Page 1 of Knocking up his Nanny

CHAPTER 1

JUNIPER

“Honey,” my mother says, once the nurse finally manages to get the needle into her arm. “Are you ever going to introduce me to a nice boy before I die?”

The question is not fair.

I watch as the tube connected to the needle fills with a yellow serum, slithering down into my mom’s veins. It’s liquid gold. It’s poison. It’s saving her life. It’s hurting her. It’s costing a fortune.

“I don’t know any nice boys,” I answer as I pull her knitting supplies out of her handbag. I hate these chemo treatments. I have so many mixed feelings. It might seem innocent enough, but it gives me a ton of anxiety. None of my sisters have driven our mother to these appointments and had to sit here for hours and watch.

“Oh, well, he doesn’t have to bethatnice,” my mother corrects, trying to be understanding. “He can be a little naughty, I suppose. Just have some fun, dear. I want you to go out there and live your life, and I want to see you smile more.”

“I have lots of fun, Mumsy.” We all call her that—not just our family, but the entire town. She’s very old—old enough to be my grandmother. She couldn’t have kids of her own, so when she adopted all of us, she was already way past the natural age of any mother. Still, she’s always been so full of energy, love, and good advice—even the chemo hasn’t been able to keep her down. It wrecked her hair, but it couldn’t steal her smile.

Mumsy has been the surrogate grandmotherly figure for all of Silver Mountain. So, when she turns to all the other people in the room, they all pay attention. “My Junebug never has any fun,” she complains to the others receiving chemotherapy, as she resumes knitting a warm winter hat. “She’s basically a nun. Can you believe that I raised a nun?”

“Youth is wasted on the young,” says another old woman with a deep sigh.

“I am nothing like a nun,” I tell them all stubbornly. Although, my favorite movie of all time isThe Sound of Music.And I may have considered becoming a nun once or twice after I got my heart broken really badly—and watched my sisters’ hearts get smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind retiring from the dating scene, hanging up my heels, and putting on a habit.

But I’m not a nunYET. There is still a tiny spark of hope left somewhere in this sad, dusty vagina.

“Junebug,” my mother asks, “When is the last time you went on a date?”

“Uh,” I say, trying to remember. “Recently?”

“How do you expect to meet a nice boy if you’re so shut down and closed off?” she asks.

“It took me years to build up the courage and talk to my wife,” says an old man in the room, holding up the hand with his wedding ring proudly. “Best thing I ever did. My only regret is taking too long—I wish I hadn’t wasted that time, and could have been enjoying life with her much sooner.”

“That’s a lovely story,” I tell him. “But these days, guys aren’t the same as when you were young. They aren’t serious—they just want to mess around and walk away. Everything is super casual.”

“That’s okay,” my mother says hopefully. “Maybe you can’t have serious without starting as casual, sometimes.”

I don’t know. Why bother starting anything if it never leads anywhere? This conversation is making me feel gloomy, and I am craving some Cheetos.

“Ah, Juniper,” says another old woman in disappointment. I know her from the daycare where I used to work. “I think I see the problem, young lady. Why are you wearing such a horrible potato-sack sweater? How do you expect to attract any man like that? Why, if my boobs weren’t sitting way down by my bellybutton, I would show off the girls!”

I look down in surprise. But I love this sweater. I knitted it myself.

Begrudgingly, I undo a few buttons and slide it off one shoulder. “Is that better, Mrs. Merriweather?”

“Yes, dear. Now you have to go out and have some fun for all of us!”

“Well, I actuallyhavestarted dating someone,” I tell all the cancer patients. I feel horrible as soon as the words leave my mouth. I hate lying. I’m sure I’m going straight to hell. But how can I disappoint all of their poor, sweet faces, looking for some good news today?

I am sure that the best news they are all seeking is the R-word.Remission. But since I can’t give them that… the next best thing is another R-word. Romance? I bet they would love some Raunchy, R-rated Romance.

“Who is he, Juney?” my mother asks with excitement. “Why haven’t you told me about him?”

“Oh, it’s still very new,” I respond. “He is very handsome and seems wonderful, but I didn’t want to talk about it too soon and get my hopes up. Just in case it ends up falling apart.”

“Tell me all about him!” my mother says, her eyes lighting up. “Is he good enough for my little girl?”

“Oh, he’s the best,” I say, as I begin to share a vague and enchanting tale about some dashing mystery man that I’ve never met. I tell them all how he opened the car door on our date, and held my hand as we walked in the snow. All kinds of romantic things that probably don’t happen anymore—I doubt they want to hear the truth. That most ‘dates’ consist of Netflix and chill and never speaking again.

Mrs. Merriweather listens and nods. “Just don’t wear that sweater when you see him, and I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

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