doesnât 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 itâs as if he doesnât 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.
âLise,â he says, âwhatâs your plan?â
âWhat do you mean, Dad?â I ask.
âObviously, youâre not going to be able to keep doing what youâve been doing once the baby is born,â he says.
âWhy not?â I ask, dreading the answer.
But he ignores my question. âYour mother and I think you should move back home. Itâs time to get serious about your life. Weâve let this go on too long already.â
âDad, Iâm twenty-four years old,â 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 wonât 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.
âDad, itâs going to be fine. Iâve thought it all out. I can do this.â
He doesnât believe me. Of course he doesnât. I understand the deal Iâm making. He looks at me as if from a long distance. If this is what I choose, then thereâs nothing he can do. The consequences will be mine, and they wonât be pretty. Itâs a hard life Iâm making for myself. All of this is in his eyes.
âLook, hereâs our food,â my mother says. âDoesnât everything look good?â
Iâm 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.
âNo, thank you,â my mother answers for us.
âI have to go,â I say. âI have to be at work by four.â
âHow can you be on your feet in your condition?â she asks.
âIâm hostessing. Itâs not so bad.â
I waddle around to their side of the table to kiss them good-bye.
âWe can drop you off,â my mother says. âLet Dad get the car. It wonât take a minute.â
âI feel like walking.â I kiss my motherâs 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, Iâve got the big reservation book open in front of me. Iâm greeting customers and seating a few people. Itâs a pretty slow night, so mostly Iâm just watching them walk by the restaurant.
Hostessing is a breeze compared to waiting tables, though the money isnât as good. Most people donât think to tip me as I seat them. The ones who do are older women who take pity on me because Iâm pregnant, but never give more than a dollar. If I werenât 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 itâs a subtle way to get your attention, and that their wives donât notice. News flash, guys? Not very subtle, and your wives donât miss a thing.
In my current state, the married men hardly look at me. Not only because Iâm pregnant. Iâve 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 (manâs button-down shirt over a pair of black maternity stretch pants). I see them glance at my left hand to check for a ring.
Iâm still feeling disoriented after the lunch with my parents. Or maybe itâs you,
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