Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I chuckle as I stand, tossing down the wad of toilet paper I’ve been using to dry my tears all morning.
“I’m capable of buying my baby the stuff it needs.”
“And I’m Auntie Beth, and will buy shit, too.”
I freeze as she bends over to drop the things in her arms onto the dining room table.
She knows, and she’s not mad about it? How is that even possible?
“Where’s Brooks?”
I frown. “What?”
“It’s Saturday. He doesn’t usually work on Saturday, does he?”
Before I can open my mouth to ask why she’s asking about Brooks, I realize she’s referring to herself as Auntie Beth because we’re best friends, not in the sense that’s she’s biologically the baby’s aunt, which she is. I feel another pang of guilt for not giving that to her.
“On second thought, stay inside. If you go out looking like that, your neighbors will probably put their houses up for sale. I’ll get the rest of the stuff out of the car.” She walks past me, patting my flat stomach. “There goes the neighborhood!”
She walks outside, and I know what she sees. It’s why I’ve avoided the damn bathroom mirror so much recently.
“Where are we going to store all of this stuff?” Beth asks as she reenters the house with another armload of stuff.
“In the spare bedroom?” I ask, before really thinking.
“Yeah?” She gives a grin, probably thinking I’ve made emotional progress, but she’s wrong.
“Maybe just leave it all on the table for now,” I suggest, picking up a stuffed tiny gray elephant.
“Oh, sweetie. Really?”
“I don’t—” I turn away from her to grab more tissue from the roll.
“I can help you.”
I nod with my back to her as I blow my nose, wincing at the pain and tenderness.
My spare bedroom is filled with my mother’s things. I boxed it all up shortly after she died because her house had to be cleared out. She wasn’t the most organized woman, something I knew all my life but didn’t feel the real brunt of until I was informed she had no form of life insurance. I was a senior in college, working part-time to cover dorm fees, books, and tuition. I didn’t have the means to take up payments on her house, so I had to let it go. Her things went into boxes, straight into storage. When I purchased the house I’m in, they went into the spare bedroom, and that door never gets opened. I just can’t deal with it.
I’d told myself when I got pregnant, the joy of that would be so strong it would give me the strength to finally go through her things. But even thinking of it makes my stomach turn. Going through them implies sorting and discarding. I already lost my mother. I can’t start throwing out little pieces of her life. I had to let most of the furniture go because it didn’t fit in my house, and I just couldn’t stomach the daily reminder of losing her by sitting on her sofa or sleeping in her bed.
“Jesus, Jules. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I never would’ve mentioned it had I known it would get this reaction out of you.”
I realize I’m sobbing once again when her hands circle around me.
“What can I do to make it better? Ice cream? Banana Laffy Taffy? Are you using toilet paper instead of Kleenex?”
I cry a little harder because although my best friend has seen me at some pretty low parts in my life, this may possibly be the lowest.
“If this is what pregnancy looks like, I think I’ll just adopt,” she says, sliding past me and piling up all my snot and tears rags.
“Leave it,” I tell her, more than a little uncomfortable with just how comfortable she seems to be touching my snotty tissue. “I’ll take care of it.”
“When?” she asks, her eyes looking up at me as she carries a wad of used tissue to the kitchen trash. “Next week? Damn, it stinks in here. Are you wallowing? Why are you wallowing?”
“Hormones,” I say, trying to stick to the story I’ve been practicing in my head.
She shudders like just the word makes chills run up her back. “I think I’ll stay on birth control. Have you been miserable all this time?”
“I think I’m ready to go through my mom’s things,” I say, knowing just how scared I am of the question she asked if it means taking care of something that will break my heart.
Going through my mom’s stuff has been on my to-do list for more than ten years, but if it means not talking about my emotional state and what’s bothering me, then so be it.
“Next Saturday,” she says. “I’ll bring snacks, normal fucking Kleenex, and we’ll make a day of it.”
“Okay,” I quickly agree. “Do you wanna watch a couple episodes of Gilmore Girls with me?”