Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
Celia inhales deeply as I open the front door. “Ooh, it smells amazing!” She steps inside before I can open my mouth, handing me an enormous black diaper bag. “This was such a better idea than going out, Lydia. Thanks for the invite.”
“Of course,” I mutter, hefting her bag off to the side. As usual, my sister appears perfectly put together in slacks and a navy sweater set. Her blonde hair has been pulled into a chignon, and there’s a signature string of pearls around her neck. She looks like she just finished giving a TED Talk. The only evidence that she gave birth three months ago looks at me wide-eyed from a car seat dangling on her arm.
“Is this Gabriel Edward?” Anton asks beside me, crouching down for a closer look. The round, rosy-cheeked child appraises him with a gaze not unlike his mother’s, then cracks a broad, gummy smile and waves his arms. Anton smiles and waves back.
“Gabe,” Celia corrects. “We don’t use Edward.”
Anton and I share a look. Neither of us is sure why Celia and Adam named him for our dad, especially if we’re not even supposed to call him that, but before I can think too hard on it, my sister’s face morphs into a mask of sympathy. She reaches out to squeeze my husband’s arm. “Anton, I’m so sorry. My condolences about your mom.”
“Thank you.” He straightens, his voice becoming scripted the way it was through his mother’s service. “We miss her very much.”
Celia sets down the car seat, and Anton makes an excuse about checking the oven as she unbuckles the baby. She pulls him out wearing an outfit that matches her own, and smooths his wisp of dark hair, scanning our living room with him perched on her hip. “I thought you two were going to redecorate?”
I bristle. Here we go. The thing my mother and sister share most in common is an ability to pick out all of my shortcomings.
“We were going to. But I opened my second business instead,” I say, following as she takes the baby on a tour of our little bungalow like it’s a quaint, walkable dollhouse. I only remember my sister visiting one other time, shortly after we purchased the house as a fixer-upper. She’d been on her way to Vail for a girls weekend, and I was eager to show off the home we’d foregone a honeymoon to buy. The most she’d said at the time was, Well, it’s not Turks and Caicos.
Excited barking echoes from the backyard, and I step through the kitchen to let an eager-looking Heartthrob in from the yard. He rushes in to greet our company, tail wagging furiously.
“ Lydia ,” my sister shrieks. “Can you put the dog away?”
My view shifts from where Heartthrob stands politely trying to get a sniff of the new people standing in his home, to Celia holding her son high in the air like she’s trying to save him from a pack of wolves.
“Oh. Uh—Heartthrob, go to your place.”
My dog immediately, though reluctantly, obeys, retreating to his bed in the living room with a look like I’m denying him the chance to make friends. I appease him with a strip of dried sweet potato.
“Would you like to have a seat?” I ask my sister. “Can I get you anything?”
Celia eyes Heartthrob with a curled lip, like he might finish the chew and move on to her child. “Can’t you put him somewhere?”
My eyes narrow. “Heartthrob is in his place, in his home , and won’t bother us. He was just excited to say hello. Isn’t Gabriel used to Pookie?”
“That’s different,” Celia mutters at the mention of her elderly Pekingese.
I roll my eyes. “How about I get you something to drink?”
“Water, please,” she says wistfully. “You know. Breastfeeding.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” I eye her boobs. According to my sister’s social media, she’s happiest holding a glass of wine, but it makes sense that she’d give that up in the name of sanctimony.
“Thank you,” she says when I return with the water and a plate of bruschetta. “I’m so pleased Gabey could meet his auntie and uncle while Daddy works tonight.”
I cringe, wondering if she realizes she’s talking just like our mom.
“What is Dr. Adam up to these days?” Anton asks, stepping back into the room.
Celia raises her chin in her signature imperious style. This should be a doozy. “Well, he’s on track to be offered a position at the Mayo Clinic this fall. Of course, someone spilled news of a competing offer from Cedars-Sinai, but he’ll just have to make a decision if that’s how it pans out. This conference is all about schmoozing with future employers.”
“Wow,” I say, shooting Anton another look. “He must be thrilled.” We’ve only met Dr. Adam Cohen twice—the night before and the day of their wedding—but he made it clear in the space of twenty minutes that our lack of medical degrees made us unworthy of his time. I’m still trying to figure out how he and my sister happened in the first place. “Would that mean a potential move to California or Minnesota?”
