Twelve
TWELVE
JULIA
They never tell you these things about motherhood. Things like your toddler having the ability to literally wrap herself around your leg and cling on like a little octopus as you hobble around the house, grabbing trash bags stuffed full of your dead husband’s things and shoving them in the home office. Okay, maybe that last part has more to do with marriage than it does with toddlers.
“Sweetie, can you let go of Mommy, please?” Julia says for the fourth time as she lifts an excruciatingly heavy bag. It has a pair of dumbbells inside, she realizes, and a part of her knows that she should take out the dumbbells, but it’s also the same part of her brain that’s currently preoccupied with (1) Emma’s limbs resolutely suctioned around her left leg; (2) Oliver dropping by with a couple of friends; and (3) one of his friends having mentioned Chinese barbecued pork, and despite everything, Julia could really do with a slice of the sticky-sweet, savory pork. So she doesn’t take out the dumbbells and instead gives the bag a hard yank, after which, of course, the bottom rips and out fall dumbbells and adult Lego sets and ski jackets and all sorts of other stuff. “Shit,” she cries, and immediately feels terrible for swearing in front of Emma. “I mean shoot.”
“You said ‘shit,’?” Emma says into Julia’s leg.
“No, no. I said ‘shoot,’ you just heard wrong because you’ve got an ear pressed into my leg.” Oh god, now she’s gaslighting her daughter, and she hates herself even more. “No, you’re right. Mommy did say ‘shit.’?”
“Shit! Shit!” Emma shouts, laughing.
Maybe she should’ve continued gaslighting Emma? What’s the right thing to do here? Well, the right thing is obviously to not say “shit” in the first place. And now Julia wants to cry, because she isn’t just a terrible wife whose husband left her right before dying, she’s also a shitty mom who, whenever Emma nurses, scrolls through Instagram nonstop and wonders how the other moms have everything so put together. How do they have the time and energy and brain space to dress their kids up in color-coordinated outfits when Julia can barely find a single pair of matching socks for Emma? How do they have the time to braid their daughters’ hair into such intricate hairstyles when Julia can barely even brush Emma’s hair?
And what about the fact that Emma seems so very unaffected by Marshall’s absence? Julia hasn’t told her that Marshall is dead because she has no idea how to explain the concept of death, and Emma only asked once where Daddy was, and when Julia said Daddy wouldn’t be coming home, Emma only nodded and went back to playing with her Duplo. Is that a normal reaction to have to the news that your dad wouldn’t be coming home? Maybe it’s normal for her because even when he was alive, Marshall was hardly ever around anyway, and when he was, he was always criticizing Emma. Or maybe Marshall was right and there’s something wrong with Emma. Julia can’t remember a time when her life did not revolve around worrying about Emma, or worrying about what Marshall might think.
The doorbell rings then, and Julia freezes. She’s nowhere near ready. Emma is still shouting “Shit!” and now there’s a pile of Marshall’s stuff right here behind the front door and—Julia glances down at her clothes—yep, she’s still in her pajamas. Well, they’re not technically pajamas—she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt stained with egg yolk and mushed-up broccoli—but she did sleep in these clothes, so maybe they count as pajamas? The point is, she’s a mess, and she’s about to see Oliver for the first time in years. And his friends. She can’t possibly let them see her like this, she—
“Hello?” someone calls out. It sounds like an elderly woman. “Julia, is it? It’s Oliver here, with Vera!”
Who’s Vera?
“I bring lots of food! Braised pork belly, chili garlic chicken popcorn, Chinese barbecued pork...”
It’s the mention of food that bypasses all Julia’s insecurities. She’s been having nothing but canned tuna ever since Marshall left (Emma has been fed cereal and steamed veggies, which she largely refuses) and her stomach goes: Screw you, brain, I’m telling right arm to open the door . The door is opened, and Julia catches a glimpse of Oliver before a graying Asian woman pops in between them, wearing a huge smile.
“Ah, Julia! So nice to finally meet you. I’m Vera, of course, but you know that. I see you outside my teahouse the other day.”
