"Justin, how much do you want to bet when my aunt gets here she tells me I've gained weight?"
It wasn't a bet he was willing to take.
The doorbell rang. We all rose to greet her and my uncle and nephew at the door. Hugs all around.
"Hi, Olaina!" She hugs me and pats me on the back as though she were burping Godzilla--her customary greeting. "You're looking better." Now she's holding my left arm in one hand and has her right hand around my chin as though she were checking to see if a little kid had washed carefully.
"What do you mean, 'better,'" I asked, probing for what I knew she wanted to say.
"You used to be so thin!"
I should have bet $100.
Later, she told me my "cousin" (anyone Indian and related to one of my relatives however tangentially is a cousin) is expecting. "First trimester!" she said.
Then later, unrelated to any part of the conversation she had to tell me that my cousin's best friend is also expecting.
"Wow. That's really amazing!"
I don't think she knows I had a miscarriage. Even if she did know, I don't think it would stop her. We're talking about the same woman who comes into my home and wipes her finger along the piano top, checking for dust.
Meanwhile, her son, who graduated from medical school in 1988 and now lives in a big house in San Mateo--the San Francisco bay area, mentions that I haven't sent a Christmas card in three years.
I haven't had a lot of news in the past three years. What was I supposed to write? I had a miscarriage. I became clinically depressed. I almost recovered from being clinically depressed but the anniversary of those events has brought me down. Merry Christmas!
I haven't had any alcohol today because I am trying to cut my empty calories, but man, they made me want to either drink heavily or take an anxiety pill.
I could run a mile right now and I don't know that I'd be calmed down.