“Well. California, hopefully,” she says with a tolerant smile. “It’ll be up to Adam. There’s such a demand for plastic surgeons.”
“What about your coaching, Celia?” I ask, because if there’s one interesting thing about my sister, it’s her self-built company. “Are you back yet, or are you still on maternity leave?”
“Adam’s been asking about that too.” Her face sours. “I’ve been doing some consulting here and there, but we’re fortunate enough that I don’t need to work. We might eventually pursue daycare, but right now I just want to savor my time with Gabey.”
I blink. Obviously, I’m aware some women make the choice to stay home with children when they’re little. I just never thought my sister, the junior version of Marion Stanton, our working mom extraordinaire, would be one of them.
“Don’t your clients need you, though? ”
She shrugs, staring down at the baby who waves a blue rattle back at her. “I know it’s not for everyone, but I consider this time precious. Work can wait.”
I just sit there with my jaw hanging open. She sounds like she means it.
“My mom did something similar,” Anton says quietly over my shoulder. “Took time off to stay home with me, then with Seth. She said it was hard, but always insisted she’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“Exactly.” Celia beams. “Selfishly, I don’t want to miss any of his ‘firsts,’ but I also want to give him a good foundation. When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of time reading and thinking about the relationships we nurture. What we can give of ourselves that really lasts. If I stay home, I can be the one who’s there for Gabe if he’s hurt or sad, or if he needs anything. If I go back to work... someone else will do that. It just feels like a gift I can give him. One he’ll have forever.”
“Makes sense,” Anton says in a faraway voice.
Celia gives my husband a gentle smile. “Maybe your mom felt the same way.”
I open my mouth, sure there is something I need to say, even if I don’t know what. But my nephew saves me, screwing up his precious, nurtured face and letting loose a shriek like a banshee. I watch my skilled, confident, life-coach sister as she rocks her infant gently, then moves to a more vigorous bounce before offering a pacifier he immediately spits out. Finally, she sniffs his diaper with a look of semi-desperation.
“He might be hungry,” she says evenly, as if the sound isn’t threatening to shatter the windows. “Is there somewhere I can?—”
“Our room. Just down the hall,” I say, jumping up to bustle her away. As soon as she’s situated in the small armchair by our bed, I exit the room, my shoulders sagging in relief. I’m not sure if it’s Celia or the wailing I need a break from, but the tension in my body eases as soon as I pull the door closed.
“Wow,” I say, slinking into the kitchen. “Can you believe?—”
“I know. She’s such a natural,” Anton says. “I never thought I’d say it, but motherhood seems to suit your sister.”
That is not what I was going to say, but I shut my mouth, watching him pull the lasagna tray out of the oven. I only got home an hour ago, and we were so busy preparing for Celia’s visit, I hadn’t had a chance to really check in with him. I took it as a positive sign that he wanted company at all, but he looks completely different than he did this morning. His movements efficient and animated. Confident. Not distracted the way he’s been the last few days.
I don’t know what broke him out of his funk, but I don’t want to waste the moment.
“Dinner smells wonderful,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. And to my delight, he pulls me into his warmth. He smells like basil and oregano, and Anton . I breathe him in, letting go of everything we’ve been through this past week. Forgetting Dallas, my meeting with Henry. Not even letting myself dread getting through dinner with Celia.
“I came home early, so I had extra time to throw everything together.”
I pull back, feeling stupid. Of course. He didn’t prepare this whole meal after work. “Did something happen?”
He shrugs, slicing a few tomatoes to add to the salad. “You were right. I guess I need a little more time.”
I frown, looking around the messy kitchen. Anton’s lasagna recipe came from his mom. He always makes it when he’s missing her. “I’m sorry. This was too much to ask of you.”
He shakes his head, glancing down the hall leading to our room. “Actually, making dinner for you and your sister, meeting the baby... I don’t know. It’s refreshing. Nice to have something new to focus on.”
A timer goes off on the stove. Anton moves to stir some kind of sauce and I withdraw to set the table. By the time my sister emerges—with a sleeping baby, thank God—we’re just setting out the food.
“Do you want to lay him down somewhere?” Anton whispers, looking uncertain.
