It’ll Be A Different Conversation Next Year
“Are you in rehab again?” my Aunt Mary asked disparagingly as I placed my hand over my champagne glass and she nearly poured the liquid directly onto me. She put the bottle back in its icy bucket alongside the table, picked up and swilled her own glass of champagne. As usual the lush is the only one commenting on anyone else’s drinking.
My parents at either end of the table ignored the comment, but my youngest cousin Blair pulled her fork out of her mouth, looked up to my face then across me to her mother, and asked, “What’s rehab?”
“No,” I said to my aunt. When was I in rehab the first time? Seriously, where did she get these ideas? From my mother most likely, who knows what she was trying to avoid discussing when she told her sister I was in rehab. If that even happened. I swear the both of them are pathological liars.
I looked down at my overfilled plate and swirled the stuffing and mashed potatoes together into a delicious mush, while I contemplated the utter ridiculousness of this entire fucking day. The Daleys pretending to be happy, loving, compassionate or normal in any way possible, all sitting around the table talking about bullshit.
Ignoring her daughter’s question, Aunt Mary continued to pry and asked, “Well why is it then? You’re usually deep into a bottle of wine by now.” She’d been offering me booze all day but it wasn’t until this moment that it came to a head.
“Kara, please pass the gravy,” my father asked my perfect younger sister, still paying no mind to his sister-in-law’s questioning. She obliged, looking down the table at our father with her big blue eyes, sparkling like her spotless soul. I resented her but it wasn’t her fault. Kara was the only good thing at this table and I felt guilty for misplacing my anger on her.
The gravy boat passed to my Uncle Cliff’s hands, then to my father. He said, “Thank you.”
“Allison? Why aren’t you answering your Aunt Mary?” My mom asked with a hint of a whine, which happened to her voice after too much to drink. I guess she was paying attention, and as usual upholding respect of elders and politeness above all else.
“What’s the big deal? I just don’t feel like drinking today.” I answered with a shrug and took a sip of water. I started bouncing my leg anxiously.
Little Blair complained, “Stop it, that’s sooo annoying.”
You’re sooo annoying I thought to myself, glaring straight ahead at the bland wall above my sister’s head. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, leering past the silver platters of holiday fare and the elegant colored, flower centerpiece. As usual the black sheep of the family had become the centerpiece of the conversation.
I caught a glimpse of Kara looking at me across the table with mild suspicion. Crap, I must have been looking more nervous than I thought.
“What’s going on Allison, are you sick?” My mother asked as she helped herself to another spoonful of green beans.
“Oh, pass those to me will you, Nora?” Aunt Mary asked when her sister’s actions reminded her of their presence on the table. “On antibiotics are you?” She added back to our primary conversation.
My mother handed me the autumn-leaf shaped bowl of green beans and I placed it on the table between my aunt and myself.
“It’s not like she’s pregnant,” Uncle Cliff said stupidly to my father mostly and chuckled.
I couldn’t restrain myself, I looked over at him, my eyes searing with disdain. Fuck you, Cliff. You really just had to say that?
Watching my reaction, my sister’s eyes got wider; she was the only one who knew about my mysterious morning sickness and my subtle weight gain. Not to mention that I was complaining to her about my period being late before I found out. She knew.
Looking at Cliff, my dad chortled and said, “Not our little Ally.” He continued eating his feast, none the wiser. Cliff smiled and glanced across the table to his wife who said nothing for once. My mother was taking bites of food and looking around the table contentedly, Blair was playing with her food, and her older brother Ben was preoccupied by his phone.
Besides Kara, no one seemed to take Uncle Cliff’s statement seriously, so I could have just let it fly by. Deep down I knew that I needed to tell my parents one way or another. Even though I never planned on it coming out on Thanksgiving, now that it was happening it felt like the right time, for better or for worse.
“Yes,” I said firmly and looked to my mother on my left, then a quick glance to my father on my right, and then back to my mother.
“Yes, what?” My mother asked, after chewing a mouthful of turkey and cranberry sauce.
My eyes closed, I put down my fork and I said, “I’m pregnant.”
Right on cue, there was a sharp intake of breath from my Aunt Mary and she gaged on her sip of champagne. “Oh dear,” she said disapprovingly, “Allison, how did this happen?”
