Free If I Tell by Janet Gurtler Page A

said. “In the ways that mattered.”
    “I know, sweetie.” She sighed. “Is that what’s causing problems with you and Simon? That he’s sticking around for the baby? And the man that fathered you didn’t?”
    My nostalgic feelings vanished. My headache returned full force. “That has nothing to do with it, Grandma. Trust me.”
    She took a deep breath and blew it out. It disappeared like a note fading out.
    “Try reaching out to Simon. He’s a good man. He’s good with you.” She stood. “And don’t you dare go out and get drunk again. There’d better not be a next time. Not until you’re thirty.”
    She shook a finger at me. “Now. You go have a shower and clean yourself off, and then go and meet your mom for dinner.”
    ***
    Pasta de Resistance buzzed with life. The smell of Italian food and spices mingled with the noise, making my head ring and my stomach queasy. Usually I loved the atmosphere, the loud music, and the clanking sounds of the restaurant, but tonight it was too much.
    I stared across the red-checkered tablecloth at Mom’s bloated stomach. It poked out of her loose maternity dress. I’d thought she’d pull off pregnant better. Her normally glowing skin was blotchy. She looked puffy and uncomfortable. Her disposition wasn’t exactly radiant either.
    Mom used the back of her hand to wipe sweat off her brow and then glanced at her watch for about the hundredth time. “I can’t believe Simon. He’s always late. I told him 6:30, and it’s quarter to seven already.” She glanced around as if she was about to cry.
    Her moods were getting darker as her stomach got bigger. She didn’t usually complain about Simon.
    I picked up a glass of water and took a sip. “He’s not that late,” I said and put my glass down.
    Secretly I wished he’d leave us waiting all night long. I envisioned him disappearing into thin air, like one of those men who go out one night to buy a pack of cigarettes and never return. Too bad Simon didn’t smoke.
    “What would you do if Simon didn’t want the baby?” I asked.
    “What?” her eyes flashed. “What are you talking about? Did he say something to you?”
    A waiter walked by carrying a huge tray of drinks, and my stomach rolled in protest.
    “Of course not. I haven’t talked to him about it. No, I just meant, you know, what if you ended up bringing up this baby by yourself?”
    “This isn’t the same. Your father wanted nothing to do with you.” The wrinkles in her forehead deepened. No Botox with a baby on the way.
    I leaned farther back in my chair, putting more distance between us. I changed my mind, wishing Simon would appear. And soon.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that Michael didn’t want a baby. We were so young. It had nothing to do with you.”
    “Uh. It had everything to do with me.” I picked up my water glass, sucked up a couple of ice cubes, and crunched them, chewing rudely. How could she think it had nothing to do with me?
    “Michael was the same age as you are now, for God’s sake. He had plans. College. Football. We weren’t even serious. I was the one who chose to have you. I knew I was on my own.” She glanced around the restaurant. “And Grandma and Grandpa wanted to keep you so badly too. They told me they would raise you. They did so much better than I could have. But this is different. I’m older now. Simon wants our baby. He’ll be there for this baby.” She leaned back in her chair with her hands folded protectively over her stomach.
    “Unlike my ‘father.’” I had an urge to put my head down on the table and close my eyes. I tried not to think about him much. Daddy. Now I’d thought about him twice in one day.
    “It’s complicated,” Mom said.
    “Not really.”
    “He did set you up a trust fund. I didn’t ask him to do that. He did it on his own. He gave you a secure future.”
    Yeah, a few years after he married his college sweetheart, the Sperminator must have gotten a dose