Chapter Thirty-One
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I am going to throw up. Anton’s arm rests like a weight on my shoulder. He produces the sonogram, which gets passed around the table, and I hear the rumble of his voice, but can’t make out what he’s saying above the roar in my ears. All I see is my mother sitting across from me, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smirk.
“ . . . know what you’re having?”
“How far along . . . ?”
“ . . . are you feeling?”
It’s like a choppy ocean of words, tossing me around. But I can’t break the surface.
Until I realize everyone’s waiting for me to speak. Celia’s eyes are a blend of sympathy and excitement. I look up at Anton, searching for his comfort, his concern. But when he looks down into my face, he’s beaming. The way I’ve always imagined a proud father might. It’s similar to the look that used to shine in his mother’s eyes. Something in my chest squeezes— this , this is what I’ve wanted for him.
But then I meet my own mother’s gaze across the table. See the way her mouth curls up on one side, her eyes gleaming—not with warmth or maternal anticipation, but mirth. And I realize she knows. She sees me .
“We—we’re excited,” I manage to say. But the words come out sounding only half true.
“Oh Lydia, you’ll be a great mommy,” our mom says, giving my sister a sideways glance. “I mean, how could you not? You’re so much like me.”
I need air. I need to leave. But the room tilts when I try to get my feet under me, and I grip the table, afraid I might fall out of my chair.
My mother claps her hands at the baby in the high chair. “Both my girls are going to be mommies! Baby Gabey’s going to have a baby cousin!” she shrieks.
At this, Gabe’s little brow furrows with uncertainty. He looks at Celia, who tries to distract him with a small piece of bread. He throws it on the floor, looks back at his grandmother, and starts to wail. Honestly, I wish I could too.
I watch my sister jump into action, trying to wipe bananas off her son and unbuckle him as fast as she can while his screeching grows in intensity. She looks harried and exhausted. And all I can think is—that’s going to be me. When the little peach inside me emerges, I will be at its mercy too. If it demands I jump, I’ll have no choice but to guess how high. Except Celia does it all with a glow, a satisfaction I don’t have inside me.
Because our mother never had it either.
Anton’s out of his chair now, setting aside the thrill of our announcement to stand awkwardly by my sister like he wants to help but isn’t sure how. All the while, our mother just sits watching, not lifting a finger. Like she did her time as a mom and is now enjoying seeing her daughter slave away the same way she did.
“I—I need the restroom.” I rise from the table, shoving my chair back.
But before I can escape the dining room, Dr. Adam comes back, holding a tube of something. He hands it to Anton. “Here. For the stretch marks. This really helps.”
My legs propel me from the room.
I don’t know where I’m headed, but my mother’s laser gaze, assessing my body, my stomach, keeps me going as far away as I can get. Out into the living room and up the modern, floating staircase barricaded by plastic gates. There are baby obstacles everywhere. A mat on the floor with arches covered in dangling things, an expensive-looking swing, some other contraption with a seatbelt that must do something. There are little soft toys everywhere, and suddenly I wish I could bury my face in Heartthrob’s fur. How could my sister ever, ever give up her dog?
When I reach the second floor, I’m not sure where to turn. There’s a hall with a bunch of doors, and I know one of them is designated ours, but I guess I just have to try them.
The first room looks like it hasn’t been touched since they moved in. Celia’s desk sits in the middle of the room. There’s an empty bookshelf in a corner. Some art prints and her framed diplomas rest on the floor against the wall, but the desk is piled with unopened boxes and it looks like no one’s been in here for months.
The next door is a bathroom, but when I open the one after that, I lean heavily against the doorframe. It’s the only room in the house that clearly has my sister’s touch. The crib, dresser, and changing table are all a traditional style, white and bright. The window hangings, rug, and rocking chair are plush. Soft and welcoming. There’s a little shelf filled with picture books. Tasteful photos of friendly farm animals on the walls. And the name Gabriel written out in bold letters hanging above the crib. It looks like a photoshoot from some catalog, not a room that a baby actually uses. It doesn’t even smell like diapers.
“Hey. Just thought I’d see if you need anything?”
I turn around to find my sister. Sans infant, thank God. Though I can’t help wondering whose care she left him in, of all the people to choose from downstairs.
“I um...” I don’t even realize I’m crying until I hear the tremor in my voice. I gesture to her son’s room for a distraction. “This looks nice.”
“Thank you,” she says, more warmly than I can remember her speaking to me my entire life. She scoots past me toward the dresser, grabs a tissue, and I’m grateful to take it from her. “I’m so sorry Mom spoiled your news.”
I look at her face, take in the sincerity in her eyes, and I nearly break into full sobs. Not because I’m sad about the botched announcement. Not for any reason my sister would guess .
“For what it’s worth, you look beautiful. And I’m excited for you,” Celia says.
My head spins. I can’t remember the last time my sister offered me a real compliment. Or one that wasn’t at least partly backhanded.
“Thanks. Um... I’m still getting used to the idea.”
