Chapter 23 #5
She steps closer to Cori again and presses her hands gently on the bump, tilting her head like she’s listening to something.
“Aside from the shoulders—which are very broad, this baby will be strong like ox—the way he sits. Low. Heavy. Boys always sit low. Girls sit high, light, like little birds. This one?” She pats Cori’s stomach. “He is no bird. He is bull.”
I look at Marcus, raising my eyebrows. “You’re going to owe me fifty dollars, Marcus. Start saving your pennies now.”
“We don’t know that yet!” he insists, though he looks a little less sure of himself.
Elena takes one last, dramatic drag of her cigarette before turning to walk back toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she winks at him. “You are going to owe her the money, pedi mou. Just buy the blue blanket now and save the time. I am always right.”
Marcus mumbles something under his breath as Leo finally disentangles himself from a conversation about tax law with one of his uncles. He slides up beside me, his hand settling comfortably on the small of my back.
“I see you’ve met the Oracle,” Leo says, his eyes dancing with amusement. He turns to my roommates, extending a hand. “You must be Marcus and Cori. I’ve heard a lot about you—mostly that you’re the reason Annie hasn’t starved to death in that apartment. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Cori smiles, leaning into the warmth of the room. “The pleasure is ours. Though I think I’ve been predicted to give birth to a linebacker, so I might need a minute to process my new reality.”
Leo’s grinning now, fully relaxed. “Annie said you’re an artist?”
“Yeah. Freelance stuff mostly. But I bartend, which pays the bills.” Marcus gestures toward Cori. “And this one’s about to be a mom and go back to school, so she’s officially the overachiever of the apartment.”
Cori rolls her eyes. “I’m going to community college, Marcus. Let’s not oversell it.”
“It still counts.”
Leo turns to Cori. “What are you studying?”
“Childhood education. I want to be an elementary school teacher.” She rests a hand on her bump. “Figured I should probably learn how to actually teach kids if I’m going to have one.”
“That’s great,” Leo says, and he sounds genuine. “My sister Maria actually taught preschool for a few years before she started working at the restaurant full-time. She loved it.”
“Really?” Cori lights up. “I’d love to talk to her about it.”
“She’s around here somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”
Irene appears again—I swear this woman teleports—and practically shoves plates into Marcus and Cori’s hands. “Enough talking! You eat now! Everything is getting cold!”
“We just got here—” Marcus starts.
“You eat!” Irene is already steering Cori toward the table. “You are eating for two now! You need the lamb, the potatoes, the moussaka—everything!”
Marcus looks at me helplessly.
I just shrug. “Resistance is futile.”
He sighs and follows Cori toward the food.
Leo slips his hand into mine, squeezing gently. “They’re great.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching Marcus try to politely decline a second helping of something while Tasia ignores him completely and piles it onto his plate anyway. “They really are.”
“Are you doing okay?” Leo asks quietly. “Not too overwhelmed?”
“Honestly?” I turn to look at him. “This is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”
He smiles a soft, private smile that’s just for me. “Good. Because my family’s definitely keeping you now. You know that, right?”
“I think I’m okay with that.”
“You think?”
“I know I’m okay with that.”
He kisses my temple. “Good answer.”
The rest of the evening is a dizzying, beautiful blur.
The uncles are deep in a passionate debate about the Mets and the cost of parking in Astoria, their voices rising and falling like the tide.
The aunts are a whirlwind of motion, clearing plates only to replace them with tiny white cups of coffee that smell like burnt chocolate and jet fuel.
“They drink this now?” I whisper to Leo, eyeing the dark, sludge-like liquid. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“It’s the Greek way, Annie,” he murmurs back, leaning close.
Across the room, Marcus is laughing with one of Leo’s younger cousins about a Knicks game, and Cori is surrounded by aunts who are now offering her prenatal advice in a mix of English and Greek, which she’s accepting with amused, wide-eyed nods.
I’m so full I can feel my heartbeat in my stomach. I’m genuinely considering the social ramifications of discreetly unbuttoning the top button of my skirt. Across from me, Emma, powdered sugar dusting her nose like war paint, is helping herself to what must be her eighteenth kourabiede.
Despina finally sinks into the chair next to me with a sigh, holding a steaming cup of the thick, muddy coffee. “Oof,” she says. “I understand. To eat with Greeks is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I think I hit the wall at mile ten,” I confess, and she chuckles.
