Page 4 of Forbidden Pregnancy
I nod my head slowly because that’s clearly what Officer Crosby wants to see, and I would much rather do what it takes to get this man out of my face so I can run through my emotions without him glaring at me.
Behind that yellow caution tape is my last chance at having a baby, even on my own and for all I know, all my eggs could be halfway across the world, sold to a Russian billionaire or some other worse fate. My head swims with the fear and anxiety that would accompany anyone finding out their genetic material was stolen.
The process of egg extraction is a last resort and I gave all of mine away to a scammer. The cop doesn’t give me much more information on what needs to happen next. There’s no “if”... my eggs were in there. Officer Crosby clearly wants me gone, so I turn and walk away from the fertility clinic.
I walk until I can’t feel my feet anymore and the exact point where I stop feeling my feet is outside this bar I’ve never been to in one of Buffalo’s older Italian neighborhoods. The bright red neon sign reads Belladonna’s. I mindlessly shuffle towards the doors. I need a bathroom and more importantly, I need a drink.
You can’t see the bar from the street, so when I open the door, I scan the details around me to ground myself in a world that I feel totally unmoored from. The bar immediately strikes me as upscale with the low lights and luxurious modern velvet furniture, with details that suggest the owners or at least the frequent patrons are from the wealthier Italian families around Buffalo. I see pictures of the owner with Pino Corsini, a big-time member of the Italian mob and owner of several small businesses around my neighborhood – a laundromat, a couple pizza places and an insurance company.
This city still has mob families, believe it or not. I actually went to college with Pino Corsini’s son – the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Glancing around the room, I see pictures from local high school football games around the time I was in high school. He might be in one of those pictures. The son – I honestly can’t even remember his name – was either the wide receiver or the tight end. High school was so long ago I can’t even remember.
Itdoesbother me that I forgot his name though.
Who even cares? He probably has a big happy and basic as hell Upstate New York family. I’m seething at the ‘live laugh love’ ofit all and worse, jealous of this imaginary family I cooked up for my worst nemesis of a million years ago because I’m so damn emotional over the day’s events.
I walked over an hour to get here and my feet hurt. I turn my gaze away from the family photos and follow the signs to the bathroom to relieve myself.
When I get to the bar, the woman working approaches me enthusiastically. It’s nice not to have to wait.
“Hi, I’m Rachel! What can I get for you?”
Chapter Two
Michael
CC moved in last week and apparently, we’re not doing Cosima anymore, we’re doing “CC”. I set up her bedroom upstairs and quickly realized that I still see her as a dorky middle schooler, and not the grown up twenty-three year old she’s become. It feels good to return to Buffalo after such a long absence. I went out to Pittsburgh to help my cousin Vito with the crazy shit going on out there and now, I can finally have some peace.
My sister and I have always gotten along, although dad wasn’t wrong about the recent shift in her attitude.
I arrive at the brick house in Orchard Park after a grueling session at the gym with Luigi. The shocking series of events with Delphine has changed my cousin in the most profound ways. He’s about to become a father after years of living alone as a grouchy, dangerously single bachelor. It’s much too late for me.
When I walk through the front door, I smell CC’s favorite meal baking in the oven. She hasn’t been up for much cooking since she moved in, so this change of pace surprises me.
“Is that mom’s lasagna recipe?” I ask her as I kick my shoes off and let the grumble of hunger rumble through my abdomen.
“Grandma’s,” she asks while scrolling on the phone next to the egg timer.
“Since when are you cooking?”
“Dad’s coming over,” CC asks, rolling her eyes as she taps furiously at her phone. Young people are all addicted to their phones and CC is one of the worst. She barely looks up as I walk over to the oven and check on the lasagna progress.
“What? Since when? Why?” I ask as I turn the oven light off and take a good look at CC for signs of the mental illness my father insists she’s coping with.
“Mom wants him to drop off my business textbooks so I can study over spring break.”
“You haven’t failed your business classes yet. Keep at it.”
“Dad is a huge asshole,” CC says. “I don’t want to see him.”
Younger people are also much quicker to state their true, unfiltered feelings about their family members, which gets your ass into a lot of trouble as an Italian woman from a traditional family.
“You should respect your elders.”
“Like you, grandpa?” CC teases me, smirking for a brief second before she locks in on her text message conversation and taps away.
“Don’t worry about how old I am. Worry about getting better so dad trusts you on your own again.”
“Dad doesn’t trust me on my own because I’m a woman.”
