Page 106 of Cashmere Cruelty

Eleanor’s voice is clipped, factual. In the background, I can hear the clattering of pots and pans, the rush of running water. “Get to the point, shortcake. Momma’s got dishes.”

You’ve also got a husband with two functioning arms, I think but don’t say. Who knows? Maybe Tom’s hands fell off the same wagon he did. It’s been a while since I last saw him—anything’s possible.

“I just wanted to catch up, see how you’re doing,” I answer as meekly as I can. “If this is a bad time?—”

“Every time is a bad time,” my mother dismisses. “Out with it. Poker night ain’t gonna clean up after itself.”

Don’t I know it.“I’ve actually got kind of a big news. We could meet, if that’s better.”

On the other end of the line, Eleanor scoffs. “Yeah, right. ‘Cause I’ve got that kind of time on my hands.”

My smile falters a little more. I shake myself. I’m the one who wanted to do this. If I don’t give it my best, then what’s the point? “Well, I’m a bit freer right now. I’m on leave from work for a bit, so maybe I could come and see you?—”

Eleanor’s barking laughter cuts me right off. “Oh, sweetie. Don’t you know better than that? If it’s about money, I don’t have it.”

For a second, I have to reboot my brain. “Money?” I repeat stupidly. “No, I wasn’t?—”

“Why don’t you ask your father?” Eleanor suggests, spitting the last word out with ill-concealed contempt. “I’m sure Nella can do without a new Birkin this season.”

“Nora,” I correct automatically.

“Whatever,” Eleanor scoffs. “If that’s all?—”

“Mom,” I cut her off. “It’s not about money.”

It’s a herculean effort to snap my sentence in half there. Because the other half would be a huge, long overdue rant:I’ve never asked you for money in my life. I could’ve—Ishould’ve—but I didn’t. So why in the everlasting hell would you think that’s why I called you now?!

“Oh,” Eleanor breathes. “Well, if that’s not it, then?—”

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence falls over the line. For a second, I think I might’ve lost signal. I hold my phone away to check?—

“HAHAHAHA!”

—and Eleanor bursts into laughter.

“Oh, sweetie,” she wheezes, as if she’s drying away a tear or something, “you didn’t tell me you were going into comedy.”

“I’m really not.” Nothing about this conversation strikes me even remotely as funny. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, though.”

“Honey,” she gasps, still between bursts of hilarity, “come on. There’s no way you’re pregnant.”

“I kind of am, though.”

“Please. Since when?”

I take a deep breath. Without thinking, I’ve started rubbing circles into my belly. “Nine months, actually,” I exhale at last, fighting to keep my tone even. “The baby’s due any day now. And since it’s your grandchild, I thought you should know.”

There, I huff mentally.Done.Whatever Eleanor chooses to do with the information, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I did my part.

What I don’t expect is for her to keep laughing.“Aw, shortcakes. Where’d you leave your math? Either you’re pregnant, or it’s been nine months. In which case, the little munchkin would already be out and about.”

“Seriously? You’ve been post-termtwice!”

“And that’s already rare enough,” Eleanor retorts. “Besides, you’d know the sex by now. But no—you said ‘it’, ‘grandchild’…”

My eyes keep bulging. I can’t believe what I’m hearing: is my mother playing detective? Trying to catch me in a lie? I just told her I’m goddamnpregnant.And that’s what she does with it?

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