Page 89 of F*ck Marriage

“Because I don’t want to hear your complaints.”

She grunts like she’s too tired to argue, and I don’t try to stifle my smile. Even when she’s playing the part of the Grinch she’s cute. I immediately toss that thought from my head. I’ve just found out I am going to be a father. I don’t need to be mentally listing all of Billie’s charms.

I park my car against the curb exactly an hour later and glance up at the expansive snow-covered lawn. To the rear of the property sits an impressive Victorian with a wraparound porch. A curl of smoke lifts into the sky from the fireplace, and it seems that all the windows (and there are a lot of windows) are lit by flickering yellow light that I know from experience are tiny faux candles my mother uses to decorate. I hop out of the car and walk around Billie’s side to open her door.

“You didn’t,” she says, eyes large. She studies the house, a look of trepidation on her face.

“I didn’t what?”

“Bring me to your home for Christmas…” she hisses. “Oh my God, oh my God—who is that?”

I look over my shoulder to see my mother standing in the doorway, arms crossed as she waits for us.

Billie slides down in her seat so that her head is resting where her lower back should go. “Is that yourmother?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say, glancing at the door again. “Looks like she’s waiting for us…”

“I didn’t even put makeup on,” she says miserably. “I look like a joke.”

“Well, yes, you do,” I say, eyeing the way she’s slouched down in her seat. “You look like my niece when she’s throwing a tantrum.”

“Ugh!” She scrunches up her nose as I offer my hand to help her out of the car.

I notice as we walk up the path toward the front door that she stops complaining and a look of interest fills her face. There are noises coming from the house: squeals of joy from my nieces and nephews, my eldest sister’s bellowing laugh. They are happy sounds, the kind that fill me with a grateful warmness. We are greeted with the type of enthusiasm saved for holidays. My mother, an elegant woman of fifty-nine, greets Billie with a hug and then holds her at arm’s length, declaring that she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever brought home. My mother, who is beautiful herself with thick auburn hair she wears in a twist and bright blue eyes, looks like she could be Billie’s mother. Billie blushes furiously at the compliment before it’s my turn to be greeted. I note Mom’s cherry-print apron with fondness as she embraces me, Billie waiting just past her shoulder in the foyer. She’s worn the same apron since I was a child; my sisters ride her for it constantly, but my mother doesn’t care. It’s her apron and she loves it. The real question is how she’s managed to keep it in such good condition for so long. The thing looks brand new.

“I’m about to put breakfast on the table,” she says, leading us into the living room, which looks like a warzone of paper, and toys, and tiny screaming humans that resemble my sisters.

In a flash, I’m a human jungle gym as eleven of my nieces and nephews run at me screaming excitedly. The oldest is ten and the youngest has just spat up on my shirt. I kiss both their heads as everyone looks curiously at Billie.

I introduce her around the room to the various spouses, and aunts and uncles, and by the time I’m done she looks thoroughly overwhelmed.

“Come on.” My mother grabs her by the arm. “I need help in the kitchen ... and I have mimosas…” I hear her whisper.

I watch as Billie gratefully allows herself to be led in the direction of the kitchen. When she’s gone the questions start.

“Is that your girlfriend?” my niece asks. “She’s really pretty.”

“Just a friend.” I tug on her ponytail as my sisters round on me.

“But who—?”

“Where did you—?”

“What does she—?”

“Whoa, whoa!” I hold up my hands to silence them. “Merry Christmas to you too. And stop being so damn nosy.”

“You haven’t brought a girl home since 2014,” my sister Heidi says. “What was her name—?” She snaps her fingers looking around the room for help.

“Gladys!” my grandmother calls out. She jabs her bent finger into the air in triumph.

“Gladys was your sister’s name, Nana,” my sister Beatrice says, patting her knee.

“Oh.”

“Glenda!” my father calls from the carpet where he’s assembling a toy for one of my nephews.

“Noooo, it was Gloria,” someone else says.

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