“It’s only a nonalcoholic drink, not a poison chalice,” I remind Marisol.
“Pretty much kissing cousins in my book.” Marisol cheers with a smirk and takes a sip.
“If we can’t talk about the baby SIT-U-A-TION,” Marisol says, circling my stomach with her index finger. “Can we talk about the grown baby you already have?”
“Absolutely.” Since Xandra’s no longer at home to talk to, I relish any opportunity to talk about my girl. Even though she’s in her second year at Pemberley, the house still seems unnaturally quiet. When my dad stays with me, we enjoy each other’s company, but no doubt I miss Xandra every day.
“So, what does your big baby think of this maybe baby?”
“Do you need to check in on your boys?” I ask, pointing at Marisol’s phone and trying to distract her from the topic of my offspring.
“Nope, Spanny’s got ’em. Driving to some soccer field who knows where.” Marisol waves away my concern over her boys when Super Nanny’s in charge. “God did not intend for me to spend every afternoon cheering from the sidelines. I only show up for the games. Back to you, sis.”
I marvel at Marisol’s ability to ignore the pull of her children when she’s not at work. Call it Graham or call it guilt, but if I was not at work, I was racing home to Xandra. It never crossed my mind to carve out me time, and Graham would have never paid another woman, regardless of how wonderful they were, to help raise his child when, in his mind, he had me for free.
“What happened to my no ‘situation’ talk request?”
“You said I could ask about Xandra,” Marisol says with mock innocence. I see there’s no way out of this conversation. Her Bar Mitzvah chatter was only meant to throw me off scent so Marisol could tee me up for this topic.
“Over the weekend, Xandra and I attempted to have a mature conversation about Leo, but most of the maturity was left to me. I told her that Leo and I have been in touch since he left for Singapore.”
“How’d she take it?”
“With a side of silence. So, then I moved on to the topic we both have been avoiding.”
“The baby?”
“NO! I told Xandra that I knew she saw me and Leo smooching in the driveway before she left for school. I apologized that she had to see that without first being properly introduced to Leo. I explained it was never supposed to happen that way and we should talk about it.”
“How’d that go?”
“Xandra’s contribution to this important mother-daughter exchange was, ‘Yeah, okay. It’s whatever, Mom. I gotta go. Dash is waiting on me.’ Then click,” I recount to Marisol. “Given the chilly reception I got and with a country between us, it was not the moment to call back and say, ‘One, last thing, your old mom had sex and the result is that right about the time of your sweet sixteen, you’re going to be a big sister!’”
“Yeah, keeping Xandra on hold about the maybe baby is probably a good idea. So then, four out of five of us know you’re knocked up.”
“I’m not quite following your math,” I admit.
“So far you, Leo, Fitzroy, and me know you’re hiding a baby in there,” Marisol says, pointing to my waistband. “Xandra’s a TBD.”
“Ah, got it. Right.”
“Real talk, then. Since most of the important people in your life know, I’m done tap dancing around this topic. Leo’s over the moon about having a baby. You know that, ring on the finger or not, Fitzroy will love this baby like crazy. A new grandchild may even get him to move here full-time like you’ve been hinting at the past few years. And Xandra, well, she’s our wild card, but we will take on the teenage beast when the time is right.” I close my eyes; I know what Marisol is going to say. “What’s holding you back from having this coffee bean you got brewing? Which, by the way, since its Leo’s ain’t gonna be dark roast. People may think it’s my baby.” Marisol laughs quickly at her ill-timed joke. I give her a courtesy hoot.
“You promise not to judge me for anything I admit to you in the next few minutes?” If I can’t tell my best friend my truth, I’m screwed, because I’m about to lose it from the thoughts consuming my every waking moment.
“Girl, I’m behind you one hundred percent. Whether you choose to have this baby, which I know is a hard choice, or you decide to terminate this pregnancy, I’m not going anywhere.” Marisol takes both my hands in hers. To the women attempting to spruce up our feet she asks, “Will you ladies excuse us for a moment? We’re going to need an extralong foot soak.” The nail technicians discreetly walk away, leaving our feet to bubble in the soapy blue water. What I’m about to say is meant for their boss’s ears only.
I blow out an enormous breath before I start in on what’s been holed up inside. “My entire life I’ve done exactly what Fitzroy and Celia expected of me, I couldn’t shoulder the barrage of sacrifice stories that would rain down on me if I didn’t. I worked myself to the bone in school. I sang in the church, and I sang in the school choir. Did you know that the longest I have ever been unemployed in my adult life is fifty-six hours? I even married the Black prince of Bermuda because my mom said she could hear my biological clock ticking from the outside. You know she didn’t come to America to not have grandchildren. I went right from working hard to please my parents to busting ass to please my husband.”
“Don’t go blaming your poor choice in husbands on Celia. She didn’t hold a gun to your head and make you walk down that aisle,” Marisol says, jumping in to defend my mother.
“I know that, I think. But I have a lifetime of my parents’ sacrifices riding on me, and every decision I have ever made starts with, Will Celia and Fitzroy be proud, or will they have to skip church? And don’t tell me you’ve never felt it from my parents, growing up they made you show them your grades too.”
“Remember that rickety piano your mom made us practice scales on for fifteen minutes every day before we were allowed to play actual songs?” Marisol reminds me. “Even then she only let us play gospel hymns. Why couldn’t your parents be Rastas?”
“Yeah, my dad rescued that piano from the free pile on the street corner before it became someone’s kindling. He sanded it up and stained it to make it Celia approved and living room ready. After you, me, and Clive, it was the pride of the house.”
“That’s what your folks did for me that my grandparents couldn’t, and I will always be grateful. They shined me up and made me life ready.” I can complain about anything to Marisol except for my parents. She will always defend them because her childhood depended on them. “And remember our piano teacher, Mrs. Richards? Her apartment smelled like a litter box. She’d teach stroking one of her precious pets. We learned to move our hands along the keys quickly, or she’d send one of those furballs home with us. To this day I still hate cats.”
“Yeah, Mom fought hard for concert pianists.” I laugh at the memory of Mom swatting at me to sit my butt down and practice Beethoven when all I wanted to do was sing En Vogue. Celia always won. “My parents’ pride in our little immigrant family was my number one priority. I never considered myself. I always considered us.”