Curse the sickness that keeps me from shrimp!
I wonder if my classroom can be mandated as a masked-only zone to prevent the spread of sickness. Or maybe I can spray themwith Germ-X when they cross the doorframe, like a carwash but for hygiene.
Dad asks me something about my students. Mom asks Ami if she saw the contraband recording ofThe Addams Familyshe made. Ami says she loved it.
In feigned innocence, Mom poses questions about Ami and whether or not she’s dating. She isn’t. Cathy Torres turns to me. I confirm that I, too, am single. Ami and I love our mother unconditionally, but we do our best to sidestep this line of questioning.
Mom gulps down wine, swallowing her disappointment that her girls aren’t dating anyone seriously. She grew up in the Philippines, so she can’t quite wrap her mind around not wanting to get married and have babies. At the same time, she raised women who are fiercely independent and strong-willed. Discussions about our single status inevitably unleash our mom’s central existential conundrum: how can I love my girls exactly as they are and yet want them to have more? And by “more” she means grandkids forher.
“Tristan visited me at the laundromat this week,” Dad says cheerfully, thinking it will shift the discussion away from singlehood. His wife is about to launch hints about her friends’ growing brood of grandkids. The flavor of passive-aggressive matchmaking is bound to turn the dinner sour, which is why he changes the topic.
Little does he know, this conversation will not improve my digestion.
Ami pauses mid-chew, narrows her eyes. “Tristan? As in Hockey Tristan?”
I pull at a BBQ chicken, disentangling it from the skewer with more force than necessary. “That’s the one.”
“You didn’t mention he was back.”
I shrug. Chew slowly. Drink water. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
She looks at me suspiciously but doesn’t press. Thank god.
After dinner, Ami and I are on dishwashing duty. The house is quiet except for the clink of plates and the Netflix show Dad puts on while he naps.
She nudges my shoulder. “Hey. You sure you’re OK?”
“Exhausted from a long week.”
She rinses a plate, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
“You look more than physically drained. More likeinsidetired.”
“Thank you, Dr. Diagnosis.”
“I’m serious. Do you have a fever?”
She wipes her wet hand and places it on my forehead. Her palm smells faintly like dish soap and garlic. And that tiny, familiar gesture—the same one she used when I was sick and had to miss school—sends a mix of nostalgia and nausea through me. The lingering taste of shrimp clogs my throat. I turn away to quell a gag.
“Are you going to throw up?”
“No,” I snap.
Shit, I think I’m going to throw up.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were pregnant.” My sister chuckles at her stupid joke.
Except . . .
My heart lurches. My stomach churns. My brain scrambles. I do The. Math.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Ami turns to me so quickly, she gets some dishwater on my shirt.
“What do you mean byoh no?”
The night with Tristan was nearly six weeks ago, right around my mid-cycle window. Which means I haven’t had my period in two freaking months.
