The Rampage MC #2: Beard and Emily

Chapter 2 (Emily): I Wanted My Mommy

As I drove away from the clubhouse, I headed for my parents' home. Since I was clearly on a roll with relaying news of my pregnancy, I figured I might as well go for broke. And, because it was near dinnertime, I could score a home-cooked meal. I walked in through the front door and followed my nose to the kitchen.

"Hello, daughter," my father said to me as I pressed a kiss on his cheek. He was sitting at the kitchen table, golf club across his knees, adding lead tape to the head of one of his irons.

"Hey, Dad," I said. "Hey, Mom," I called to her, and she shot me a smile, but kept stirring whatever was in the pot.

Wanting to get this over with before dinner, I took a deep breath.

"So, I have some news."

"Oh, my gosh, you're pregnant," my mom said, looking at me over her shoulder.

"What? How'd you know?" I demanded.

The spoon clattered to the stovetop with a small crash.

"What?! You mean you are?" she asked, turning fully toward me, shocked. "I just always guess that when someone says they have some news. I didn't think you really were!"

She actually did say that, come to think of it. I should have led with something else.

"This is so exciting," she crowed, coming toward me. "Except now, at your age, it's way too late to make it onto Sixteen and Pregnant."

You would think that someone as brilliant as my mom, a renowned epidemiologist, would like to read essays on quantum physics or something in her spare time, but nope. Mom loved reality TV shows and watched all of them like it was her religion.

"That Kody," she'd say, "Not sure how he got even one wife with that hair of his, much less four. You would think one of those women would have taken him aside and said, look, I get what you're going for but it's just not working."

Dad was known to walk into the family room, see what she had on the TV, make some disparaging comment about it...and then stay to watch and talk back to the stars while he practiced putting.

"Sorry to disappoint, Mom," I said.

She came and gave me a hug. "Congratulations, sweetheart. I'm so happy for you. I can't wait to be a grandmother! Oh, I'll need to figure out my grandmother name! When are you due, honey? Oh, and Fabio, we'll need to convert one of the bedrooms to a nursery!"

For the record, Dad's name was Gilbert, but when he hit 45, he had a mid-life crisis and grew his blondish-brown hair to his shoulders. Mom had started calling him Fabio because, she had said, with his hair long, he looked just like that man.

He did not.

Dad, a well-known cardiothoracic surgeon who traveled all over the world talking about his latest surgical techniques, gave me a look.

"How are you doing?"

"OK. My urine test proved I was pregnant, but my doctor did a blood test to confirm and to see what's what. Then I ran home and did my own pregnancy test, just to be sure. That also confirmed I was pregnant. I should get the blood results on Monday or Tuesday."

Dad grunted, his usual response to any medical information given.

"So..." Mom said, drawing out the word, leaving me in no doubt as to exactly what her next question would be. "Who's the father?"

"Well," I tried to laugh and not think about Beard. "Now that's an interesting story. I've been seeing this man. Casually. Very casually. But when I told him the news today, he said at his age he wasn't interested in being a father, so he's not going to be involved in any way and it's just going to be me."

"Oh, crap," Dad said. "Did you cougar some boy, Emily?"

Cougar was a verb? To cougar: I cougar, you cougar, she cougars...

"Ah, no, try the other end of the spectrum," I said. "He's more...your age-ish."

"What the hell, Em?" Dad tossed at me, disgusted to think of me with a contemporary of his.

"In my defense, I thought he was more my age when I met him. Like seriously, the man looks forty-five at the most. He looks really good for his age." Really good. Extremely good. Holy shit, did he look good.

"Well, then he's old enough to accept responsibility," Dad grumbled at me.

"It's fine, Dad," I said firmly. "I would never want to force someone to be involved in my child's life if he didn't want to be. This baby is only going to be surrounded by people who love him and want him. And that will be enough."

"Yeah, guess it might be a little confusing for the baby if Grampa and Dad were the same age," Dad grumbled, definitely not happy at the thought of me being with someone old enough to be my father.

Oh, I could tell Dad was going to take some time to come around to Beard's age. On the up side, since Beard wasn't going to be a part of this child's life, Dad wouldn't have to interact with a contemporary of his.

Fortunately, after having lived with Dad for forty-two years, Mom knew ways to distract Dad as his temper started boiling.

"Well, Fabio, I can tell you one thing," Mom said, drawing his attention to her. "Your grandfather name is going to be way better than grampa. As if. You know, Doc might be a cute name."

But today, Dad was not about to be distracted. "So why doesn't this lowlife want to be a part of the baby's life?"

"He just never wanted to be a father, I guess, especially not at this stage of his life."

"That's a piss-poor excuse," Dad growled. "You make a mistake, you own up to it if you're any kind of man."

"My baby's not a mistake," I said to him chidingly, my hands going to my belly that was just starting to swell a bit.

"Oh, my lord, you tried to trap him by getting pregnant on purpose?" Mom cried.

"Mom! No, seriously. It was an accident," and I shot a look at my Dad, "and he doesn't want to be involved."

"Did he offer you child support or at least offer to pay your doctor bills?

But to show you I'm not a complete asshole, if you come suck me off, I'll throw in medical expenses.

I could feel myself blushing just because I had that thought in front of my parents. There are some things you don't want to think about in front of your parents, no matter how old you are.

"He did, but I don't want his help if he's not willing to be involved. You know I'm perfectly capable of supporting this baby and who knows how many others on my salary."

Dad grunted. "You stand on your feet for hours at a time," he reminded me, as if I had forgotten what my job as an anesthesiologist required of me. "What are you going to do at the end? When you're all big with the baby?"

"Dad, I'll somehow manage even though I'm the first woman in the history of the world with a demanding job to get pregnant." I rolled my eyes at him.

He started to argue some more, but Mom pulled the foolproof move that always worked when Dad and I started going at each other.

"Who's ready to eat?" she asked brightly.

On Monday, my doctor called me with the bloodwork results.

"Your HCG levels are high," she said. "Higher than we'd expect right now. It's probably nothing, but I want to check you out."

Tuesday morning, my mom held my hand as my doctor did an ultrasound.

Forty-five minutes later, we walked out, still holding hands. I was afraid to let go, and, quite frankly, I wanted my mommy.

"Twins?" I asked weakly.

Mom squeezed my hand. "Twins," she affirmed.

Twins.