"Okay, honey," she said.
I heard her unzip my suitcase and pull my clothes from it. Then I heard her gasp. My mother's gasp is one of her trademarks. A dramatic inhalation with more noise than you'd ever imagine possible. For a moment I thought she was making a point about my volume of dirty clothes. And then I remembered what I had popped last minute into my luggage: What to Expect When You're Expecting.
"What in the world is this?"
I had no choice but to fess up. I opened my eyes, sat up, and said, "Mom. I'm pregnant."
She gasped again, pressing her hands to her temples. "No." She shook her head. "No, you're not."
"Yes I am," I said.
"Dex?" she asked hopefully. She wanted desperately for me to tell her that Dex was the father. She wanted to believe that I could reconcile with the ideal man. Get my charmed life back.
I shook my head. "No. Marcus."
My mother collapsed onto the bed, dug her fists into my mattress, and wept. It wasn't exactly the "Mom, I'm pregnant" moment I had imagined.
"Mother, puh-lease! You're supposed to be happy for me!"
Her expression changed from mournful to angry. "How could you ruin your life like this? That boy is awful."
"He is not awful. He can be charming and really funny," I said, realizing that he hadn't been charming or even a little bit funny in a very long time. "And I'm marrying him, Mother. End of story."
"No. No. No! You can't do that, Darcy!" Yes, I can.
"You're throwing your life away. He's not good enough for you. Not even close," she said, her eyes filling with fresh tears.
"Because of one comment?"
"Because of a lot of things. Because you are not right for each other. Because of his behavior last night. Dex would never behave in such a deplorable—"
"Stop bringing up Dex! I'm with Marcus now!" I shouted at her, not caring who overheard me.
"You're ruining your life!" she yelled back at me. "And your father and I are not going to stand by and watch you do it!"
"I'm not ruining my life, Mother. I love Marcus and we're going to get married and have this baby. And you better just get used to it. Or else you're going to be one of those women on Oprah talking about how she's never met her grandchildren," I said, roughly pushing aside the covers and marching over to the guest room, into the arms of my husband-to-be.
After all, there is nothing like a mother telling you that you're making a bad decision to convince you that what you are doing is the absolute best course of action.
Minutes later, Marcus and I had packed our bags and were standing on the corner of the cul-de-sac waiting for the cab I had called. Nobody—not even my chipper little brother—tried to stop us from leaving. The cab dropped us off at the Holiday Inn next to the airport, where Marcus at least pretended to be contrite. I accepted his apology, and we spent the remainder of the weekend having sex and watching television in a darkened room that smelled of bleach and cigarette smoke. The whole scene was undeniably depressing, but strangely romantic and unifying. Marcus and I rehashed my fight with my mother, both of us agreeing that she was a heartless, shallow bitch.
And when we returned home, things continued to be good between us—or at least not altogether bad. But the peace was shortlived, and within a few weeks, we were at it again. Fighting about everything and anything. My chief complaints were his far-too-frequent poker nights with his newly acquired friends from the underbelly of Manhattan, his shabby wardrobe, and his unwillingness ever to make the trip up to my apartment. His chief complaints were my sudden lack of interest in giving him blow jobs, my keeping the thermostat too low in his apartment, and my obsession with Dex and Rachel.
Then one Saturday morning, after a doozy about baby names (he deigned to suggest the name Julie, when I knew that he had lost his virginity to a girl named Julie), Marcus kicked me out of his apartment, saying that he needed some time alone. So I left his place and went to Barneys, chalking it up to yet another lover's quarrel. Later that night, I expected him to call and apologize. But that didn't happen. In fact, he didn't call at all. Instead, I called him. Over and over. I left him angry messages. Then I left him threatening messages. And then I resorted to hysterical, pathetic, begging messages. When Marcus finally called me back, my venom and tears were gone. I only felt a cold uncertainty.
"Where have you been all weekend?" I asked, feeling pitiful.
"Thinking," he said.
"About us?" "Yup."
"What exactly were you thinking?" I asked. "Whether you want to be with me?"
"More or less…"