Chapter 6
LA FAMILIA
When Kate and I got to lunch later that day, Dad had already ordered for us, and I still hadn’t changed out of my Harvey Janitorial polo.
Dad wore the logo on his jacket and his hat, too, and even Kate was representing with her sweatshirt.
We were practically walking billboards. He was proud to see us in uniform, said of all his employees, his children wore the polos best, and then kissed my forehead and the side of my stomach.
“How’s my little one?” he asked. This used to be a question about Jeremy, the original Little One, but was now intended for the baby.
“Good,” I said. “Hungry.”
I still hadn’t told him the baby was a girl because he would probably start weeping in the middle of the restaurant, and also he would be the worst offender of purchasing exclusively pink things for her.
A woman at his church got a Cricut recently, and he was anxious to start having her print more things on baby clothes for me.
He’d already designed one that said “Grandpa Loves Me,” and it was cute and heartwarming, even with the Comic Sans font.
I’d wait until he got a “Harvey Janitorial Baby” onesie made in the color of his choice before telling him.
“Does he know about Barry?” Kate whispered as we sat. I gave her a look that read don’t go there, but in the way that only she or Jeremy would get. The sibling language spoken through eye contact and gestures.
“How’s Mom?” I asked, because if anyone would know, it would be him.
Though they were ultimately incompatible in marriage, they’d become the best of friends since their divorce.
Particularly since she’d remarried a nice, quiet guy named Ron.
Dad liked Ron, too. They talked about smoking meats together.
“Oh.” Dad patted his chest pocket, then the ones on his coat before pulling out two bright beaded necklaces. He handed the orange one to Kate, the rainbow one to me. “She made these for you. Asked if you’d take pictures for her Etsy.”
The necklace was nice, less garish than the last one which said “BI & PROUD” between pink, purple, and blue beads.
I couldn’t say she wasn’t supportive. Kate and I both had stacks of jewelry she’d made for us over the last year since taking a class at a local craft store.
We were her primary models for her online business, Don’t Worry, Bead Happy.
Jeremy and his friends, too. College students apparently adored her stuff, tacky chic, they called it.
They helped her come up with things she might spell on the necklaces too, like “GIRL BOSS” or “GAY RIGHTS.”
We both clipped on the necklaces, and Dad snapped a picture after first accidentally taking three selfies.
“Beautiful.” He typed out a text to my mom with his index finger. “Pass the salsa,” he said once our food was delivered.
I handed him the bowl after scooping two spoonfuls onto my plate, mixing it with the pile of sour cream.
It was tradition to eat with Dad at La Familia on Fridays.
The flautas there are just enormous, the size of my whole forearm, and one plate comes with three of these, so Dad, Kate, and I always shared.
Jeremy joined too sometimes, but there weren’t enough flautas for him to have one too, so he usually got a stuffed sopapilla.
This was not one of the days he so benevolently graced us with his presence, too busy with his stuff anyway, whatever stuff it is that twenty-two-year-old art students are up to.
I imagined poetry readings and Quentin Tarantino marathon nights, but Jeremy said he joined an intramural rugby team, so there was that too.
Speaking of that little shit, I was almost positive that Dad had given him the easy afternoon shifts at the Jefferson building, the one with all the conference rooms, even though I’d been asking for it since summer.
“I want to work more hours before the baby comes,” I said. “Maybe I can pick up a few more afternoon shifts?”
Dad hummed while he smoothed sour cream over his flautas before scooping beans, salsa, and lettuce atop.
“Maybe at the Jefferson building?”
He hesitated while reaching for the salt, glancing at me just long enough to confirm my suspicions.
“How could you?” I whispered. “I’m pregnant!”
“I know that,” Dad said. “Your brother got it on seniority.” An outrage. “And you work enough.”
“Please, I’ve been cleaning since I could walk, he just played his Game Boy all the time.” I used my fork to cut off an especially cheesy bite and chewed.
“You’re forgetting your stint in the industry,” Kate said like it was a dirty word. Like getting a job outside of Harvey Janitorial was a grave betrayal to our genes. She also poured a packet of the pregnancy powder into my water cup, grape this time, and stirred it with her fork.
I glared at them both.
“We don’t talk about the tech writing,” I said through a mouth full of pork and cheese.
“I don’t think you should be taking on more shifts,” Dad said. “You do enough hours. You’re pregnant.”
“I want to save more money before I lose all my stamina—I don’t do enough.”
“You always help your sister with the restocks,” Dad defended, but “help” was generous. I rode around with Kate, listening to podcasts or singing together as we went from building to building making sure they had supplies and toilet paper.
“And you fill in for Green Team at least three times a month. You’re at forty hours,” Kate pointed with her fork, also talking through a mouth full of food. She was working on what was left of the nachos.
This was true. One of the bank teams was notoriously bad about showing up for shifts on Friday nights.
“I can take on more,” I said. “Or I could do more social media.”
“Where’s this coming from?” Dad asked. “Do you need money?”
I took a sip of the prenatal water, wincing at the artificial grape flavor. I made eye contact with Diana across the restaurant, and she nodded. She was all too familiar with my plight against Kate’s powders.
“I just think I can take on more responsibility,” I said. “You aren’t using me to my full potential.”
“Is this about the guy?” Kate said.
“What guy?” Dad asked.
“No guy,” I said at the same time Kate said, “Hannah’s guy.”
I thought we’d covered this with our eye-contact conversation, but she obviously hadn’t been listening.
