Remy
REMY
From: [email protected]
You need to establish yourself writing adult fiction before branching out into children’s.
We need something in the vein of These Four Friends.
Think, female friendship, dysfunctional families, exposed secrets, self-discovery, a breakup and a makeup, only with a different cast, environment, and primary plotline, of course.
And we need that something soon…
“He’s here!”
I peer closer into my phone screen to get the best look at my first godchild, swathed in baby-blue cotton, his head and the curls stuck to his forehead almost covered by a matching hat.
“Yes, he’s here,” Melissa says.
Of course, she seems tired. I can hear it in her voice, see it in the slowness of her blinks, but, and it’s a surprise to no one, she’s happy.
That’s obvious by the looseness of her shoulders and the constant yet effortless lift of her cheeks.
Mel’s hair is pushed back by a headband, there’s a dab of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth, and her nipples are seeping milk into her shirt, but she looks beautiful.
Maybe this is the post-pregnancy glow people talk about but I never truly believed.
I thought it was all bullshit. Maybe it still is and this glow is just Melissa.
After all, when Mel last got the flu, her skin was just as dewy, and the virus merely rouged her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
“Can you see him?” Melissa asks.
“Not much.”
She angles the camera further down, gently pulls his hat back, and there is baby Isaiah.
He’s taken after Felix with a head full of hair that explains Melissa’s constant heartburn, and tight fists that must have been what pressed against her belly button.
His lips give a quick twist before he yawns and resumes a rest so peaceful, his breathing is only evident via the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
I’d rehearsed everything I wanted to say as soon as I saw him, but the actual sight of him leaves me speechless.
I knew I would love him, but I didn’t expect to feel anything so tangible I could almost taste it.
He is a beautiful baby boy, but not in the way I’d used beautiful before, to describe Nova or a particularly colorful ceramic, but rather in reference to something innocent and perfect. I look up at Melissa again.
Whoa. Melissa is a mum now.
“He’s beautiful, Mel. Really, just… wow.”
“I know,” she says, smiling. She turns to look at him. “Isaiah,” she whispers so quietly I have to lean toward the speaker to hear her. “This is Remy, one of your godmothers—”
“Secondary godmother!”
The only person that voice can belong to is her sister, Temi—who, despite her absence from Melissa’s emergency contact forms, is always quick to remind me, Lin, and Nova that we fall into the secondary category.
None of us care though because we all know Temi to be the kind of person to tattoo Blood is Thicker than Water on herself (her thigh, to be precise), but spend her time doing very little to prove it. Until now, apparently.
“Temi’s there?” I ask.
Melissa rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she got here last night with her two kids.”
“So, your parents have gone?”
Melissa leans into the phone with widened eyes. “No.”
“That’s… a full house.”
“I know,” Melissa says, but she’s still smiling.
“It’s a lot, but I’m enjoying having them around.
In the beginning, I dreaded the thought, but since moving, well, I’ve been a bit lonely being away from you girls and my old life in London.
I feel better now they’re all here. Anyway.
” Melissa tries again, turning back to Isaiah.
“This is Remy, the writer I told you about. She’s the one you’ll go to for much-needed heart-to-hearts. ”
I smile. Melissa is the only person I know who hasn’t once wavered about her decision to have children.
Believe it or not, Lin used to have the largest doll collection out of us all until her baby brother was born and she witnessed what babies do when they’re not factory-made and delivered in plastic with only three settings.
Melissa always knew she wanted more than one child and had her baby names plucked from the Bible by the time we left for university.
A boy was going to be called either Isaiah or Ezekiel.
I think she was leaning toward Ezekiel until Nova said, “You know bullies have only gotten worse, right?” The day she shared her future baby names with us was the same day she assigned us our future duties.
Nova would be the one they went to for street smarts; Lin would be the one to go to with anything law-related, and I was the one to go to if they simply needed someone to hear them.
“That’s boring,” I’d said, outraged.
“Don’t be silly,” Melissa had said patiently. “You underestimate the power of fifteen minutes with Remy.”
I look away from Isaiah. “How are you, Mel?”
