The Red Strokes

Chapter 7 - Lilah

From the kitchen, I look through the dining room to where Doriah sits on the couch, one foot tucked underneath her. The TV is on, but she isn't watching it. She's in tune with every sound coming from the road outside while biting her fingernails. Each time a car slows for the stop sign in front of the house, I hear her spit another nail as she cranes her neck to see out the front window without having to get up.

I try to help, although my attempt borders on lame. "Honey, It's what it is. Don't get yourself worked up over it."

"That's a lot easier to say when you're not the pregnant one," she says.

"But I was."

For the first time in an hour, Doriah focuses on me.

"About eighteen years ago it was me telling my father. If anything, I think it may have been harder for me than it is for you. Back then, teenage pregnancy wasn't as common or as accepted as it is now. It was a taboo subject."

"What did grandpa say?" She tucks her other foot underneath her to sit Indian-style.

"He wasn't happy, but it was a little different. I was able to finish college on time, and your father and I had already decided to get married. I think he would have preferred I put my education to good use before I rushed into a life wrapped in a picket fence, but there wasn't much he could do about it at that point."

"Did he get over it?"

"In time. Looking back, I don't think he was as upset over the pregnancy as he was over the divorce. He thought the world of your father."

Another car comes to a stop and that's where I lose my daughter's attention. I know she doesn't think I understand how nervous she is about telling her father, but I understand so well I've taken measures to help soothe Bryan's subconscious the same way I did when it was time to tell him I was pregnant with Doriah.

For this meeting, rather than the comfort of sweatpants, I chose a knee-length skirt with a thin white blouse even going as far as to tuck it in, something I haven't done since losing my battle with dieting. I also chose to make chicken paprika, a Hungarian dish passed down by my grandmother, and one of Bryan's favorite meals. To finish setting the stage, there's a freezer-cold six-pack of Becks and movie tickets for Val and Michelle. I don't know how much my efforts will help, but I remember the day I had to face Bryan and tell him the same thing Doriah will tell him tonight. I was more nervous than I could ever recall being in the past, but at the same time I was elated by the prospect of becoming a mother. When it was over, I felt a surge of relief. I'm trying to bridge the gap between nervous and relief for my daughter, as my mother hadn't been able to do for me.

"He's not due for another half hour," I call from the kitchen. "Did you get a hold of Teddy yet?"

"No. He dropped his phone in the lake the other day. I know he's at baseball practice. It's the last one before championships, and he can't miss or the coach won't let him start."

I mumble the first thought to pop into my head. "And we wouldn't want him to miss that."

I lift the lid from the pot on the stove, which sends the smell of tomato and paprika wafting through the house for an added measure of warmth. Every little bit helps.

Another car stops in front of the house. Even before Doriah stretches to look out the window, I hear the sound of tires crunching on the ash driveway.

"M-o-om." Doriah's voice pitches. "It's George. You said he wasn't coming tonight. I can't do this in front of him." I watch my daughter trip up the stairs as she takes two at a time.