Page 70 of Knocked Up
Regardless of how my dinner goes with my parents, everything will be fine.
It’s this assurance that has me opening the door of the SUV and thanking my driver. I don’t need my parents’ permission or their blessing. As much as I’d love for us to have a good relationship, one based on love and compassion and support, I’m twenty-four years old and I’ve finally realized if they can’t give that to me, then I don’t need it or their negativity in my life.
Stepping out of the SUV, I brush down the sides of the long, flowing dress I chose. It’s bright blue, covered with large tropical flowers. It’s one of the maternity dresses I bought when Braxton and I went shopping: it has thick shoulder straps that come down, showing off my lovely new cleavage from my rapidly swelling breasts. There’s a thick band just below them and then the material poufs out of my belly. It makes me look larger than I actually am. I chose to wear it tonight for that reason. I will not hide anything from them. Now that my morning sickness is less of an all-day dramatic affair and a lingering sensation I can manage with small meals and frequent snacks, I’m actually beginning to like the changes pregnancy is making to my body.
My breasts are larger than ever and the small swell of my stomach makes me smile when I stand in front of a mirror after my shower.
I’m growing a tiny little human inside of me, and perhaps it’s as this reality becomes more clear, I realize that this life inside of me is depending onmeto teach him or her how to grow up, to be a decent and kind and loving person. Whether it’s a girl or a boy doesn’t matter to me. Squirt belongs to Braxton and me and no one else’s opinion matters.
Great. Even I’m using the ridiculous nickname.
Smiling, I head up the walk to my parents’ home and open the door, not bothering to ring the bell or knock. As soon as I enter, I’m assaulted by the aroma of dinner. Garlic and bread and a host of other scents that actually make my stomach rumble. I also have no doubt my mom didn’t prepare a single item of the dinner. She’s most likely had it either catered in, or had someone prepare it here, but it doesn’t matter. For all her faults, she’s the master at choosing dinners.
What makes me pause as I remove my jacket and set down my purse, however, isn’t the lack of greeting at the door, or the delicious food sure to be coming my way, it’s the laughter coming from the back room and quiet hum of music, the muffled murmur of voices that tells me it’s not solely dinner with my parents.
Great. I get to be talked down to in front of guests, which means their barbs will be more passive-aggressive than usual.
“Hello?” I call out, giving a quick peek into the library and then a formal sitting room as I head down the hall, past the main staircase. My heels click politely on the original wood floors, polished to a sparkling shine. “Mom? Dad?”
There’s no response, so I continue until I’ve reached the kitchen and turn the corner. I take in the sight in front of me, barely holding back a laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene.
Ofcoursethis is why they didn’t want Braxton to come.
The Shermans are here. Miles and my father are dressed in suits and perfectly smoothed ties as if they haven’t been wearing them all day at the office. My mom and Darla Sherman—best frenemies who are only polite to each other because they have to be—are both dressed in black gowns, as if this is a formal affair, or they’re headed to some sort of gala after this. Perhaps a funeral.
Possibly my mother’s, because I’m definitely feeling some murderous tendencies as I take in who else is here.
Graham. My age. Handsome. A complete goofball who’s recently finished law school.
He’s at the fireplace, elbow up on the mantel, glaring at what I know is a whiskey sour because it’s the only thing he’s drunk since we turned twenty-one. Currently, he’s staring at it like it’s much too sour and he wants to crush the offensive glass in his fist.
From my spot at the corner, still unnoticed, I can smell the stench of a setup that isnevergoing to happen. Graham, while a decent friend of mine, is his father’s puppet and will do everything his family says, but Jimmy and I are two of the few people who’ve known since we were all sixteen that Graham is gay.
I’d bust a gut laughing if this wasn’t so pathetic. All my anger and nerves dissipate, and suddenly, I’m very much looking forward to the evening ahead.
Let the games begin.
“Hello,” I state again, since my earlier greeting went unheard, and step into the room.
My mother is the first to turn, quickly followed by Darla. Both of the women’s eyes do a quick dip to my protruding abdomen. Where my mother flinches away, Darla’s light blue eyes lighten with excitement.
I rest my hand on my stomach and walk toward the parents who are fanning out in a semicircle, while Graham hangs back. My arrival is apparently something to be celebrated.
Perhaps to them, it is, especially if they think I don’t see exactly what’s going on here.
“Good evening, Cara,” my father says, leaning in and giving me a peck on the cheek. His cologne is the same he’s worn since I was born, and I remember at one time, as a young girl, I’d crawl into his lap just to smell him. Occasionally, I would sneak his ties into bed with me, using them like a blanket and running the silk through my fingers and pressing it to my nose to fall asleep.
Odd, how he used to be my hero and now I know he’s all plastic and perception.
“Father,” I greet politely and step back, shaking hands with Miles Sherman and saying hello.
Darla greets me next, hands at my shoulders, and air-kisses both of my cheeks. I actually like Darla. She’s the nicest of my parents’ friends, rather normal. Probably why my mother despises her. “Hi, Mrs. Sherman. How are you?”
“I’m well.” She grins down at my stomach. I doubt she’s happy to see me, but more thrilled at the prospect of my unborn child being her grandbaby. “How are you? How are you feeling?”
I smile up at her, happily. “I’ve never been better.”
With little pretense, I glare at my mother, not bothering to touch her. If I’m correct, this is all her doing in the first place. “Mother.”
