Chapter 18
Sloane
The first thing I hear is Eden shouting, “For the love of god, keep the noise down, you’re going to wake the baby!” Which is rich, because it was only three hours ago that the baby in question—Meena, destroyer of sleep—was screaming like she’d invented crying.
It’s a surprise to find myself already awake.
The room is chilly and I’m lying on the Sawyers’ living room couch, my arm completely dead from Eden’s head pinning it all night.
Now she’s abandoned me, leaving a suspiciously Eden-shaped dent in the pillow, and there’s chaos in the hallway making its way to the kitchen.
I get up, blinking my way through a sleep-deprived headache, and shuffle towards the noise.
I swear the scene I walk into is from a sitcom pilot.
There’s Eden, who’s in boxers and one of her baggy hoodies.
Liz, in her pajamas, already wielding a coffee pot as if she will die if not granted caffeine every six seconds.
Jenna, sitting at the breakfast bar, face pale and eyes wide, but not fully engaged.
And at the center of it all, two new people.
A small woman with black hair and a man who looks like he could build you anything out of wood in his shed.
They’re both wearing nearly identical zip-up fleece jackets and clutching mugs of tea.
Milly and John Sawyer, aka Gran and Granddad. I haven’t met them before, but I’ve heard enough stories from Eden over the years to know who they are on sight. They look quintessentially British.
Eden notices me first. “Oh, she lives! Sloane, come meet the reinforcements.” She uses her spatula to gesture.
I want to be charming. Instead, I’m barefoot and braless, hair in a Medusa tangle, and wearing Eden’s Slipknot t-shirt. There’s a smear of baby formula on the hem.
Milly, unperturbed, does a little hop off her stool and comes at me with open arms. “Oh, sweetheart, look at you. I thought you’d be taller.
” She engulfs me in a hug that manages to compress my spine while also infusing me with a scent of lavender, menthol hard candy, and a faint tang of airplane gin.
I stammer out, “It’s lovely to meet you,” while she gives my back an adjustment.
Milly pulls away, peers at my face as if she’s looking for signs of hereditary insanity, and says, “Oh, you poor lamb. You’ve got the face of someone who was up every hour on the hour.” She turns to Eden. “You take care of this one. She’s delicate.”
Eden looks pleased as punch. “I try.”
John, meanwhile, does not rise. He merely inclines his head in my direction, raises his tea mug, and says, “Morning.” His accent is the full Dick Van Dyke, all dropped h’s and casual vowels, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that makes me want to hug him too, even if he’d probably rather eat a fork.
Liz watches the proceedings, clearly enjoying the role reversal of parent/child.
“Did you two really get on the next flight over?” Eden asks.
Gran, resuming her place, sniffs. “Of course we did. Your mother called us and said you were all in the thick of it. What’s the point of being a grandparent if you don’t turn up at inconvenient times?”
I try to picture the logistics—Eden’s family and jetlag and the possibility of multiple emotional breakdowns per hour—and immediately want to lie back down on the couch.
“Gran is a legend. She once threatened a Heathrow gate agent with her handbag.” Jenna laughs.
Eden cackles. “Yeah, and she got us all on the flight to Barcelona. No one argued with her.”
Gran picks at a crumb, her eyes glinting. “If you let the airlines walk all over you, you’ll never get anywhere, will you?” She directs this at me as if imparting a sacred trust.
I nod, still feeling slightly out of my comfort zone, but I can see why Eden worships this woman. Gran is formidable.
The kitchen hums. Coffee and tea are passed around. Liz plates up scrambled eggs with more enthusiasm than skill. I try to help, but Gran shoos me away. “You’ll only get under my feet, dear. You’re a guest. Sit down and let the grown-ups work.”
Eden perches next to me and nudges my knee. “You okay?”
“I think your gran dislocated one of my vertebrae.”
“Yeah. She does that.” There’s a pause as Eden pours syrup onto toast, making it into a sodden raft. “Don’t be scared of her. She likes you.”
“She’s got a presence,” I say.
“Wait until you see her after she’s had a gin or three.”
Milly, who’s now explaining to Liz the superior merits of ultra-pasteurized milk, suddenly turns and says, “Sloane, do you take milk in your tea?”
I freeze. “Um. Yes. Please.”
Eden gives me a look. “She’s never had proper tea.”
Gran gasps. “Never?”
I backpedal. “I mean, I have, but—”
“Oh, you’ve had American tea.” Gran nods sagely, as if I’ve confessed to having survived a shipwreck. “Well, let’s fix that right now.” She sets to work with the businesslike efficiency of a battlefield nurse.