“Oh.” Julia has no idea what to say to that. Why had she run away when Vera had spotted her outside the teahouse? That must have looked so strange. Something only a guilty person would do.
“Anyway, I have so much food for you!” Still beaming, Vera slides past Julia into the house.
Julia takes a step back, stunned. Did she invite Vera inside already? Maybe she did and she forgot because my god, there are a million things running through her mind, like: Where’s the food? I can smell really delicious food , and Who are all of these people? and Wow, it’s been a long time since I saw Oliver . Even though to most people, Oliver and Marshall look alike, Julia has always found numerous differences in their faces. Marshall was perhaps objectively the more good-looking of the two, with that sharp smile and excitingly wicked glint in his eyes, but Julia had always been more drawn to the kindness in Oliver’s face. Though right now, she’s too self-conscious to be drawn to anything. She’s so ashamed of how different she is now, no longer the girl he knew in high school. She looks away, unable to meet Oliver’s eyes.
“Come inside!” Vera calls out, as though this were her house. She flaps at Oliver and the other two people behind him. “Bring the food inside, I will heat them up.” She turns to Vera. “You have oven, right? And saucepans? The food have to be heat up properly, cannot microwave.”
“Uh...” Julia struggles to keep up. “Yeah. I have those things, but—”
Vera bends down, propping her hands on her knees. “Oh, hello, little girl. I’m Grandma Vera. Come help me in kitchen.” Without waiting for Emma to reply, Vera toddles off deeper into the house, humming to herself. “Where is kitch—ah, never mind, I find it!”
To Julia’s surprise, Emma unwraps herself from Julia’s leg. But she doesn’t follow Vera. She stands there, twirling her hair, staring with uncertainty.
Julia starts to say, “You don’t have to—”
Vera’s head pops out from behind a corner. “Oops, that is bathroom, not kitchen. Oh, I am lost. Where is my helper?”
One corner of Emma’s mouth twitches up into a small smile, and she totters after Vera. Julia stands there, mouth agape. What just happened?
“Sorry,” someone says. It’s a pretty South Asian girl who looks like she’s in her early twenties. “We didn’t mean to barge into your house.”
“Vera kind of took charge,” the guy next to her says, grimacing apologetically. Like the girl, he looks like he’s in his twenties. He looks like he’s mixed-race.
“That’s okay,” Julia says. “I’m Julia.”
“I’m Sana.”
“I’m Riki.”
They smile awkwardly at one other, then jump when Vera shouts, “Eh! Where is all the food? I am waiting!”
“Uh—” Sana lifts up a huge bag. “Is it okay if we—”
“Yeah, of course.” Julia steps out of their way and watches as Sana and Riki hurry toward the kitchen.
Oliver clears his throat and steps inside the house, both hands in his pockets. He gives her a bashful smile that takes her right back to their high school days. “Hey. It’s been a while.”
She nods, her throat all choked up. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, because now that she’s seeing Oliver in the flesh and hearing his voice, she’s reminded of what she’d been like as a teen, so full of confidence, her world a beautiful fireworks of possibilities. He must be so disappointed in how she’s turned out. After a while, she manages to say, “Yeah.”
“So, this is your house.” Oliver looks around. “It’s nice.”
“It’s a mess,” she says automatically, because present-day Julia can’t take a compliment, feels like a fraud whenever she’s given one. “Sorry,” she mumbles, because present-day Julia has to punctuate every sentence with an apology, as though she were sorry for existing at all. Marshall had hated that about her. Stop apologizing! God, you’re so pathetic , he’d snap, and she’d say, Sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop!
Oliver’s gaze snaps toward her and Julia freezes. She has no idea what he’s about to say, but it’ll probably be something along the lines of how gross she’s become, how slovenly, how disappointing. But the look in his eyes is sad and lost, and for a second, Julia feels some strange emotion welling up in her chest, then he breaks eye contact and the moment is gone. He turns his head instead and pauses when he sees the pile behind the door. Of bags full of things that are unmistakably Marshall’s. For the hundredth time, Julia gives herself an inward kick. Why hadn’t she done something with Marshall’s things after the cops came? But she hadn’t known what to do with them. She couldn’t really throw them out, not now that Marshall is dead. She also didn’t want to unpack them all and return them to their old spaces in the house because, well, why bother? He’s dead. And so she’d left them there, and now Oliver is staring at them with, quite rightly, confusion.
