39
Courtland
Being the bigger person sucks.
As I walk toward the front porch of my mother's house, anger flares in my chest, and I get this overwhelming urge to not be the bigger person.
Why do I always have to be the one to make the first move? Why am I constantly tiptoeing around her, placing her needs above my own? Why am I unable to go to my mom with my problems and know she'll be there for me? I'm a grown man. I don't need her to solve my shit for me. But is it too much to ask for her to act like she cares?
It's the biggest unsolved mystery in my life, why my mother has never been interested in me. Definitely an unhealed trauma. I sometimes wonder if me falling into OBGYN wasn’t so random after all. If maybe on some level putting myself into an environment where I work with women and mothers-to-be every single day is my way of trying to find answers I can't get from the woman who gave birth to me.
I reach the front door and rap the knocker a couple of times. A few moments later, the door swings open.
"Courtland."
My mother grabs her bathrobe and cinches it tight across her chest.
"What are you doing here?"
And suddenly, I get the sinking feeling in my gut that this was a horrible idea.
She doesn't look happy to see me at all, and she's…well, a mess. Not only is she still in a bathrobe at one thirty in the afternoon, but her hair and face, usually so put together, are anything but right now. Her blonde hair, streaked with gray strands I'd never noticed before, is coming loose from a messy bun, her hazel eyes are dull, and she's pale. Even for this time of year.
"Hey, Mom. I just stopped by… Thought we should see each other."
It takes her a second to respond, but when she does, the words fall out in a rush, like her brain gently nudged her with a heads-up: This is your son, remember?
"Yes. Of course. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea?"
"Sure."
I step into the house expecting it to be as much of a mess as she is, but the entryway is immaculate, with muted-taupe shiplap walls and her winter coats neatly hanging on polished brass hooks.
As I kick off my snow-covered boots, I peer into the living room. Also immaculate. Not a thing out of place. She's even got the fire going.
I follow her into the kitchen, and as much as I hate to, I sniff the air. It's not nice to think that your mother could be an alcoholic, but that's the first place my brain went. I don't pick up any whiffs of alcohol, but I'm not prepared to rule it out just yet.
"Right. Tea, tea. Where is the tea?"
Mom asks, looking around her kitchen, a little…scattered.
"Are you okay, Mom?"
I ask, stepping in close to get a good look at her.
Pupils seem fine. Breathing is normal. She is pale, but that could be from not leaving the house while she was finishing her book.
"Think I might be coming down with something,"
she says, avoiding eye contact.
Things are always a little tense between us, but this is something else.
"How about you take a seat, and I'll make us some tea?"
She nods gratefully and sinks down in the dining nook. She's got a massive open-plan kitchen, so I keep an eye on her as I boil some water and find the tea bags. Sitting by the window, illuminated by the winter sun, I can see she's actually really pale.
"Have you been eating, Mom?” I ask, peeking into her refrigerator.
It's like stepping back in time and looking into my dorm room mini-fridge. Pizza boxes. Chocolate pudding cups. Pickles. And cheese. Mom is usually pretty healthy, so this is definitely out of character.
"Yeah, a little,"
she answers, staring out the window.
"What do you think you might have?"
I ask, pouring hot water into two mugs.
"The flu? A headache? A cold?"
"I don't know…"
"Have you gone to see a doctor?"
"No."
"Have you finished the book yet?"
"Yes."
I swear it's like pulling teeth. I swirl the tea bags, watching the water darken while I try to figure out what the hell is going on with her.
I walk over to the nook and hand her her tea.
"Would you like me to make you a sandwich or something?"
"No. I'm fine, thanks."
"Okay, Mom. Something is clearly up. You're acting weird."
I slide in opposite her.
"What is going on?"
She turns her head slowly toward me, her hazel eyes glassy, and announces with zero emotion.
"I'm pregnant."
I start coughing as the tea burns its way down the wrong pipe.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not coming down with anything, Courtland. I lied, okay? I'm having a baby."
"But how?"
I rack my brain for a second.
"You're forty-nine."
"Forty-eight."
"Doesn't make much difference. There's still less than a two percent chance of conceiving naturally at your age."
"Guess I'm in the lucky two percent,"
she says with a sigh.
"How long have you known for?"
"Since just after the holidays."
"How far along are you?"
"Four months."
I glance down at her robe in shock even though it's too early for her to be showing much. It's thick and oversized, so it's hard to see anything anyway.
I glance back up at her. This is literally the last thing I was expecting.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm keeping it, Courtland,"
she snaps as if I were inferring something else.
"I could never get rid of a child. Even if I didn't?—"
She stops herself from saying what she was about to, but I think I know where she was going.
Even if I didn't want it.
Tears well in my eyes, which I quickly blink away. Not ready to deal with that just yet, even though it's something I've always suspected.
"I respect your decision,"
I say, treading carefully.
"But you do realize this is considered a high-risk pregnancy, right? There’s a bigger risk of complications like gestational diabetes, high blood pressure, and chromosomal abnormalities. You'll need more frequent monitoring."
"I know,"
she says glumly.
"I'm going in for checkups every two weeks."
"That's good. So they've done NIPT? Nuchal Translucency? Morphology? What about checking for gestational diabetes? That's normally done around twenty-four to twenty-eight weeks, but they should definitely bring it forward in this case."
"Courtland, relax. Take a breath. Everything is fine."
I take a breath, but there's no way I can relax.
My forty-eight-year-old mom is pregnant!
"You don't look fine,"
I say and hope it doesn't come out mean. Now that I know why she looks like this, I'm worried.
"Morning sickness is a real bitch. Had it with you, and I'm having it again."
I glance over at her fridge and frown. She clocks it and lifts a finger.
"Do not lecture me."
"Fine."
I tap my fingers along the table, trying to ground myself as my thoughts spin out.
This is beyond wild. And maybe this is the reason why she's been quiet. I thought it was because she didn't want to see me. Maybe she didn't want me to find out she was pregnant?
Then again, that means she would've had to have hidden from me for another four or five months… Yeah, that's something she would totally do.
"Wait."
I glance at her.
"Who's the father?"
She winces. "Gavin."
It takes me a minute to put the pieces together.
No.
She couldn't possibly mean…
"Gavin Lightyear?" I check.
Buzz's dad.
The guy she cheated with once before, destroying two families in the process. They never ended up together for reasons I'm not privy to. He remarried and now has kids with his new wife.
This cannot be happening.
Again.
"Yes."
"Oh my god. Mom!"
I push to my feet, feeling dizzy.
I need air.
I need…to get the hell out of here.
"I'll—I'll call you,"
I mumble, then race to the door, my heart pounding in my throat.
How can they have done this again?