31 #3
"Don't look at me like that," she growls. "I'm pissed, but this girl is not touching the floor." She turns to Vega. "Up you go, sweetheart. Breathe. Small sips of water. Mikel, bring saltines. The normal kind—don't get cute with quinoa."
"Yes," Mikel says, and bolts. And of course he already knows where everything in the house is stored, because he basically lives here, camouflaged as the quasi–brother-in-law who doesn’t cook but eats first.
Right then, Svet and Vera appear like they smelled blood.
"What's going on?" Svet asks, full radar eyes.
"Nothing," Julia says.
"Everything!" Sabina says.
"I heard I might finally get a cousin!" Svet does a happy little hop.
"Then I'm going to be an aunt," Vera declares, very serious, proud.
"An aunt to who, kid?" I say, just to poke her.
"Everyone's," she replies, and she’s perfectly fine with that.
Luna comes in at a slant, towing Martina.
"Did I hear 'baby'? Are we finally mixing last names and crashing the family tree?" She claps.
Martina gives her an affectionate elbow.
"If you'll allow, I think the most likely thing is that the mushroom ceviche she was served didn't sit well. She's the only one who ate it; it's perfectly possible it caused the upset. With all due respect, I think you're jumping to an exaggerated conclusion," Martina says, steady, reasonable.
"Who made the ceviche?" Sabina asks, clinical eye and one eyebrow rising. My brain jumps to health codes and a taster's spit cup—I am not subtle about the fear.
"Me," Julia says, hand up. "So we can rule out the poisoning theory."
Mikel comes back like he's carrying the One Ring: saltines and water, with the attitude of a Downton Abbey–trained footman, only less stiff. Vega chews obediently, eyes huge.
"But I don't want you to be mad," Vega whispers to Sabina, who wipes a little drool from her lip with her finger, pure mom.
"I'm mad at life, not at you," Sabina answers, softer.
"And if you're a baby factory, I'm going to be the best grandmother on the planet, you hear me?
" She turns to the rest of us. "Which does not mean I'm forgiving my son.
" To Mikel: "You and I are going to talk logistics and latex until you learn to say yes, ma'am. "
Mikel, with the ancestral wisdom of a survivor, gives her a "yes, ma'am" so flawless even Alexa would bow.
"I'm going to the pharmacy," Irina repeats in full Soviet-commander mode. "Julia, you coming?"
"I'm coming," Julia says, grabbing her purse. "Kids, couch. Amaia, you're in charge."
"Always," Amaia says, but she gives Vega a little pet with a tenderness that, by ricochet, softens me too.
"Nat, keep an eye on things—nobody leaves, you know the drill," Irina tells her.
Nat nods.
Svet is already making lists.
"If it's a girl, we can call her Svetlana the Second," she dictates, very serious. "If it's a boy, SvetlanO."
"No," Irina blurts, and for the first time today she cracks up so hard she almost drops the remote control of life.
I do some performative mindful breathing, a dumb gag grabs me, and it passes, slow.
I look at Vega, who's got that face like "I'd love to vanish behind a cushion but they won't let me," and I get this weird stab, because before I would have wiped her up with gas station toilet paper without even looking, and now we've got half the A-Team mounting an operation.
I feel superfluous, but I also want to tell them all to fuck off out of pure love.
"If it turns out to be a virus, you're all going to laugh tomorrow," Luna warns, stroking Vega's back like she's charming a cobra.
"And if it isn't, you're still going to laugh," Martina finishes. "Period."
Julia and Irina have already vanished down the hall to grab the test. I’m already watching the whole movie in my head: the furious grandma, the drama, the ominous little music cue, and, of course, Betty White popping in to say something outrageous.
Sabina throws me off. Her eyebrow’s up and her blood’s boiling, sure, but she’s not letting go of my sister’s arm—she’s got it locked down, either to comfort her, to keep her from bolting, or because she needs human contact when her cortisol spikes.
With her other hand she’s battling a stain on the rug. She crouches, scrubs, huffs.
"You’re coming out," she tells the stain. "And you sit," she tosses at Vega without looking at her.
"I’m sitting," Vega says, quiet.
"More," Sabina orders, and wedges another pillow behind her.
I’m pretty sure any minute now she’ll pull a rag out of her purse and start drying other people’s tears on reflex if things go sideways.
The word ‘grandma’ doesn’t quite fit her; it doesn’t match her face or her voice.
I’ve got her filed under something else: the aunt who teaches you how to do your makeup when you’re hungover, not the soup-bringer when you’ve got a fever.
But life has a mean streak, and if she ends up with grandkids, I can see her swapping English lessons for seduction lessons for ten-year-olds, a crash course in flirting for school parties, and hangouts to explain that you do not send a three-minute voice note just to say hi.
And then people claim nothing ever happens anymore.
"Svet, ease up on the checklist," I tell her. "You breathe too."
"Okay, okay, but I need order," she says, ticking off another point. "Point three: neutral clothes, no loud cartoon prints—they wind me up."
"Point four: somebody cover the stain," Sabina says, refusing to give up. "It’s distracting me."
I scoot over and sit pressed up against Vega, hip to hip—basic emotional-support mode. I whisper in her ear so only she hears me, because if I project, Sabina will start giving me homework.
"Breathe, because even if your mother-in-law wants to stage a musical about teen pregnancy in here, we’re all with you. And if this turns out to be a virus, tomorrow we’ll laugh at this whole movie. And if not, same, but after we sleep and after I eat a giant croissant without guilt."
Vega nods, short of breath. Luna gives one of her laugh-it-off gestures, Martina pulls out her phone to time the test, and me—my brain doesn’t stop even if you unplug me—I start thinking up names that aren’t Svetlana II or SvetlanO, and I get the urge to start a poll in the WhatsApp group chat.
Then I remember the worst option always wins, so I stay put, my hand on her knee and a nervous little laugh giving me away.
She doesn’t say a word, just swallows a cookie and uses me as a pillow, like I don’t have a spine. Mikel shows up, an expert in unnecessary tenderness, and plants a kiss on her forehead.
As if that weren’t enough, Svet throws the couch blanket over us, Vera puffs up and goes, "Protocol activated." Who knows if she’s talking about the app she cooked up herself or if she honestly thinks she’s head of the CIA.
Luna, of course, starts goofing around the room. Not a hospital clown or anything—more like a court jester, no official title, with a YouTuber complex. Martina and Nat keep time and calculate how long it’ll take to get to the pharmacy and back.
Meanwhile, my brain busies itself with dumb thoughts.
First I count to five, because my head has never known how to wait in quiet mode.
Then to ten. Then I wonder if I should go stare at the door and yell "surprise!" when they come back, just to mess with them. The downside is I might open it and find them rolling a joint to calm their nerves, and then we’d really have a situation. So I wait, still, even though inside I’m inventing choreography, absurd novel plots, and theories about whether pregnancy tests work worse if the person is listening to reggaeton.
Then I just watch the door Irina and Julia will come through with the answer.