32 #2
Sometimes I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing Vega’s belly and reading a chapter on sleep routines out loud.
He puts on his audiobook voice. Vega closes her eyes and smiles.
I lean against the doorframe and this little oh slips out from way down, because the sight is ridiculously sweet.
Before I know it he’s in the kitchen in a polka-dot apron and a chef’s hat, making sweet potato purées with mild curry, served in gorgeous little bowls, everything labeled and dated, my sister looking at him with that French-film glow, and me doing the wave for them from the couch with a beer.
I’m still a little in shock because, look, back at the home, when we were eleven and life was a holy mess, we made a blood oath—Ferrero Rocher and everything—that if we ever decided to be moms, we’d do it at the same time.
In sync, like with everything. We pictured ourselves with our arms tattooed with the kid’s name, rocking a fake nose ring and tricked-out strollers for racing through Malasana, neon lights and music blasting, dodging old ladies and delivery guys.
And look at life—what a bitch—that it stings a little to admit we’re not walking into the big motherhood circus together. I get that sinking feeling.
Honestly, my sulk lasts five minutes—the time it takes to see her smiling at Mikel with those doe-in-love eyes.
And I think: fine, perfect—works out great for me.
Because the spotlight’s off me. Now everything revolves around Vega and her belly.
And I can finally breathe without a camera on me, without that feeling I’m being watched all day.
They treated Vega like a little princess before; now she’s a limited-edition porcelain princess.
If she coughs, three people bring her water.
If she yawns, Irina calls the driver. If she says “I’m craving mango,” ten minutes later mango shows up cut into a flower with a toothpick bearing her initial.
The other day Mikel tucked a blanket over her and Svet put up a “Do Not Touch” sign on the nightstand.
I imagine if Vega farts, a security alarm goes off and the butler shows up with air freshener and a formal apology.
As for me—Alaska—last night Julia caught me in the kitchen, counting folic acid capsules like they were diamonds or the heads of her enemies, totally focused. She goes, with that “I’m doing you a favor by taking an interest” voice:
“And you, Alaska? How are you holding up?”
I told her, how do you think? Like they strapped me into one of those roller coasters that leave your ovaries in your throat and suddenly—bam!
—they tell you the safety bar went on vacation to Benidorm.
I scream, I laugh, I get dizzy, panic, sweat glitter and, in the end—go figure—I hang on. What else can you do.
Julia let out that little laugh that’s like “I get you, honey, but don’t fall apart, I’ve got a meeting.” Then she set a plate of lentils in front of me.
“In case it’s your turn someday, better not catch you low on iron, sweetheart,” she said, with that good-witch look that comes with unsolicited advice that ends up saving your life. I pictured her in a pointy hat with a flying broom.
Anyway, life here is that kind of crazy. Sometimes, when my sister takes a nap and Mikel shuts himself in to highlight books, I sneak off with Irina. We go check out the room they’re getting ready for the baby.
Irina touches the crib gently. She’s not the type to go around shouting “I’m happy,” no way.
Doesn’t need to. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, pretending I’m not spying, and I think: what a weird trip this all is, but damn, it’s been good for us.
The universe, after smacking us around with open hands, handed us these people.
And yeah, of course the wound from the broken pact itches sometimes.
But then I see Vega, puking less than at the beginning (thank God!), sleeping better, and getting that smile when Mikel—already her personal butler, only hotter—reads out loud that this week the baby already has eyelids.
And it passes. Or almost. My brain’s got an envy off switch that flips by itself.
And while the house’s attention is fixed on Vega’s belly, I make the most of the spotlight blackout, that moment when nobody’s looking, to slip down hallways I already know by heart.
I get lost for a bit, do my homework, snoop, listen, discover new things, learn others, and if the universe is kind and the stars align, I run into Nat where not even the gardener, or Mikhail’s ghost, or Svet—the eternal snoop—can see us.
Though here, you know, there’s always someone, even in the broom closet, waiting for the tea.
Anyway, right now we’re counting cherries—that’s the baby’s size, you know?
Me, I’m playing the kind of sister who laughs so she won’t cry, I push the stroller of life when it’s my turn and, meanwhile, I’m learning to love this chaos with a plate of lentils and grandmas who swear they aren’t. Anyway.