Mothers and Daughters

“Grandbabies! I want grandbabies!” My Nona calls out right before the door slams shut. We’ve been having Sunday dinners since my mom died four years ago and every Sunday it’s the same thing, babies and marriage. She’s convinced I’m an old maid at twenty-three, and conveniently forgets that I am currently living in sin. Usually it doesn’t bother me. Sometimes I even wish I could take her up on her offer to send me to Italy and find a nice Italian boy to marry. Tonight I almost puked. Tonight Nona may just get what she asked for. The only thing between her and those grandbabies is a pink strip.
         
Twenty minutes after Nona left and I’m staring at the tiny box, reading the directions over and over again as if the test wasn’t completely self-explanatory. If my mother could figure it out at fifteen I sure as hell could do it now. I read the directions five more times before my fingers open the box.
         
I can’t pee! I’m sitting on the toilet with the stupid stick stuffed between my legs and Matt, my non-Italian, non-Catholic boyfriend will be home in less then an hour. How am I supposed to tell him we’re having a baby if I can’t pee on the friggin stick?
         
The directions said to drink a glass of water. Actually the exact words were “water will help with urination.” Just another piece of information that will hopefully become forever useless after today. The first glass doesn’t help. The second doesn’t either. Finally, after the fifth glass, I’m able to pee. Then the stick is wet and my hand is gross. I scrub my hands until they’re red and raw but my eyes don’t leave the stick.

Is that…I think I see pink. It’s very faint. Most probably it’s the lights flickering as the electricity in my apartment building hasn’t been updated since old Ben flew his kite. It had to be the lights. The directions say at least ten minutes before any color can be seen.
         
I set an egg timer for ten minutes minus the two that it took to wash my hands. When I set it back onto the edge of the sink it tumbles in and water splashes over it.  The picture it made has my brain searching for an analogy. I’m fumbling for anything to relate to my situation, anything to explain it away. I come up with nothing. At least I don’t have any enlightening idioms to make me feel better. I do remember that I need to pick up frozen waffles and toothpaste. I also wish I’d painted my nails this morning. Non-sequential and meaning-less thoughts keep me from dwelling on the subject but it only lasts so long.
         
The timer has ticked down to seven minutes and I’m back to burning holes into the stick willing it to do something. One strip or two has ceased to matter. In seven minutes my life will be changed into something unrecognizable and I just went to get on with it. I don’t want to be leaning against a porcelain sink pretending that white has turned to pink. I try not to think about what happens when it does.
         
The living room is five steps away from the bathroom. It takes me ten steps to blast Sally Jessy Raphael on the TV. The entire time the egg timer is gripped in my hand and it’s still ticking away minute seven. It’s been hours since it changed. Days since I peed on the stick. I shake the timer next to my ear but don’t hear any broken pieces bouncing around inside. Sally Jessy Raphael laughs at my stupidity. I drop with a small oomph onto our new leather couch and land on the Tivo remote. I can’t wait for that bruise. Sally is yelling at a teenage girl who looks like a human doodle pad. The show’s title flashed onto the screen below them; Girls Who Hate Their Mothers.
         
I never hated my mother. I don’t even remember ever fighting with my mother. She was a grocer, a landlord, and a soft guitar played at the witching hour. She was an unreliable friend but never a mother. Not every woman is made to be a mother. No matter their age some women are born for the job and some are not. My mother wasn’t. She was many things, a musician, a waitress, a beautiful dancer, but not a mother. I’m the spitting image of her, both the good and the bad. It’s no wonder my Nona is so insistent on getting me married off. She doesn’t want me to turn out like my mother.
         
The phone rings and interrupts my internal whining. I sprint toward the phone but my legs get into a fight with a brass lamp and I crash into the floor. My legs are still working so I’m sure I look like a dying fish. Eventually I’m able to pull myself up the wall and stand again. Slowly and with at least a modicum of grace I walk to the phone and answer.
         
“Bambina!”

“Nona, is something wrong?”
         
“No, of course not. I wanted to tell you. I found that blanket.”
         
“Blanket?” The timer is still ticking down. The closer it stretches toward zero the more I’m tempted to throw it against a wall.
         
“Remember, the one I was telling you about. The one my mother made for your mother when she was a baby.”
         
“Oh, yes.” I have no idea what your talking about it.
         
“I want you to have it so eventually you can wrap your babies up in it.”
         
“Thanks, Nona.” I’m pregnant.
         
“You have such love in you. You should be having babies. A woman should be a mother.” I glance at the timer, only three minutes left. I might puke.
         
“Yes, Nona.”
         
“You are very stubborn. You say, Yes, Nona, but you don’t listen to what I say. You are just like your Momma.” I’m not like Momma. I won’t end up like her.
         
“Nona, I have to go.”
         
“Don’t you want to talk to your Nona?”
         
“Of course, Nona. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hang up before she can protest.
         
A mother and daughter are murdering each other with their words on TV. Sally is egging them on. The timer is still ticking and I can’t help but wonder how much like Momma I actually am, selfish, and self-involved, impossible to live with and temperamental.
         
One and half minutes left. My hand reaches out to twist the knob back a few minutes. I just want to set it on the number five again. That way I’ll be able to finish Sally Jessy Raphael and Matt will be home with Chinese. I’ll be able to forget the pink strips and peeing on a stick. If I push it back to five I can ignore it all.
         
My hand stops halfway to the timer. It hangs in mid-air for a second but I don’t follow through. I don’t turn the knob back. It won’t change anything even if I do.
         
The seconds click in my ear like a homemade bomb and every second is a second closer to nuclear meltdown. I stand inches away from detonation, but I can’t run away. This bomb has attached a tracker to me and it will follow me wherever I go.

Ten seconds left and I’m not ready. When the bell rings the world will end and I’m not sure what will spring up in its place, but I know I’m not ready for it. My fears don’t keep the clock from ticking and the bell is shrill in my ear. I can't breath. I watch as my hand reaches for the stick. It tilts toward me and I look for pink. One line or two…