Michalis appears, clapping a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Leoni, come outside for a minute. We need a younger opinion on this…this malarkey your uncles are saying about Social Security.”
Leo sighs and glances at me. “You okay for a minute?”
“I’m safely anchored to this chair by approximately four pounds of potatoes. I’m not going anywhere.”
He chuckles, kisses my cheek, and heads off to join the fray. Despina watches him go, her expression softening behind a cloud of steam from her cup.
“He is different with you, Annie,” she says, her accent thick and contemplative.
I try to play it cool, but a warm, stupid pride blooms in my chest. “Oh? How so?”
She nods, staring into her cup. “With Rebecca…he was always so…careful. Like he was holding his breath. Waiting for her to be happy. With you, you make him laugh his real laugh. With you…” She gestures with her free hand, searching for the word. “He is just Leoni. He is…how you say? Home.”
I don’t know what to say. Before I can form a sentence, Despina shakes her head, her expression darkening. “I still cannot believe that woman. To leave her own child, to just walk away—she is kakia, a wretched woman—”
Across the table, Emma’s head snaps up. Her eyes, wide and blazing, lock onto Despina. “That’s not true!”
Despina gasps, her hand flying to her chest. She’d clearly forgotten the five-year-old was within earshot. “Emma, mou, I didn’t—”
“You’re lying!” Emma screams. She’s standing up on her chair now, her small chest heaving. “My mommy is coming back! And when she does, you’ll be sorry you said that! You’re mean!”
“Emma, honey, hey,” I start, reaching across the table, but it’s like a switch has been flipped.
Emma’s hand dives into a bowl of Galaktoboureko—the messy, syrup-soaked custard pie. Before I can even blink, she flings a massive, sticky handful of it. It hits Despina square in the chest, the yellow custard sliding down her dark wool sweater in a goopy, pathetic trail.
Despina lets out a strangled shriek of horror.
Irene rounds the corner, her eyes darting from Emma’s sticky fingers to her sister-in-law’s ruined outfit. “Emma! Panagia mou! What happened?”
Emma points a trembling, syrup-covered finger at Despina. “She was saying mean things about my mommy! She’s a liar!”
Despina is stuttering, trying to wipe the custard off with a napkin, looking mortified. “I didn’t mean…it was just talk…”
But Emma isn’t finished. She rounds the table with alarming speed. Before anyone can intercept, she delivers a sharp, solid kick to Despina’s shin. Crack.
“Emma Roussos!” Irene gasps.
The house, which has been a riot of noise for over five hours, falls into a deafening silence.
The knitting needles have stopped. The backgammon dice are still.
Cori’s eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and Marcus, frozen with a cookie halfway to his mouth, nudges her and whispers, “That’s what you have to look forward to. ”
“Not the time, Marcus!” Cori hisses.
Irene tries to grab Emma’s arm, but Emma wriggles out of her reach like a feral, sugar-fueled eel, her face twisting in a mask of pure, heartbroken rage. She’s screaming now—high, wordless shrieks of frustration.
Shit. Where the hell is Leo?
I don’t wait for him. I lunge forward, catching Emma around her waist just as she’s about to take another swing at Despina’s knees. She’s a whirlwind of elbows and heels, hitting and kicking at me as I haul her back.
“Emma! Emma, stop!” I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but she’s gone. She’s not even seeing me; she’s just seeing the hurt.
I wrap my arms tight around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides as best I can, and start dragging her toward the nearest door. I’m praying it’s a bedroom and not a closet, a sanctuary, anywhere away from the stunned silence of the dining room.
I kick the door open—it’s a small, quiet bedroom with a quilt on the bed—and haul her inside, the sound of her screams echoing off the walls as the door clicks shut behind us.
“I hate you! I hate everyone!” she howls, and my heart breaks right along with her.
The room is cool and smells of lavender and mothballs, a sharp contrast to the butter-heavy warmth of the hallway. Outside, the orange glow of a streetlamp filters through the blinds, casting long, slanting shadows across the floor.
Emma is still a whirlwind of limbs. A heel catches me in the shin, and a small, sticky fist thumps against my ribs, but I don’t let go. I can’t. If I let go, she’ll shatter into a million jagged pieces, and I know exactly what it’s like to try to glue yourself back together in the dark.
“I’ve got you, Em,” I murmur, over and over, a mantra against the storm. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”