Out On a Limb
: Chapter 15

After hours of unloading, unpacking, and shuffling furniture around my bedroom, we decided to call it a day. Sarah and Caleb took off after I had pizza delivered, leaving me with an entire box to myself in an eerily quiet house.

It took me a few tries, but eventually, I got the record player going. Now Frank Sinatra is singing about riding high in April as I load my sheets into the dryer, singing along loud enough that the house no longer feels so sparse. With no neighbours sharing a wall to worry about, I belt out the lyrics with flair. Laughing toward the ceiling when dear old Frank refers to himself as having once been a pirate. Because that is exactly what landed me here.

And, dammit, I’m going to pick myself back up and get back in the race too. Just as Mr. Sinatra suggests.

I glide around the house, smoothly waltzing with a hand on the top of my wannabe baby bump and stopping along the way for many ice chip breaks. When my sheets finish in the dryer just as the last track on the B-side fades out, I make my bed and crawl into it.

Pulling out my phone, I immediately check my texts from Bo. He asks how I’m settling in, provides instructions for the faucet in the shower—which was apparently installed backward and can be temperamental—and lets me know he’ll be back tomorrow before lunch. I quickly respond before pulling up my texts with my mom. I type out a few apologies before I decide to just call her instead.

It rings only once before she picks up.

“She lives,” my mother declares as a form of greeting.

“Hey, Mom. Sorry. Things have been really busy lately. I’ve missed you.”

“Sarah said that too. She didn’t say much else, though. Keeping your secrets, as always. I assume that’s why you’re calling? She didn’t want to play middleman?”

“No! Well, yes, she did tell me you called. But things really have been busy. And yes—there is something I need to tell you.” I look up to the ceiling, willing the words to come. Or, alternatively, willing the well-timed beginning of an alien invasion or apocalyptic event. “I’m pregnant,” I say.

Two words. That’s it. Simple. Out there now. No taking it back.

The line goes quiet. Painfully quiet.

“Mom?”

“I’m here.”

“Did—did you hear me?”

“Hear what? Sorry, my show is on.”

“La Reina del Sur? Mom, it’s on Netflix—just pause it.” Some traditions, like Sunday night telenovelas, never die. That’s probably what Sarah is doing in bed right now too. That was always their thing, and sometimes Marcie and I were invited to join. Only if we didn’t ask too many questions like: Wasn’t he dead? Who is that? When did she have time for an affair between the murdering sprees? Isn’t that her stepfather?

She grumbles, her chair squeaking as she reaches for the remote. “Fine, fine, fine. Just, you caught me during a juicy bit. Teresa just called—”

“I’m pregnant,” I interrupt.

“You?” she says abruptly, accompanied by a stunned laugh.

I don’t know why her surprise offends me, but it does. “Yes, me.”

She makes a sound like sputtering. It’s half amusement, partial shock. “Well… who’s the guy?”

Of course. No how are you feeling? Or how far along? Or—okay, I suppose the next question might be who’s the guy, but the first two matter more. “His name is Bo. He’s a friend of mine. We got caught up at a party, and… you know the rest.” Not a complete fabrication. My mom doesn’t need to know I fucked the guy the same day I met him. Some things don’t need to be shared with the woman who began preaching abstinence-above-all to me when I was ten.

“Birth control zero; McNulty women two,” I joke flatly.

“And? Is he a loser or a decent man?”

I look around the nice bedroom in his house while sitting on my new bed that he provided and nod to myself. “A decent man. We’ve, uh, we’ve actually moved in together.”

I hear a whimper down the phone. A happy sort of relief mixed with a contented sigh. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Winnie. Truly, truly wonderful.”

I probably should have mentioned the context in which we are moving in together, but why bother now? I’m not going to set myself up for a more difficult conversation if I don’t have to. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier; it’s been a whirlwind. I’ve been really sick, and—”

“What’s he like?”

“Yikes,” I respond before I can help it.

“What?” she snips back.

“Mom,” I try to sound less agitated than I feel. “I was just telling you I’ve been throwing my guts up every day, and you interrupt to ask me about him. Bo is fine. He’s great. But your daughter could use some maternal advice.”

“Sorry, you’re right. I was so sick with you too, chickie. It’s awful, but someday soon, it’ll all be worth it.”

“Any tips?”

“The only thing that worked for me was consuming my weight in root beer and salted pretzels daily. Doctors would probably warn you against that method these days.”

“Think that’s how I got my hand?”

“Winnifred June!”

I giggle into the phone. My mom does too, but she’s fighting it as she always attempts to.

“I’m due July twenty-fourth,” I tell her once our giggles soften.

“Oh, wow. So… you’re a few months along.” There’s an unmistakable twinge of hurt in her voice that I obviously put there. I hate that she’s upset, but I also can’t say I wish I had called earlier. If I hadn’t waited, if I’d told her before deciding to move in with Bo, this conversation would be a lecture and a series of disappointment-filled platitudes.

I thought you’d have learned from my mistakes. I raised you better than this. How exactly are you going to provide for this baby on your own while working at a café? What man will want you now?

And, sure, I’m using Bo as an unknowing safety net by allowing my mom to think we’re together romantically. But what neither of them don’t know won’t hurt them.

“I’m fifteen weeks along, as of yesterday.” I pause, feeling a tinge of guilt. “It really has been busy. I promise.”

