Mum looks up. “I’ve missed so much.” Her voice is a whisper drowned out by the London traffic.
I try to ignore the guilt that slithers down my spine. She could have reached out months ago, I remind myself. She didn’t.
“Would you like to get dinner with me?” Mum asks, and I almost swallow my tongue.
I can’t remember the last time we hung out just the two of us. I don’t even think it’s ever happened.
“Uhm…” I glance at my phone and the car that’s en route.
“Unless you have to get home?”
I bite my lip. My dinner plans are currently whatever I can scrounge from the fridge and I’mstarving.
“I could eat.” I shrug, canceling the car service that Jackson set up for me.
We weave through crowds of tourists as we head away from the office and towards the less populated area. Managing the central London crowds whilst this pregnant is not ideal, but I’m happy to postpone the awkward small talk we’re about to have for as long as I can. I try to come up with some neutral conversation topics. Maybe we could talk about the weather?
We end up at a small vegetarian restaurant and we spend a few minutes looking at the menus. I decide what I want immediately, but I keep my head bent over the menu until a waiter comes to take our orders, and my crutch is taken away.
“I almost forgot,” Mum says, reaching into her bag. “I brought these for you.”
She slides a packet across the table towards me.
“Salted almonds,” she says as I warily pick it up. “I used to eat them all the time when I was pregnant with you.”
I clutch the packet. “Thanks,” I say quietly, pulling the packet off the table.
We descend into silence again as I play with the packet on my lap, my fingers tracing the sharp edge of the plastic, teasing my skin with the threat of a cut.
“So,” Mum begins again, “how have your doctor’s appointments been? Have you been going to them?”
“Yes, I’ve been going to my appointments,” I mumble, teenage angst rushing to the surface. I swallow it down, and relay her with all I can; measurements, scans, what foods I am or am not eating.
Our food arrives, and we lapse into silence.
“Can you let Dad know we love the crib?” I ask around a bite of mushroom pasta. “It’s perfect in the nursery.”
“What crib?” Her wrists fall to the table with a clatter of bracelets, as if she’s lost the energy to hold them aloft.
She has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Oh.” I gulp some water. “Dad brought us a crib just before Christmas, so Jackson brought it to our new place. It’s all set up, and we designed the rest of the room around it. It’s…it’s nice.” I trail off awkwardly.
We lapse into silence again, the only sounds the scraping of cutlery on the plates and the hum of our neighbors’ conversation.
“And Jackson,” Mum asks finally. “How is he?”
I’m grateful for a subject to jump on to, so I tell her all I can about Jackson. His job, his wonderful family, the way he’s been there for every step of this pregnancy and how I couldn’t have done it without him. She jumps in with questions, even laughs occasionally, and it’s pleasant. It’s also thelongest we’ve spoken without animosity, or addressing the elephant in the room.
“This was nice,” I say to her as we step outside the restaurant a few hours later. I’m still not ready to suggest we do it again, but it wasn’t the worst.
“I’d like to throw you a baby shower,” she says quickly, as if she’s been thinking about it for a while.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I was almost ready to give up on the thought of a shower. Pip wanted to throw me one, but I think a part of me wanted my mother to at least be there, so it was easier to just put it off.
“If you’d like that.”
I bite my lip. “Uh… sure, that would be really nice. Nothing too crazy or anything, though.”