Celia raises her chin and shakes her head. “No. He should stay like this for at least an hour. I’ve gotten really good at eating with one hand.”
Again, something about my sister’s demeanor strikes me as so... different. I can’t put my finger on it, but I am almost totally sure our mom would never have held either of us through a meal .
“Thank you,” she says when I set a plate of lasagna and asparagus down in front of her. “Anton, this looks divine.”
We go about eating in relative silence. Celia isn’t quite the one-handed expert she professed to be, and I glance warily at the sleeping infant each time her fork clatters against the china, but he remains a peaceful little cherub. Actually, now that he isn’t shrieking, I have to admit he looks pretty sweet.
“So, what’s new, Ce? Um, besides the obvious.” I gesture stupidly at the baby. “Is Mom at your house like, twenty-four seven? She makes it sound like she’s Super Grandma.”
My sister’s jaw tightens, her eyes flashing ever so slightly. “Not sure I’d quite call it that.”
“Really?” I niggle, sensing something I can rub a little salt in, for old time’s sake. “I thought grandbabies were the new black.”
To my surprise, Celia cracks a small smile. “Yeah, I thought so too. She did offer to come over and ‘help’ me once. But that consisted of taking a few selfies with Gabe to send to her friends and leaving when he started crying. So I guess, yeah, Super Grandma had super-important other things to do.”
I nearly laugh out loud, only because this sounds exactly how I would expect our mom to grandma . But I’m also not sure what to say. If Marion Stanton could have made a list detailing what she wanted in a daughter, Celia checks all the boxes. Beautiful and popular, she launched a successful career, then married a handsome doctor and produced a handsome grandchild. But the real letdown in my sister’s voice shifts something in my chest, and I actually feel kind of bad for her.
I am jarred out of my thoughts as Celia’s fork tumbles to the floor, landing next to my shoe. She lets out a defeated sigh, looking from the sleeping baby in her arms to the plate where she’s barely made a dent in her food.
Anton and I glance at each other. We’re both mostly finished, and it occurs to me I need to not be like our mom. I should offer to take my nephew—hold him, so she can eat. But when my eyes drop to her snoozing bundle, my skin goes clammy and the words don’t come. What I finally say is, “I’ll get you another fork.”
As soon as I step into the kitchen, I feel stupid. It’s not like the baby is going to bite. But as I re-enter the dining room with a clean utensil, my pulse kicks right back up.
Anton watches, clearly waiting for me to do the right thing. But when too many seconds pass with me standing awkward, unable to speak, he clears his throat. “Uh, here. I’ll take him, Celia.”
She glances at him uncertainly, but then her eyes return to her plate and her shoulders drop in relief. “Actually, that would be great.”
I watch wide-eyed as my husband comes around the table, kneeling next to my sister as she transfers her sleeping child into his arms.
“There.” Celia exhales, adjusting a light-blue blanket under her son’s head.
Anton stands and smiles. “Great. I’ve got him. Go ahead and eat.”
For a second, she looks like she’s not sure what to do with her free hands. Then she picks up her fork and knife, and digs into the meal like a starved woman. “Anton,” she says between bites. “You could easily have a second career as a chef if finance doesn’t work out.”
He chuckles. “Lasagna is the one thing I really know how to cook.” He sounds so wistful. I glance over, worried I’ll find him a million miles away again. Instead, he’s staring down into Gabriel’s face with a surprisingly peaceful expression.
“Oh, Lydia!” Celia exclaims with familiar enthusiasm. “I almost forgot. How are things going with the new partnership?”
“Great so far,” I say automatically, mentally skirting my entire meeting with Henry this morning. “Having Henry on board gives me a lot more flexibility, and the new daycare is on track to be fully booked and profitable by the end of the year.”
“Impressive,” Celia says, though the way she arches her brow suggests skepticism. “Just think of what you could do if you ever truly level up.”
Anton flinches and meets my gaze from where he stands by the windows. I blow out a hot burst of air. “Yeah, just think.”
As soon as my sister sets her fork on her empty plate, I jump up to clear the table while my husband, sister, and nephew drift quietly into the living room. I make a lot of unnecessary noise banging pots and pans around in the sink, but definitely not trying to wake the baby for Celia to deal with.