“Well, thanks for telling me now, I guess.”

“I am sorry, Mom. I think I got in my head about telling you. I wasn’t ready for it to feel real yet.”

“Does it feel real now?” she asks.

“No,” I answer honestly.

She sighs, some compassion returning to her humming tone. “I felt that way too. Up until they put a teeny, screaming you in my arms, it all felt a bit made up.”

“Then it felt wonderful? The biggest blessing of your life? A gift from the heavens?” I ask, my voice theatrical.

“Sure did. Then scary. Then wonderful some more. Then scary again. You sort of repeat that until… forever. And if you’re really lucky, one day, that baby calls you on a random Sunday evening in February and tells you that you’re going to be a grandma.”

“Surprise,” I singsong weakly.

“Guess it’s my turn to visit you this summer, huh?”

“I’d like that, please.”

“I take it your schedule is a bit freed up,” she laughs out.

“August may be best—to make sure the kid shows up before you arrive. Wouldn’t want you here for my due date in case the baby gets stage fright.” And I don’t want you anywhere near that hospital room, I think to myself.

“Well, let me check with Duncan about when a good time for me to come up would be.”

“Did you get a new psychic? What happened to Maureen?”

“No, sweetie, Duncan is my beau. We’re going on four months. We’ve talked about him before. Oh!” She laughs in delight. “I have a beau, and you have a Bo.”

Duncan? I don’t think I’ve heard of him before. But I can’t say that to Mom without risking another feud like the Travis incident of last July. My mother takes great offence at my lack of interest when it comes to her love life and my inability to keep track of the men coming and going.

I know it makes me a hypocrite, because I couldn’t care less when friends of mine sleep around or are serial monogamists, but I hate it for my mom. Always have. I want more than for her to pour all of herself into a man for a few weeks or months at a time and then feel emptied out when they stop showing up.

“Duncan, right. Of course. Is he a pilot or just very astute at knowing when travel is appropriate?” I ask, a tad bitchy, I’ll admit.

“Well, I can’t just take off on him, Winnie.” She laughs at my obvious absurdity.

“No? Not for a few days to visit your only daughter and grandchild?”

“I said I’ll check, Win. Quit sassing your mother.”

I inhale and exhale slowly, shaking myself. “Yeah, okay. Just, let me know, all right?”

“Will do…” She smacks her lips, searching for another topic—and evidently, comes up dry. “Well, I’ll let you go, then.”

“Okay, Mom.” I could ask her to keep talking. I could tell her how terrifying this all feels. How much I wish I could both fast-forward and rewind time. How much I’d really like one of her long, tight hugs. But I don’t. “I love you,” I say instead.

“Love you too, sweet girl. I hope you get plenty of rest. Tell that grandbaby to ease up on you.”

“Will do. Bye.”

I hang up and press the phone to my chin, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. I replay the phone call and feel relieved, knowing that with my mother—the queen of unpredictable emotions—it could have gone far worse. And hey, at least now she knows. I can take that off my eternally long list of to-dos before the baby’s arrival. A list I should, now that I’m thinking about it, actually write down.

I’m about to count the day as a win overall, roll over, and pass out on my very comfortable new mattress when I realise I forgot to check whether the door was locked. And while the bed beckons for me to stay and cocoon inside it, I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of being bludgeoned in my sleep or having the house burglarised on night one. So, whining even still, I drag myself out of bed and stumble toward the front door in the dark.

I notice the deadbolt is in place from a distance, but I still go into the entryway to check the handle. I accidentally step on a pile of mail on the floor that must have been delivered through the front door’s slot.

Robert Durand, I read off the top envelope. No time like the present to replace out the surname of my baby daddy, I guess… What on earth am I doing?

Amongst the collection of flyers and nondescript envelopes is a comic book, still half bent from delivery. I pick it all up with every intention of dropping the pile on the counter and going back to bed. But when I place the mail down, the shiny, floppy comic stares up at me with bright fonts and colours too interesting to ignore. I decide some late-night reading won’t hurt and bring the comic to my bedroom.

I get back into bed, fluffing my pillows before I lie against them. The Annihilator Issue 392, it reads. I wonder if Bo has all three hundred and ninety-one previous editions somewhere. I guess, unlike Caleb, I never ventured into his closet to see what was in there. He could have a lot of stuff I don’t know about. Like more rope, for example.

Nope. That’s a dangerous thing to imagine. Decidedly not following that train of thought.

And sure, I don’t know who this Annihilator guy is—or why he’s so butthurt that the king of hell has been overthrown by this scantily clad Serinthina badass. But damn, this shit is entertaining from the jump.

There is a large bit of mutual pining going on between these two “enemies,” and I am eating it up. I’ve also gathered that there’s some sort of immortal deity that they both fear, which can only be destroyed if they work together—begrudgingly, of course. I don’t know much else, however, given that I haven’t read the previous issues. Half of these terms, names, and places mean nothing to me. Still… I sort of love it. On the last page, amidst some excellent banter post battle, Serinthina heavily alludes that these two got down and dirty on the Ice Planet Borgue. I blame the horny pregnancy hormones for the speed at which I pick up my phone to google which issue that could have been in.

Then I’m spending a little over three dollars to download issue one hundred and eighty-one onto my phone. All for the sake of getting to know Bo and his interests better, of course.

Not at all to see the horny aliens fuck.