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“Just a little girly humor.”
“Where’s your vegetable peeler?”
“In the drawer next to the sink.”
“It’s a good thing I’m here. Your cupboards are empty. What were you planning on eating?”
“I wasn’t.”
“We haven’t seen each other since your trip to Italy. How was it?”
“Oh, it was wonderful; thanks, Mom. What a beautiful place. And Gina was such a beautiful bride.”
“Yes, I saw her photos on Facebook. What a gorgeous dress. She looked like a princess.”
I can hardly believe it, but the ginger beer is actually helping. I’m feeling a little better.
“How was her family?” Mom asks, peeling away.
“Large. And, noisy. But very sweet.”
I wonder what my mother would say if I told her about Dante.
“Meet any eligible cuties?”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to marry me off, Christine.”
“Ha ha. Would that be such a bad thing? You’re twenty-five years old, sweetheart. You don’t want to wait too long before you have children. The older you are, the tougher pregnancy gets.”
“Geez, woman. I’m still young. There is plenty of time for babies. I have to find a decent man first. Who knew it would be so hard?”
“Yeah. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
“So you keep saying.”
“I take it Sam is out of the picture for good.”
“That chapter is closed.”
“I’m sorry he hurt you, my love.”
“Thanks, Ma. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“The soup won't be ready for another hour. Why don’t you run yourself a nice warm bath?”
“That sounds like a great idea, actually. Thanks, Mom,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
“My pleasure.”
“Love ya.”
"I love you too, sweetheart.”
* * *
“That’s it. You’re going to see the doctor, and that’s final,” Mom says a week later, when she pops in for a coffee.
I’m still green around the gills. It’s better, but not by much. Mom is on the phone while I get dressed. Forty minutes later, we’re in the doctor’s waiting room, paging through old magazines while we wait to speak to Dr. Flowers.