Read Online The Original 1982 by Lori Carson - Free Book Online

doesn’t say much. In fact, he says nothing at all about the enormous elephant in the room, his soon-to-be-born granddaughter. I can barely fit behind the table in the booth, but it’s as if he doesn’t notice. At first, my mother fills the space with small talk about distant relatives I barely know or remember. When my father interrupts her, she stops midsentence.
    â€œLise,” he says, “what’s your plan?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Dad?” I ask.
    â€œObviously, you’re not going to be able to keep doing what you’ve been doing once the baby is born,” he says.
    â€œWhy not?” I ask, dreading the answer.
    But he ignores my question. “Your mother and I think you should move back home. It’s time to get serious about your life. We’ve let this go on too long already.”
    â€œDad, I’m twenty-four years old,” I say. Though instantly I feel sixteen, defiant and doubting myself.
    The waiter interrupts to ask for our order. My voice shakes with emotion as I give him mine.
    But I have a job. I have a place to live. I have money in the bank. I know it won’t be easy to take care of a baby on my own, but other single women have managed it and so will I.
    After the waiter walks away, I tell him that.
    â€œDad, it’s going to be fine. I’ve thought it all out. I can do this.”
    He doesn’t believe me. Of course he doesn’t. I understand the deal I’m making. He looks at me as if from a long distance. If this is what I choose, then there’s nothing he can do. The consequences will be mine, and they won’t be pretty. It’s a hard life I’m making for myself. All of this is in his eyes.
    â€œLook, here’s our food,” my mother says. “Doesn’t everything look good?”
    I’m too upset to eat and stare out the window. My mother resumes chatting, as if nothing has been said. I feel bad and then worse.
    The waiter comes by and asks if anyone needs more coffee.
    â€œNo, thank you,” my mother answers for us.
    â€œI have to go,” I say. “I have to be at work by four.”
    â€œHow can you be on your feet in your condition?” she asks.
    â€œI’m hostessing. It’s not so bad.”
    I waddle around to their side of the table to kiss them good-bye.
    â€œWe can drop you off,” my mother says. “Let Dad get the car. It won’t take a minute.”
    â€œI feel like walking.” I kiss my mother’s cheek and pull away before she can kiss mine. I head out the door into the cold afternoon.
    With every block I put between them and myself, I feel better.

Twenty-four
    L ater, at the Café Miriam, I’ve got the big reservation book open in front of me. I’m greeting customers and seating a few people. It’s a pretty slow night, so mostly I’m just watching them walk by the restaurant.
    Hostessing is a breeze compared to waiting tables, though the money isn’t as good. Most people don’t think to tip me as I seat them. The ones who do are older women who take pity on me because I’m pregnant, but never give more than a dollar. If I weren’t pregnant, it would be married men doing the tipping, slipping a five into my palm, as if I were a stripper and my hand a G-string. They think it’s a subtle way to get your attention, and that their wives don’t notice. News flash, guys? Not very subtle, and your wives don’t miss a thing.
    In my current state, the married men hardly look at me. Not only because I’m pregnant. I’ve also lost the sheen of love, that happiness you radiate when you love someone and he loves you back. The wives still look me up and down to assess the wardrobe (man’s button-down shirt over a pair of black maternity stretch pants). I see them glance at my left hand to check for a ring.
    I’m still feeling disoriented after the lunch with my parents. Or maybe it’s you,