“Um, that’s—uh.” She struggles for an explanation and fails. Should she tell him that she’d packed them up before she heard about Marshall’s death? Or after? Definitely not after, right? Because then that would make her look so ruthless, a wife who couldn’t wait to get rid of her husband’s things as soon as she learned of his passing.
“Is this Marshall’s ski jacket?” Oliver bends over and picks up a black jacket.
“Yes.” Her insides churn.
“Oh, and that’s his old Star Wars Lego set.” Oliver gently folds up the ski jacket and places it on top of the pile of things.
He must think she’s the world’s worst person. Her insides are screaming at her to give him an explanation.
But when he looks at her, there’s nothing but that quiet sadness in his eyes. “Do you... need help taking these anywhere?”
Julia’s throat closes up again, so she just shakes her head silently. Oliver nods, seemingly understanding that there’s nothing she can say right now that would make things better.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lia,” he says softly.
That stops the mess of self-hating thoughts in her head, just for one moment. The way he’s using the nickname he gave her in high school. The sincere emotion in his voice. Julia feels tears drowning her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss too, Ollie.” And they find themselves in each other’s arms. Julia closes her eyes and breathes in his familiar scent. They used to be best friends. They used to be each other’s touchstones. And she can’t understand why they drifted so far apart over the years.
Just for a moment, held tightly in Oliver’s arms, Julia lets herself pretend that everything will be okay.
A shriek shatters the moment, and before Julia realizes it, she’s already running toward the kitchen. This is something that will never cease to amaze her, the way that ever since Emma was born, her instincts have become razor-sharp when it comes to anything involving Emma. Julia used to be a deep sleeper until Emma came along; then the slightest noise would propel Julia from the depths of her sleep and shoot her out of bed in under a second. And now she’s hurtling toward the kitchen because Emma has shrieked, and Julia should have known better than to leave Emma alone in the kitchen with strangers—what idiot mother does that? She has never hated herself quite as much as this. Every day is another chance for her to practice yet more self-hatred. Poor Emma, what—
“Mommy, look!” Emma is shouting, and there are no tears, just Emma holding up a bun in the shape of a pig. Julia stops short, her heart still thumping wildly, and as she watches, Emma lifts the bun and squeezes. Thick yellow cream squirts out of the bun pig’s butt, and Emma screams with laughter. “The pig poops!”
Julia is torn between being grossed out and laughing. From where she’s standing at the stove, stirring a pot, Vera looks at them and smirks. “Very good, eh? I say to myself, ah, what will her daughter like? And I make these buns, they filled with salted egg yolk custard. Lick it off your arm, Emma, don’t just waste the custard, there are children starving in—well, everywhere, I would think. Even here in San Francisco.”
Emma lifts her chubby arm and licks the golden liquid from her wrist. Her eyes light up. “Lick, Mommy,” she orders, lifting her sticky hands.
“No, honey,” Julia immediately says, “that’s...” That’s disgusting , Marshall’s voice slices through her mind. Already she can see him, his upper lip curled up in disgust. Why’re you letting her get away with that kind of behavior? You need to do better at disciplining her. For a moment, Julia freezes, unsure what to say to her own daughter. She’s so used to nodding along with whatever Marshall says, but Marshall isn’t here now. Marshall won’t be here for good. And would these strangers in her house judge her?
But then Vera comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a washcloth, and says, “Has your mommy try the custard?” Emma reaches up higher, her eyes shining with excitement, and Julia’s heart cracks open. She wants to try the custard, would happily lick things off her daughter’s sticky hands any time she gets the chance to. And so she does. And it does, indeed, taste very good. She hugs Emma tight and whispers, “Thanks, baby girl.” And just for a fragile moment, as fleeting as a butterfly’s fluttering wings, Julia feels that maybe she’s not the world’s worst mother after all.