“I’m doing well, thanks. We got your gift in the post, by the way. It was perfect, but Felix and I knew it would be.”
I have a reputation for going the extra mile when gift-giving; that’s my love language.
Melissa still talks about the Christmas present I got her and Felix two years ago.
I snuck on to their Goodreads account and selected twelve books from each of their To Be Read lists.
I bought and individually wrapped each book before assigning them each a number from day one to twenty-four.
It was a surprise book advent calendar and Melissa cried when she saw it.
However, I’d been at a loss at what to get her, Felix, and my first ever godson.
The con of having such a wonderful friend in Melissa is that many people also find her wonderful, so I knew her son wouldn’t suffer from a shortage of welcome-to-the-world gifts.
I know Lin sent her an electronic voucher for takeaways, for the nights she and Felix couldn’t cook, and Nova got them a baby-shop gift card for anything that they later found out they needed.
I eventually decided to put together a box that included all the things Melissa and Felix could now eat again.
Melissa is my food friend. Nova and Lin like to eat, but not in the same intense, analytical, look-at-the-menu-multiple-times-beforehand passion Melissa and I instinctively share.
For Mel, the hardest part of her pregnancy was the list of foods she wasn’t allowed to have anymore, but in solidarity, Felix also stopped eating the foods she couldn’t.
So, I spent a month curating the perfect hamper to send.
I took the train to La Maritxu to get her favorite Basque cheesecake; I talked their favorite Italian restaurant, Bancone, into putting together a carbonara kit; I put in Felix’s favorite bottle of gin; and for Isaiah, I sent a patchwork quilt I’d started working on a week after Melissa had announced her pregnancy, his initials threaded into the corner.
It wasn’t a shop-worthy quilt by any standard, but I’d poked myself with the needles, wiped my brow, and cried while making it, so it had my literal blood, sweat, and tears ingrained, despite being washed before gifting.
It is the very blanket Isaiah is currently bundled up in, and this may be my ego talking, but I doubt a baby has ever looked more comfortable.
But right before I sent out the box, I realized the gifts were for Melissa, my best friend, and I wanted to include some things for Melissa the mum, as well.
I did more research and included snacks with nutrients that promote recovery and breastfeeding, a loungewear set (comfortable but machine-wash friendly in case Isaiah repeatedly threw up on it), and even…
“The organic nipple cream has been a godsend, Remy,” Melissa says. “You have to text me the link; I need more.”
“Want me to bring some up this weekend?”
“What? Oh, Remy! You were meant to come and see us! I’m so sorry. We made that plan so long ago, it slipped my mind, and then my parents stayed for longer than intended, and then my sister and nephews showed up and it’s all been a bit—”
“It’s fine!” There is something very wrong about watching a new mum currently cradling her newborn baby apologize. “It’s no problem,” I continue. “It’s not like I had to book a flight! I didn’t even book my train yet.”
“Remy, I feel so bad.”
“Please, don’t. Honestly, I only remembered I was meant to come when I heard Temi in the background!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” I take a second to push the weekender bag I’d packed yesterday out of the frame; thankfully, Melissa doesn’t notice.
She sighs with relief. Even with a baby beginning to fuss in her arms, Melissa is still concerned about letting people down. Or maybe being disorganized. They measure the same to Mel.
“We’ll reschedule,” she says, nodding adamantly.
“I know we will,” I say, ignoring the gnawing doubt. “Just let me know when works.”
I’m back at Ink@84 an hour later.
By the time I realized I’d left my wine-soaked, balled-up top under my chair, I was already at home.
Thankfully the store was still open when I called in a panic.
The bookseller I spoke to probably couldn’t understand why my voice was so high-pitched, or my evident relief when she told me that, why yes, she had found a damp, stained T-shirt on the floor.
I collect it from the cashier desk after my call with Melissa and study the stain on my way home, thinking that it’s Melissa who will know exactly how to get it out.
“You, again?”
For the second time, I’ve bumped into—
“Simone!”
Today she’s in leggings and a large shirt with a baseball cap on her head; she’s captured the off-duty model look effortlessly, but even after the shock of seeing me again wears off, something still sticks to her.