Traitor, traitor, traitor.
“What guy?” Dad repeated.
“It’s nothing—” I gave Kate my most pleading, venomous glare, but she’d already looked meaningfully at my stomach. Dad followed her gaze.
“No way,” Dad said. Of the whole family, these two were the most alike—organized, anxious, constantly trying to manage things, and they gossiped to each other relentlessly.
“Way,” Kate said.
“Okay, enough—” I tried, but there would be no stopping them now.
“A professional hockey player—”
“Kate!” I put my fork and knife down with a clack on the table. Diana filled Kate’s water glass over her shoulder and slid a new glass by me.
“Thanks, Diana,” we all said, and Kate moved my new glass as soon as Diana walked away.
Diana and I had tried this trick before, but Kate caught on.
She looked pointedly at the purple drink.
As a rule, I don’t love artificial grape things, but Kate got these on sale and said if I wanted a healthy baby and body, I should be taking all the help I could get.
“What position?” Dad asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Defense,” Kate said because she literally couldn’t help herself—I was eating with two thirteen-year-olds. I threw my hands up and leaned back in my chair.
“Is he any good?”
Kate didn’t know this one, so they finally turned to me. I took as big a bite of my meal as I could manage. Dad and Kate watched me while I chewed. I took a sip of the purple drink and didn’t recoil so much this time.
“He’s Barry Wright,” I said quietly, and Dad dropped his hand to the table and stared slack-jawed at me. The name might have meant nothing to Kate and me, but Jeremy and Dad loved hockey. Many sports, actually.
“Did you tell him about our baby?” Dad asked. As far as Kate and Dad were concerned, she wasn’t my baby–she was the family baby.
“She did,” Kate said before I could. “He’s been, like, texting her and stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Not sex, Dad. Stop,” I said.
“I wasn’t asking about sex,” he rebutted, but he was definitely asking about sex. An elderly couple holding down the table closest to ours was staring outright now. I lowered my voice.
“He asked me to move in with him,” I said.
“He what?” Kate sputtered. “When?”
“For what purpose?” Dad said.
“Not sex, Dad,” I repeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kate said. “What did you say to him?”
“It was this morning,” I said, and Kate punched my arm.
“Stop not telling me things.”
“Katie, your sister’s pregnant,” Dad chided. “Don’t hit her.”
“I told him he could stay with me for a little while,” I said. This put them both into silence, but only for a moment before they were in on the questions, what kind of hockey player wants to live in your guest room, why would I do that, for what purpose, do I know how much money he makes, etc.
“If the two of you would stop talking for twenty seconds, I could tell you,” I said.
With visible effort, they did. Kate pulled apart a sopapilla from the basket and poured honey on it to keep her busy, and Dad pushed around the beans on his plate.
I took the opportunity to eat more of my food, which was getting cold on the eggplant-colored ceramic.
The couple near us resumed eating.
“He wants to help with the pregnancy. He might not think I can take care of myself or something.”
They both hmmed over their meals instead of jumping in to defend that I can, in fact, take care of myself. Obviously very encouraging.
“He could change his mind next week,” I said.
“How well do you even know him? Is he trustworthy?” Kate asked.
I think she was salty about the notion of me cohabitating with someone who wasn’t her after she’d offered so many times to move in to help with the baby.
Having Barry living in my house might throw off our carefully structured weekly activities: Grocery Sunday, Movie Monday, Yoga Wednesday (well, Kate does the yoga, I just do some stretches).
Kate might have felt a bit intimidated by the thought of having Barry around all the time.
“Barry is nice,” I said. “He’s…tall.”
“Will he come over next Thursday?” Dad asked as he scraped the last of his dish clean.
“Next Thursday like literal Thanksgiving Thursday? Probably not.”
“Why? We can give him a job,” Dad said.
Thanksgiving was a real collaboration in our household. Jeremy would bring a couple pies, Kate would bring a weird margarita (virgin for me, she assured me) and potatoes, Mom would make a couple casseroles, Ron on rolls, Dad on turkey. I was assigned cranberry sauce, not a job I took lightly.
Even if Barry didn’t have plans to see his huge family, what could he bring? Does he even know how to cook?
“We could put him on salads,” Dad said, obviously worrying over the same question as me.
“He doesn’t want to come to our Thanksgiving,” I said, though Barry probably would really, really want that.
“He’s Canadian. Plus, he’ll probably spend the break with his family.
” They look rich and very shiny. I imagine they go to a country club every Sunday and golf or whatever it is you do there.
I imagined eating lots of seafood. Maybe swimming?
Were there indoor pools at country clubs?
The Harveys, in comparison, got discounts to the bowling alley on account of our league.
“The hockey break is short. If he’s in town, he has to come,” Dad said. “Nonnegotiable. If he wants to help with the baby, he has to be part of our traditions.”
I didn’t bring up again how temporary a part of me expected this to be.
Barry seemed earnest in being all-in, at least for now, but a not-small part of me worried about the truth of that.
He could decide to be done with us in a month, and that would be easier than if he decided to sue me for full custody in a year.
I’m not sure what case he’d have, but he had professional hockey player money, so he’d be able to pull something off.
That’s how it works. I’ve seen Succession.
“I’ll ask,” I said. “No promises. Now can we please drop it?”
Reluctantly, the two of them agreed, and I downed the rest of my drink, gulping it through the straw and trying not to taste it.