Page 91 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I go inside and tell Rizzo it was the smell.
It's not a lie.
At the end of the shift, my feet hurt and my head feels like it sat under a loud light for hours.
I walk home because the cold helps.
The dark SUV is parked a block down with the engine off.
I have seen the same shape twice this week.
It does not move when I pass.
It also does not leave.
I unlock my door and stand inside the threshold until my heart slows.
Mom calls just as I hang up my coat.
Her voice is the sound of Sunday kitchens and a hundred small instructions.
“I’m downstairs,” she says. “I brought soup. Buzz me up.”
She does not wait for me to argue.
I buzz her in and clear the table.
She comes in carrying a paper bag and a pot wrapped in a towel.
The smells of chicken and lemon fill the apartment.
She kisses my cheeks and sets the pot on the stove.
She looks around like she is checking a hotel room, then nods.
“Sit,” she says. “You look pale.”
I sit.
She ladles soup into a bowl and brings it to me with a plate of toasted bread.
I take a spoonful.
It tastes like when I was sick and my uncle told me the ovens would cure me faster than any medicine.
I don't realize I'm crying until my mother’s hand is on my wrist.
“What is it?” she asks. Her voice is gentle and sharp at once. “Tell me now.”
I have been rehearsing silence for weeks.
The words come out anyway. “I took a test,” I say. “I’m pregnant.”
She exhales and reaches for the chair across from me.
She sits down hard and then reaches over to grip my hand.
“Are you sure?” she asks. It's automatic. I nod.
