“I won’t say anything.”
Now it’s my turn to give her the famous eyebrow.
“I won’t! I swear. I certainly understand about being superstitious. After the fourth time, we didn’t tell anyone.”
She’s so rarely referred to her difficult road to motherhood, preferring instead to focus on the joy she found in finally having me.
“I have no idea how you managed to get through that nine times.”
“It was brutal, but I wanted you so badly that I kept trying, and you, my precious girl, made all the struggle worth it from the second you took your first breath.” She sweeps my hair back off my shoulders. “And now you’re going to make me an abuela.” Fanning her face, she fails to stem a flood of tears.
I hug her. “I’ve been dying to tell you.”
“I’m so glad you did and that we have this sweet secret. There’s nothing you could give me for Christmas that I’d love more than this.”
“I had a feeling.”
“Go home, rest up and come back later to enjoy the party. If you’re anything like me, everything is better later in the day.”
“Yes, it is. What’ll I tell everyone?”
“I’ll tell them you have a terrible headache, and you wanted to go home and lie down so you can be here for tonight.”
“Thank you. The pig took me over the top.”
“I had the same issue the year I was expecting you. I couldn’t come to Nochebuena at all that year.”
“I can’t imagine it without you there.”
“I cried all night, and Daddy was right there with me the whole time, telling me I’d have a lifetime of holiday celebrations, and missing one wasn’t going to kill me.” She laughs in a low, husky tone as she rolls her eyes at her own foolishness. “I was so dramatic then.”
I bite my lip to keep from telling her she’s never outgrown her flair for the dramatic.
“Oh, stop it! I can hear what you’re trying not to say!”
We lose it laughing. It’s the best laugh I’ve had in weeks, and we end up clinging to each other as we wipe away the good kind of tears. We’ve had more than our share of the not-so-good kind, especially after I lost my first husband when we were twenty-four. “Will I be able to read my child’s mind the way you read mine?”
“God, I hope so. You never could keep anything from me, and it seems you still can’t.”
I give her a saucy, defiant look. “You didn’t know I was pregnant for a whole month.”
“I suspected you were.”
“You did not!”
“Ask Daddy! I told him your cheeks were fuller, and you had a glow to you.”
“My cheeks are full of puke, and the glow has to be a gorgeous shade of green. Jason says he’s afraid to hug me lately out of fear I might spontaneously puke.”
“My poor baby. It’s so dreadful, but so, so worth it. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and this baby will be that for you, too.”
“Thank you, Mami. I’m sure it’ll all be fine once I get past this lovely stage. I think I’ll take you up on the offer to make up a headache for me so I can go home for a while. Would you mind grabbing my purse and keys off the counter? I can’t go back in there.” What normally makes my mouth water in anticipation of holiday feasting is having the opposite effect today.
“Wait right here. I’ll be back.”
While she goes inside to retrieve my stuff, I focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’m not sure why that helps suppress the nausea, but it does, and I’ll take what I can get. My phone chimes with a text to me and Dee from Maria.
There may be hope. Austin and several of his teammates are chartering a plane to get us back to Miami! She includes the praying hands emoji.
Oh, thank goodness! It wouldn’t be Nochebuena without you!
What she said, Dee adds. What’s your ETA?
Hoping by six. The plan is to fly south to avoid the weather in the Plains. Gulp. I’m scared.
They wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe, I tell her. Try not to worry. We’re so glad you’re coming. Keep us posted!
Will do.
Mami returns with my purse and keys. “I told the others about your headache, and they said to feel better and get back here for the fun later.”
“I will. Thank you for this. I just heard from Maria. Austin and his teammates are chartering a plane.”
“That’s great news. We were just saying she has to be having a meltdown over possibly missing Nochebuena.”
“She is.”
“Now get yourself off to nap. Whatever you need, Mamacita, whenever you need it, you tell your Mami, and it shall be.”
Hugging her, I blink back ridiculous tears. “What would I ever do without you?”
“Your life would be too boring to bear without me.”
“I hope I never find out.”
“Text me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. Jason is taking a half day today, so he may even be home when I get there.”
“Tell him I said to take good care of my baby and her baby.”
“I will, but he’s been amazing, of course.”
“I have no doubt.”
She’s still standing outside the house to wave when I drive away. I wonder if she’s going to go back inside and tell the others I’m pregnant, but then I decide she won’t do that. After what she endured, she knows why this is a secret that needs to be kept until we’re sure. And if she does tell people? Oh well, it’s not like they won’t find out eventually.
I never told any of them about the miscarriage I suffered in August. I didn’t even know I was pregnant when I was already losing it. The whole thing was sad and traumatic. I made the choice to keep it between my husband and me because we were both too raw to have my entire family descend upon us, wanting to help.
There was nothing anyone could do, and as long as Jason and I had each other, we got through it. My doctor told me to expect it might take a while to conceive again, so we were surprised when it happened quickly. But I’m still superstitious and slightly worried that history might repeat itself. How did my mother go through that nine times? How and where did she find the wherewithal to keep trying after an ordeal like that?
After having it happen once to me, I have all-new respect for the fact that she stuck with it long enough to get to me. It’s interesting that, until it happened to me, the concept of nine miscarriages was just words to me. I had no earthly idea of how devastating an ordeal a miscarriage is.
I spent days sobbing in my husband’s arms, thinking the world had ended, which, with hindsight, I blame on the hormonal overload.
Jason was a freaking saint through the whole thing. He never left my side until he absolutely had to go to work, because, you know… brain surgeon. People needed him, so I had to let him go. But I took three days out of work, waiting until I was certain I could get through the day without hysterics before I went back to my job in the Miami-Dade General Hospital’s public relations department.
But I was sad for a long time afterward and shocked to find out I was pregnant again so soon. Now, I’m anxious—and nauseated—all the time. What my mother said about being nauseated only with me gives me comfort. Maybe feeling like shit is actually a good sign.