The typical inane question but at least she said something. As soon as the words left my mouth, my father stared down at his plate, fork and knife clutched in hands absorbing the information and waxing in anger. My mother’s mouth was slightly open in silent shock for a few moments then she seemed to regain consciousness.
“Well we must,” she said, “We must discuss this. You know you have options.”
“I’m keeping and raising the baby.”
“You’re only twenty-six!” My mother exclaimed, she straightened up in her chair and took the napkin she’d been fusing with in her lap and tossed it on the table, tears already welling in her eyes. She looked as if she might storm off but she remained seated.
“Yeah, I’m twenty-six years old! I can make this decision for myself.” But with parents you might as well cut that in half; I was still thirteen in their eyes. I stared at her displeased face, thinking of things I could possibly say to make this end amiably.
My rude cousin, Ben, chimed in, “Congratulations, Al, I thought you were a twenty-six year old virgin,” he laughed. No one else did. I looked over at him indignantly and stifled my urge to say ‘shut up.’
I looked at my mother long enough to see her begin to cry, I guess she didn’t have anything else to say. My little sister took her napkin off her lap and got up swiftly, going to my mother’s side to comfort her. I didn’t blame her but I personally did not give a fuck that my mother was crying.
At the other end of the table, my Aunt was switching between exchanging shocked glances with her husband and looking at my father turning red, all the while still sipping her champagne diligently.
My father came back to the conversation eventually, getting straight to the ‘who’ not the ‘how’.
“The father better not be that tattooed boy you brought around last weekend, now is it?” He said angrily, he had put down his utensils and his hands were now balled into fists pressing into the table on either side of his plate. He glared at me waiting for an answer.
It was more difficult to maintain eye contact with my father, so I looked down at my plate, sinking into my guilt and uncertainty. Maybe he would break something and I could sneak out in the resulting fretting and cleaning up. Maybe I could just run away and never come back; a thought that had been pushing at my mind for three weeks now.
I didn’t say anything, just kept staring down at my plate.
“Answer me! Tell me the truth, Allison,” I looked up at him, now standing, towering over the table.
“The truth?” I said trying to regain my resolve, “Ok, the truth is I don’t know who the father is! Does that make you feel better?” I scooted my chair back from the table and got up quickly, grabbing my plate. I declared, “I’m done eating now. If you don’t mind I think I’ll just leave.”
“Absolutely not!” My father roared but I was already half way to the kitchen. I put my plate down next to the sink at the same time a crash from the dinning room. Excellent, he broke a dish.
“Oh, Richard!” I heard my mother say dramatically, he ignored her.
“Allison, don’t you dare leave!” I heard my dad’s chair scrape on the hardwood floor as he pushed it further from the table and him take a few steps toward the kitchen.
“Richard just let her go, she’s made her decision,” my mother said through sobs. At that moment I didn’t care what she meant. It didn’t cross my mind that I might never see my parents again. I’m not sure if that certainty would have stopped me from leaving or not.
As my mother continued to weep, no doubt being futilely comforted by Kara, I could hear my dad and uncle begin to clean up the porcelain. It was time to leave. I sped out of the kitchen and up the stairs into my room. I pulled a dusty duffle bag out from under my bed and started grabbing things out of my closet. After cramming as much as I could fit, I went to the bathroom and got my toothbrush. Concluding that was all that I needed, I closed my bedroom door and went back downstairs.
My only plan was to go to my best friend Sara’s apartment for a few days, but I felt confident that I would figure it out. Because I had to figure it out. Luckily I’d saved enough money since college to feel secure; that was the point of living at my parent’s house and not paying rent after all.
From the foyer the sounds of the aftermath of my news could be heard, but I didn’t let myself feel bad. Just as I stepped up to the front door and touched the handle, I heard my sister say meekly from the archway to the kitchen, “Bye.”
I stopped and walked back to give her a hug. After a few seconds I let go and said, “I’m just going to Sara’s, I’ll text you when I get there.” There were tears welling up in her eyes as well, “Stop, there’s no reason to cry. I’ll see you soon.”
“I know. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” They really must have been resolute in letting me leave because when I turned and walked back to the front door, I made the briefest eye contact with my mother, who was still sitting at her dinning room chair, wiping her eyes with her napkin. She followed me to the door with her eyes but didn’t say a peep.
A momentary pause, a deep breath, and a quick turn of the handle later, I left the house with my first twinge of happiness that I was starting a family of my own. We would be fine.