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MORNING, WE STOPPED AT A W HOLE F OODS – STYLE DELI to pack our lunch and snacks for the trip. As I decided between a red or green apple, Stella announced she had to have a Swiss cheese omelet right then or she would go out of her mind, so we left the deli and headed across the street to a diner. The smiling waitress who came over with a pencil behind her ear and a pad in her apron was both pregnant and not wearing a ring on any of her fingers. As she poured our coffee, Stella asked if she could interview her for a book she was writing.
“I’m on break in five, so I could come sit with you if you want,” the woman said. “I’m craving an omelet myself. Western. No, Greek. With a side of chocolate pudding.”
Stella looked like she might throw up. She’d always hated chocolate pudding, mostly because of an episode in elementary school with a rival who’d dumped an entire saltshaker into Stella’s little chocolate pudding container.
The waitress, whose name tag announced her name as Jen R., to differentiate her from fellow waitress Jen B., who also hated being called Jennifer or Jenny, served our breakfasts and her own, the Greek omelet, with the side of chocolate pudding right on the plate, next to the home fries.
“So let’s start with the basics,” Stella said, forking a piece of cheesy omelet into her mouth. “Why don’t you just tell me a little about your life, getting as personal or as not as you feel comfortable.”
Jen gobbled up half her omelet with one finger up in the air at Stella before she said a word. “I was starving. Been on shift since six, when we opened. Okay, so let’s see. My name is Jen Reilly and I’m pregnant with my third child. I have a boy and a girl, seven-year-old John Junior and five-year-old Samantha.” She patted her belly. “This here will be either Michael or Moriah. Isn’t Moriah pretty? And I love the name Michael. You never hear of a baby being named Michael anymore. But how many Conners and Ethans does the world need?”
There were at least five Michaels in every class I ever took growing up. Every now and then a Tom. Lots of Nicks. Stella and I were always the only Ruby and Stella, but both names had gotten popular with the infant crowd.
Stella seemed disappointed that Jen was married and not a single-mother-to-be from whom she might glean some wisdom or advice. “I’m pregnant, too,” Stella whispered. “You’re the second person I’ve told aside from my sister,” she added.
“You two are sisters?” Jen said, glancing between us. “You look nothing alike! Hey, so what are you planning to name the baby,” she asked Stella. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl? I guess not yet. You’re not even showing.”
Names. I’d been so focused on the identity of the father that I almost forgot about the identity of the baby. I hadn’t even asked Stella what names she was considering.
Stella slathered half a toasted bagel with butter. “I did have one ultrasound. The doctor said he couldn’t tell yet. But if it’s a girl, I’m going to name her after our mother,” she added, eyeing me. “And if it’s a boy, Silas, after someone I once knew.”
“There are three Silases in John Junior’s kindergarten class!” Jen said. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Clarissa,” I answered, sending a smile to Stella. I loved that name. The world definitely needed more Clarissas.
Stella had offered Jen a free face reading, but Jen said she didn’t go for that type of thing, that it was against her religion. As a congratulations, she packed the two of us a lunch on the house, adding a baggie full of pickle spears for Stella.
“Are you really going to write a book?” I asked her as we headed to the car.
She shrugged and bit into a pickle. “Maybe. The research is what’s important, though. Asking the questions, getting answers.”
“Answers about what? How other people live their lives? That won’t help you, Stella.
“I’m on break in five, so I could come sit with you if you want,” the woman said. “I’m craving an omelet myself. Western. No, Greek. With a side of chocolate pudding.”
Stella looked like she might throw up. She’d always hated chocolate pudding, mostly because of an episode in elementary school with a rival who’d dumped an entire saltshaker into Stella’s little chocolate pudding container.
The waitress, whose name tag announced her name as Jen R., to differentiate her from fellow waitress Jen B., who also hated being called Jennifer or Jenny, served our breakfasts and her own, the Greek omelet, with the side of chocolate pudding right on the plate, next to the home fries.
“So let’s start with the basics,” Stella said, forking a piece of cheesy omelet into her mouth. “Why don’t you just tell me a little about your life, getting as personal or as not as you feel comfortable.”
Jen gobbled up half her omelet with one finger up in the air at Stella before she said a word. “I was starving. Been on shift since six, when we opened. Okay, so let’s see. My name is Jen Reilly and I’m pregnant with my third child. I have a boy and a girl, seven-year-old John Junior and five-year-old Samantha.” She patted her belly. “This here will be either Michael or Moriah. Isn’t Moriah pretty? And I love the name Michael. You never hear of a baby being named Michael anymore. But how many Conners and Ethans does the world need?”
There were at least five Michaels in every class I ever took growing up. Every now and then a Tom. Lots of Nicks. Stella and I were always the only Ruby and Stella, but both names had gotten popular with the infant crowd.
Stella seemed disappointed that Jen was married and not a single-mother-to-be from whom she might glean some wisdom or advice. “I’m pregnant, too,” Stella whispered. “You’re the second person I’ve told aside from my sister,” she added.
“You two are sisters?” Jen said, glancing between us. “You look nothing alike! Hey, so what are you planning to name the baby,” she asked Stella. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl? I guess not yet. You’re not even showing.”
Names. I’d been so focused on the identity of the father that I almost forgot about the identity of the baby. I hadn’t even asked Stella what names she was considering.
Stella slathered half a toasted bagel with butter. “I did have one ultrasound. The doctor said he couldn’t tell yet. But if it’s a girl, I’m going to name her after our mother,” she added, eyeing me. “And if it’s a boy, Silas, after someone I once knew.”
“There are three Silases in John Junior’s kindergarten class!” Jen said. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Clarissa,” I answered, sending a smile to Stella. I loved that name. The world definitely needed more Clarissas.
Stella had offered Jen a free face reading, but Jen said she didn’t go for that type of thing, that it was against her religion. As a congratulations, she packed the two of us a lunch on the house, adding a baggie full of pickle spears for Stella.
“Are you really going to write a book?” I asked her as we headed to the car.
She shrugged and bit into a pickle. “Maybe. The research is what’s important, though. Asking the questions, getting answers.”
“Answers about what? How other people live their lives? That won’t help you, Stella.
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