you, using monkeying around was probably not the best choice.” I try to muster up the appropriate level of sympathy, but teenage girls are dramatic. I remember, I was one. “From what I’m hearing, I’m not sure I’d classify the teacher as a grade A, giant D, but I’m listening.”
“Fine. Then how about a racist? That’s what I really think. I was just being nice calling him a dick.” Xandra’s voice is hard. And a little angry. Without seeing her in person, I can’t tell if her facial expressions and body language match up, but this is not the Xandra I’m familiar with.
“How ’bout we FaceTime to talk about this? That’s a pretty big allegation to toss out there on a Tuesday night.” I had been planning to bring up the Leo kiss she witnessed, but this is most definitely not the time. The butterflies already rumbling in my stomach now feel like they’re breaking furniture as I realize there’s more truth to Graham’s phone call about Xandra a few weeks back than I was willing to believe. I definitely hate it when Graham is maybe right.
“Nah, gotta go. Dash and I have a few videos on YouTube that her cousin recommended. We want to check them out before bed.” It seems Xandra has moved on to the next to-do item on her night’s agenda, and I’m left holding her boarding school baggage.