Her eyebrows rise in some sort of understanding. “ Oh —yes. Well, I wasn’t expecting Gabe either. Initially, the idea of him was quite a shock.”
I press my lips together, not bothering to correct her as I turn her words over in my head. “I thought you guys planned?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly. “The important thing is, after all my initial doubts and worry, he has turned out to be the single most special thing in the world.”
And this is where I get off , I think. Because I finally understand—my issue isn’t really about the baby. It’s about me.
“You seem pretty great at being a mom,” I say quietly. Since apparently we now say nice things to each other.
She sits in the rocking chair by the window, leaning back like it’s a place she spends a lot of time. “I think you have to want to.” She glances toward the hall, down the stairs. “I’m not sure Marion ever did.”
My stomach, already near my feet, works its way into the floorboards.
A happy-sounding burble draws our attention to the door as Anton appears at the top of the stairs, carrying a very smiley baby Gabriel.
Of course. She chose him.
“There she is. I told you we’d find her,” he says in a placid voice I have never heard.
My sister rises from her chair with wide arms and an open smile. All signs of her being tired or exhausted have gone. She looks nothing if not restored.
“Hello!” she says as her son reaches for her from my husband’s arms. “Were you looking for Mommy?”
Once he’s in her arms, he visibly relaxes, nestling into her chest. She closes her eyes, stroking his hair. Anton looks on next to me with a tranquil smile. I step back toward the door .
“Um, we’ll leave you if you’re going to—” I gesture around, trying to indicate things I’d rather not think of. Breastfeeding, diapers.
“You look tired, Lydia. You should go lie down.” I’m actually grateful to hear my sister’s more-familiar patronizing voice. It’s almost soothing. At least I know how to respond to it.
“I’ll do that,” I say, grateful for the excuse to hide from our mom. “Don’t wait up for me for dessert. I’ll have pie for breakfast.”
Celia’s eyes fall on my husband as she settles back in the rocking chair and starts pulling at her shirt. “Thanks again for your help, Uncle Anton.”
He nods. “Guess I’m going to need the practice.”
I’m in the next room, what must be our bedroom judging from the suitcases, before he finishes the sentence. The furnishings aren’t nearly as welcoming as the nursery, but the sleek, modern bed has a fluffy duvet which I climb under, trying to bury myself.
Anton closes the door and comes to settle beside me. And I guess this ought to feel comforting, but I’m surprised to find myself wishing he’d leave. I just want to close my eyes and make everything go away. I want to be back in Denver, with my dog and my job, with no more big announcements or major life events coming at me. I just wish things could be normal again.
“That didn’t really go the way I thought it would,” Anton says after a while.
“Yes it did,” I say into the pillow. “It was always going to go like that.”
He doesn’t seem to know what to say to this. Instead, he climbs under the covers with me, and we lie there a long time, until the last of the daylight fades and the room has gone dark.
Eventually, I sneak out to go to the bathroom, because pregnancy. I’m not sure what time it is, but I’m surprised to find the whole house quiet and dark. I’m actually starving now that the worst of the drama is over, but not enough to risk running into my mother downstairs. There’s every chance she’s lingering with a glass of wine somewhere.
Instead, I slip back into our room, removing my sweatshirt, leggings, and bra because I am now a furnace. Quietly, I slide back under the covers in my T-shirt and underwear, trying not to disturb Anton. But as I curl up next to him, seeking the reassurance of his steady breathing, his hand drifts lazily over, gently caressing my thigh.
I close my eyes. Wishing we were back in our own house, in our bed. Anton shifts closer, continuing to explore the way I wished he had yesterday. Sliding his hand over my hip and along my arm. Brushing my T-shirt lightly where my nipples stand out against the fabric. And as he does, the heat inside me reignites. My already-warm skin grows hotter, liquid arousal shooting through my core, bringing back that strong, insistent ache between my legs. My thighs clench together, and I know I’m ready for him. I don’t even need to check. I am slick and hot and yearning, no other foreplay necessary.
The problem is, this is not me . This isn’t who I am. I’ve always had to work at intimacy—with Anton’s help. Touching, exploring, warming me up. It’s become part of our process, something we’ve learned how to do. If we get my body started, then my brain will get on board. And I can tell that’s what he’s trying to do. But something has short-circuited. He’s hardly touched me, barely looked at me, and here I am, nearly ready to come.
I pull away, roll into the covers on the far side of the bed. As if, somehow, I could escape myself. Get away from this new, strange body that feels and acts nothing like my own. Once I am fully cocooned, wrapped up in the sheets like a mummy, not baring an inch of skin, I register the distinct lack of other movement. The silence in the room.
And I realize too late what I’ve done. Anton reached for me. I’ve been dying for him to touch me for weeks, and he finally did, but I pulled away. Shut him down. Rejected him exactly the way I always used to.
I open my mouth in the dark, trying to find words, to help him understand.
Except I can’t. I don’t even know myself.