Eden leans over and whispers, “If she asks you about Brexit, run.”
The next ten minutes are a blitz of food, sharp-tongued banter, and the unspoken battle of who can make the best toast. John eats steadily, offering the occasional commentary while Gran alternates between bossing and fussing over everyone, Sloane included.
Breakfast is winding down when Liz claps her hands and says, “Okay, I’m going to wake Pia and Todd. Meena will be awake soon.”
Gran’s face lights up. “Finally! I’ve seen more photos of this child than the royal baby. I’m going to see if she has your chin, Eden.”
To be fair, we all went a little nuts with our camera apps the second Meena was born. She’s probably got over a thousand photos and she’s only 48 hours old.
“Why would she have my chin?” Eden asks, half-laughing.
“Because you were an ugly baby, love. Big head, massive chin. No offense.”
Eden looks mortified. I feel a bubble of laughter making its way from my throat.
Jenna bursts out laughing until Milly tells her she had a big forehead when she popped out.
Liz rolls her eyes but looks at her mum with love.
It’s intriguing to see their British culture come alive right in front of me.
Eden has never lost that side of her, even though she’s been in the States for years.
Jenna is more American than anyone else in her family, but it’s taken her just a few minutes to slip into her British roots.
I notice, suddenly, that my phone is buzzing. I have three missed calls from an unknown number and a text from Lisa Bentley, the sports therapist.
My mentoring starts today at one and, although I’m super excited, the thought of leaving this circus is weirdly disappointing but also a blessed reprieve. I sidle up to Eden while she’s refilling her coffee.
“I have to go soon. Lisa wants me there by one.”
Eden raises an eyebrow. “Already nervous?”
“Yes. What if I totally screw it up?”
She puts her mug down and looks at me with a seriousness she usually reserves for painting or shopping for boots. “You won’t. You’re brilliant and you know your shit. Just be yourself, Sloane. That’s enough.”
Gran appears at my elbow. “You’re leaving?”
I nod. “I’m shadowing a therapist for the afternoon.”
Gran beams. “Good for you. Make sure to wring them for all the knowledge they’ve got. And if they try to fob you off with jargon, tell them your gran says to stuff it.”
I grin. It’s impossible not to.
John, who has finished his tea, stands and collects the mugs with a soldier’s discipline. “She’ll do you proud,” he says to Eden, which might be the most words he’s spoken all morning.
I pull on my jacket and Eden walks me out to the curb, away from the fray. It’s chilly, but the sun is sharp, and Eden squints at me like she’s trying to burn the image into her brain.
“Are you sure your gran likes me?” I ask, as if it matters, because it absolutely matters.
“Gran just referred to herself as ‘your gran’, Sloane. That’s her seal of approval. It also means that if you call her Milly she’ll clip your ear. It’s Gran or Grandma from now on.”
I laugh, and for a second, the anxiety dissipates.
She kisses me, fast and electric, like she’s tucking a secret away for later. “You’re going to do amazing.”
I believe her this time.
As I walk to my car, I hear Gran’s voice float out the front door. “If you’re not back for supper, we’ll have to send out a search party!” and I can’t tell if it’s a joke or a promise.
Either way, I feel weirdly ready for anything.
Silver Lining Sports Therapy occupies a strip mall storefront next to a vape shop and a laser tag place.
The sign on the window is done up in that sterile-chic font that clearly implies, “We will heal you, but not before billing your insurance out the ass.” The parking lot is mostly empty, which I take as a good sign for the human population at large.
Inside, it’s the exact opposite of the entrance: blindingly clean, sunlight everywhere and the air a clinical combo of bleach and something citrusy.
I’m a few minutes early, which feels important, so I stand at the front desk with my bag clamped to my side until Lisa Bentley pops her head out from the back and gives me a quick wave.
She looks exactly the same as she did last semester when she subbed for my Sports Med class: blonde ponytail, surgical scrubs, sneakers. She’s the kind of woman who would bench press her own weight just to see if she could.
It was quite the shock to realize I knew Lisa.
The initial email offering me a chance to shadow someone didn’t indicate who I’d be working with.
Imagine my surprise when I had a video chat to set the mentoring up, only to be introduced to a face I already knew.
I took it as a sign from the universe I was making the right decision.
“You’re early,” she says, like it’s an accusation, but her mouth’s already quirking up. “Come on in.”