Chapter 20 #2
He frowns as if this is a personal affront.
And I guess it is, considering he’s been Mum’s sous chef since the day he was old enough to stand on a step stool and stir a pot.
He worked as a private chef for nearly a decade before becoming a stay-at-home dad, but that doesn’t count for much in a kitchen full of aunties who’ve been cooking for longer than the thirty-five years he’s been alive.
I snort and move Noah to my hip to avoid the strain on my wrists. It’s just a twinge of protest, unlike when he was first born and I could barely hold him, but it’s not encouraging.
‘If you go now, you’ll be able to nap before dinner,’ I offer. ‘And I won’t snitch if your wife asks where you are.’
He makes a sound that’s a cross between an appreciative cry and an exhausted groan as he claps me on the shoulder in thanks. I have to blink when he smiles, because I’m not staring at my brother any more. I’m looking at our father.
Elias has always been the spitting image of Dad – pale skin, curly dark hair, even darker eyes that dip down in the corners – and sometimes the resemblance is too much to bear.
Right now, with circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and a heavy layer of scruff on his jaw, he could be Dad from twenty-five years ago, the one from our best childhood memories and our overstuffed photo albums. Just looking at him makes grief punch me straight in the gut.
‘This’ll be you pretty soon,’ Elias says, distracting me from the ache. ‘Sleep deprived, constantly covered in baby sick, and so in love that you wouldn’t trade it for anything.’ He peers around my shoulder to see out the door. ‘Where’s your baby mama?’
‘She told me to head in while she instructs Sami on which gifts to bring into the house first.’
‘Gifts?’ Elias repeats. ‘Plural?’
‘She said it would be rude if she showed up without something for everyone.’
‘Jesus. She’s really worried about us liking her, isn’t she?’
‘Incredibly.’
He heaves a sigh, nudging me out of the way so he can step outside. ‘Forget the nap. Let me go show her we don’t bite. You go say hi to Mum.’
Before I can tell him that it’s not necessary, he’s out the door, already beaming and waving, looking like a clown as he approaches Ava.
But that’s my brother – warm, welcoming, and willing to make a fool of himself to get people to smile.
It’s another way he’s like our father, and once again there’s a split second when I swear it’s Dad jogging in her direction.
I glance away when Noah’s chubby hand slaps my cheek.
His uproarious laugh when I pretend to eat his little sausage fingers has me even more eager to welcome my own kid into the world, to play these silly games with her and bask in her laugh.
I imagine she’ll have Ava’s smile and hopefully her humor too.
If not, maybe the genes from Dad that passed me over will find her instead.
Because I’m my mother through and through.
I’m her golden skin and sharp eyes, her wavy black hair and regal bearing.
I see myself in the way she moves, cautious and careful as she slips past her sisters, but viper quick as she swipes spices from their hands to sprinkle in the dishes she’s taken charge of.
She doesn’t smile when I step into the kitchen, just assesses me slowly, cataloging all the changes from the last time she saw me.
I approach when her eyes meet mine, and I dip down so that she can take my face in her hands, pressing kisses to my cheeks before she drops a few on Noah’s for good measure.
When she’s done, my blood aunts and various aunties from the neighborhood descend on me, asking in a mix of English and Arabic how I’ve been, if I’ve been eating well, and where Ava is.
Her name alone is a reminder of the different cultures we come from and it’s strange hearing it on their lips.
When I promise them that Ava will be in as soon as she gathers the gifts she brought, I’m freed from their circle as they extol what a good girl she is.
It’s also a shock to hear, considering the nontraditional way we’re bringing a child into the world – but their praise is better than the alternative.
I see the knowing glance that Mum and Emiko share as I pass Noah over to his mother, and it’s obvious they’ve been meddling, making sure the gossip in this kitchen paints Ava in the best light.
It’s a small thing, but it means more than I can express.
All I want is for them to welcome her with open arms. She deserves it.
Mum waves me over to the stove where every burner is occupied. ‘I made fesenjoon,’ she says, a dish popular in both Iran and Iraq. ‘And you said she likes albaloo, so I tried my hand at sour cherry rice.’
Before I can thank her for the effort she’s put into tonight, there’s a commotion of aunties rushing for the doorway.
I don’t have to look over to know that Ava’s appeared, but my head still turns like I’ve been summoned, eyes landing on her nervous smile before she’s practically blocked from view by cooing, chattering women.
‘I forgot how beautiful she is,’ my mother murmurs, and I glance down to find her staring at Ava. Her expression isn’t exactly fond, but it’s soft. ‘I remember seeing her in the paddock when she was younger. She was always a cute girl, but she’s grown up well.’
For the first few years of my F1 career, my mother attended as many grands prix as she could while running the high street shop she and my father owned.
As Dad charmed his way through the paddock, making friends with anyone and everyone, Mum hung back and observed, then took care to tell me what she’d seen.
Thanks to her, I knew of driver swaps, sponsor shakeups, and team principal firings days or even weeks before they happened, all because of her careful attention to the smallest things.
But I never knew she paid any attention to Ava.
‘Did your father ever tell you about the time he fell over in the paddock and she walked him all the way to the medical center?’
‘What?’ I frown down at my mother. ‘No. He didn’t.’
I’m sure there are plenty of things Dad never told me, stories I’ll never know with him gone, and my lungs constrict thinking about it.
Mum heaves a sigh, the kind she always reserved for her husband, somehow full of both love and irritation.
‘He was playing footy with a bunch of kids in between free practice sessions and forgot how old he was while trying to do a trick shot.’ She shakes her head at the memory, though her lips quirk, because that’s just the kind of man Dad was.
‘He fell hard, had a gash on his knee that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Ava must have been close by, likely saw it all happen, because as I’m yelling at your father for being so careless, she’s rushing over and pulling a first-aid kit out of her bag.
She had him patched up before she tucked herself under his arm and dragged him herself to the medics. ’
‘He never told me that. Neither did Ava.’