Once the dishwasher is loaded and the counters completely wiped down, I gather myself and head for the living room, where low, downtempo music plays on the Bluetooth speaker. I find my sister perched on the couch and my husband pacing quietly by the fireplace in front of the family photo he brought back from Dallas. He’s rocking Gabriel back and forth, and... I think cooing at him.
Celia watches with a melty expression, and I sink into a seat on the other end of the couch from her.
“Do you want to hold him, Lydia?” Anton asks suddenly.
“What?” My head snaps up. “Me?”
“Yeah.” Celia smiles, shifting into her irritating mommy voice as she gets up to take the blue bundle from my husband’s arms. “Auntie Lydie hasn’t had a turn.”
My head spins, my stomach twisting into a knot. I think I should want to hold my nephew...
Except I don’t. At all.
“Um, he looks so peaceful. I don’t want to disturb him.”
“Nonsense,” she says, sinking back onto the couch and scooting toward me. “It’s easy with him asleep.”
I retreat backward, sinking into the cushions and trying to figure out how to politely say don’t force your baby on me, but before I can stop her, she places Gabriel in my arms.
I don’t think I’ve held a human child since I babysat as a teenager, and actually, I’m not sure I ever took care of one this small. It isn’t at all like holding a dog; he seems softer and more fragile. I am pretty sure I should feel some kind of warmth, adoration. This is my nephew—technically, my own flesh and blood. But I just desperately want her to take him back. The baby must’ve gotten jostled with all the transfers because he stirs, flexing his fingers and spitting out his pacifier. His eyes open, and when he looks up at me, my pulse spikes.
“I—I don’t know what to do.”
“You can give him the paci back,” Celia says.
I scan the blanket, find the little plastic nub, and hold it to his lips. He opens readily when he sees it and almost immediately closes his eyes and settles back into slumber.
“There, perfect,” my sister says quietly. “You will make a great mother, Lydia.”
The knot in my stomach tightens.
And then I notice Anton watching by the window with this warm, contented look. He smiles at me, and the knot morphs into a sinking feeling. I thrust the baby back to Celia.
“No, I don’t think so. Obviously, I’d make a terrible mother.”
I get up from the couch, pausing a second before crossing to where Heartthrob snoozes in his bed. He raises his head as I curl up with him, then drops his muzzle into my hand, and I’m instantly more comfortable, stroking his chin and scratching the soft fuzz on his ears.
“Well. I guess I should probably be getting back to the hotel,” Celia says, mercifully in her grownup voice.
Anton helps her gather up blankets and little plastic keys and things, and I drag myself off the floor away from my dog, if only to hasten her departure. “Guess we’ll see you in another five years,” I say, only half joking.
“Actually...” Celia turns to me with a strangely sanguine smile. “I was wondering if I could entice you and Anton to Ohio for Thanksgiving.”
My mouth falls open. This is what I get for assuming having my sister over means the universe will leave me alone for a while. I look at Anton and scramble for an excuse. Celia might be extending the invitation, but Thanksgiving is always at our mom’s house. And I just can’t . Not this year.
“I thought Gabriel getting to spend his first Thanksgiving with all his family might be nice.” She coos down at the car seat. “Especially if we’re about to move.”
Anton makes a sound I can’t identify, and I turn to him, pleading with my eyes. Thanksgiving with my family is a particular hell we’ve weathered before.
“It’s a nice thought for the little guy,” he says.
I close my eyes, reaching over and squeezing his hand so hard it probably hurts .
“Yes, lovely,” I say. “Will Mom be inviting Adam’s parents too?”
Celia winces like she hadn’t considered that specific toxic stew, but says, “Of course she will. Everyone will be invited. I’ll even buy pumpkin pie.”
“How domestic,” I deadpan.
“Thanks for the invite,” Anton says, finally coming to my aid. “We’ll have to look at our schedules.”
“But I doubt we’ll make it,” I add. “I’ll have to talk to Henry, and then there’s employee schedules to think about—it’s a busy time of year.”
“That’s why I asked in July,” Celia says with a laugh, clearly not picking up on my distress. Or maybe she is. “Just think about it and let us know by like, September.”
“Sure. Okay,” I say. “We’ll let you know.”
Anton squeezes my hand, and in that moment I’m so grateful he understands my dysfunctional family and has my back. He lets go to help my sister with her diaper bag, and I wave, hoping it is the last time for years.