“That’s mostly true, but I’m supposed to avoid any excitement. I can’t even watch Olly’s games.” Which sucks so much. What if he has a bad game and needs someone to talk to? Or, worse, what if he gets injured again? How can I be any kind of support if I don’t have a clue what happened? I feel completely cut off from everything important.
Even when he has a great game, like he did last weekend against UT, he comes home in a fantastic mood, wanting to talk about a game I couldn’t watch. It’s just another layer of separation from him. I listen and congratulate him, but it’s not the same.
Honestly, nothing is the same right now. I’m not the same.
I look down at a body I don’t recognize. I’m bursting with emotions I’ve never felt before. I have terrible brain fog and can’t remember what I said twenty seconds ago.
Who am I? I have no idea.
My mother speaks slowly, like I need extra time to comprehend what she’s saying. Maybe right now I do. “What if we had a quiet, calm baby shower?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Mom. I feel like I’m just asking the universe for something bad to happen.”
Her eyes grow sad. “This is because of your father, isn’t it?”
Confused, I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“When your father died, you went from being a free spirit to worrying about every little thing. Some days, I had a hard time leaving the house. You were terrified something bad would happen to me.”
I stare at her. “I don’t remember that.”
“Because we moved to Heartland Hills to be near your abuela. It helped shake you from that dark place, pero a veces todavía lo veo en ti.” Sometimes she still sees it in me. She takes my hand in hers. “You need to have faith in yourself. I’ve been saying a rosary every week for you and this pregnancy. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
That’s my mother’s answer for everything. Say a rosary. And while I appreciate it, rosaries didn’t save my dad when he had pancreatic cancer.
I don’t tell her that. Just because I’m a cynic doesn’t mean I want to make her one. Prayer and the church have gotten my mom through really tough times. I respect that. Heck, I wish I could pray and make everything better, but for some reason, no matter what I do, I can’t stop fearing I’m going to ruin everything somehow.
She points to the back of the house. “I did a load of your laundry and folded Michael’s clothes.”
“Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.” I swear she has a Spidey sense because I was running out of underwear.
“Please be careful on those stairs. They’re so steep. And it’s dark down there in the laundry room.” She shivers. “It’s the only part of the house I don’t like.” She crosses herself.
I don’t tell her I’m creeped out when I go down there too.
She finally drops the issue of a baby shower. I can’t imagine seeing people when I’m like this anyway. I see these beautiful Instagram models show off their baby bumps, and the women are glowing and smiling and look so happy, but all I’ve gotten out of this so far is constipation, cankles, and projectile vomit.
When my mom hugs me goodbye, a part of me wants to beg her to stay. I’ve never had a baby before, much less two. What if something goes wrong? What if I can’t handle it? What if I mess up somehow?
What if Olly is off at a game and can’t get back in time, and I have to do this by myself?
But I keep that shit locked down where it belongs. “Thanks for coming, Mom. It means a lot to me. I don’t tell you this enough, but you know you’re the best, right? I love you.”
She squeezes me tighter. “I love you too, mija. Llámame si necesitas algo.” Call her if I need anything.
I nod. Maybe I should reach out to my mom more. I do feel better having spent a little time with her.
When she turns around to leave, she bumps into someone. “Oh, you have a friend here. How nice. I’ll see you soon, Magnolia.”
She steps around Amelia, and I groan inwardly. “Is your TV not working again?” Her flatscreen conveniently seems to go on the fritz when there’s a game.
“My TV is fine. I need a favor. Well, not a favor because I’ll pay you to do this if you have the time.” Amelia looks me over. “What’s going on with your hair?”
Dear God, please keep me from strangling this girl. I turn to go back into the house, and she follows me.
“What do you need?” I situate myself on the couch.
“You do graphics and websites, right?”
