Chapter 10 Angeni Luna #2
“I don’t feel good about being away from Freya, obviously,” she added. “So I was thinking I could create a play area in the sunroom next to my desk, and you could sit and be with her for my writing time.”
Sitka looked up, met Angeni’s eyes. Angeni could not tell what she was thinking. Her stare just looked blank.
“Okay,” she said. It seemed to be the only word she was capable of saying.
“I’ll only write for an hour or so a day. I don’t want it to be totally boring for you. Or for Freya.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind spending time with her,” she said. Then, as an afterthought: “And supporting you with the book.”
Was it disapproval Angeni was sensing? Did Sitka not think she should write the book? She decided to ask, practicing what she so often preached about authenticity.
“Can I ask . . . What do you think of me writing this book?”
Sitka’s attention was back on Freya. When she spoke, she didn’t look at Angeni.
“I think it’s a great opportunity for you.”
“But do you think I’m . . . I don’t know . . . worthy of it?”
“Of course you’re worthy of it,” Aurora interjected. Angeni ignored her, kept her eyes on Sitka.
Sitka looked up, surprised. “Worthy? I don’t think I’m one to judge that.”
But that was exactly what Angeni sensed—judgment.
Angeni tried again: “Do you think my mission, my teachings, are deserving of a book?”
Sitka stood, her skirt falling to her ankles, hands on her hips.
“You’ve said it yourself. I’m not your target audience. I’m not a mother. So I don’t really know. But you have millions of people who think so. My opinion shouldn’t matter.”
But it did matter. For whatever reason, it did matter.
“I’m not a mother either, and I’m absolutely sure your mission is deserving of a book, Ang,” Aurora said.
“Thank you, Ror,” Angeni said. “But Sitka, I don’t want to ask you to support this project if it doesn’t align with who you are.”
Sitka shrugged. “I’m not sure I know who I am.”
Freya started pressing her tiny feet against the ground, as if trying to launch herself out of the bouncer and into the arms of the women who loved her. Angeni knelt down, lifted her out.
“You know, I haven’t asked you enough about you,” Angeni said to Sitka.
Maybe the disconnect Angeni sensed was easily correctable. Maybe they just needed more heart-to-hearts, more intentional connection.
Sitka was now leaning against the island. When she reached her arms over her head, her loose-fitting shirt rode up, and Angeni could see the taut midriff that taunted her every day.
“What do you want to know?” Sitka asked, lowering her arms.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Just outside Seattle.”
“Siblings?”
Sitka swallowed hard and said, “No.” Angeni tried to figure out the look that crossed her face. Was it sadness? Regret? Maybe she was estranged from her family.
“Are you close with your parents?” Angeni asked.
“It’s just my mom.”
Angeni saw the chance to identify some common ground: “It was just me and my mom too.”
Sitka seemed unfazed by this fact, so Angeni went on: “Are you two close, you and your mother?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re that close. We talk every couple of weeks or so,” she said.
“I’m guessing you kind of had to raise yourself,” Angeni said. Then, as a show of vulnerability, “Like me.”
Sitka exhaled like she was exhausted by this inquisition.
“My mom had to work. Some women have to work to, like, survive.”
There was an edge to her tone. She was taking Angeni’s observations as criticism.
“Right. I know. I get it. My mom wasn’t around much either,” Angeni said. “I’m just saying I know it’s hard to grow up like that.”
Sitka stood up a bit taller, her shoulder blades pinching together.
“I think I turned out fine. I mean, my mother didn’t make me chicken-liver paté, but she was a good mom.”
She said that—chicken-liver paté—with a tinge of mocking.
“It’s really good, actually, the paté,” Aurora said. “I was going to put some out with crackers for the adults before dinner later.”
Sitka looked amused by Aurora, but before she could respond, Erik, Matt, and Jer appeared at the side door. Aurora let out a sound like an excited squeal and went to them, taking a tall pink box from Jer’s arms. She opened the top of the box to reveal a round cake decorated with wildflowers.
“Oh my gosh, it came out so good,” Aurora said.
They broke into song:
“For she’s a jolly good mama, for she’s a jolly good mama, for she’s a jolly good mama, which nobody can deny,” they hollered.
Freya started to cry—her poor sensitive ears—and Angeni held her tight, one of her tiny ears pressed to Angeni’s chest, the other cupped by Angeni’s hand.
They repeated their song as Aurora went to place the cake on the island. It was a beautiful cake—slathered in white icing that acted like glue for the wildflowers. Scrawled across the top in pink icing was the word congratulations!
“Oh my goodness,” Angeni said. She was truly surprised.
Aurora started taking photos with her phone.
Angeni turned Freya’s body so she was facing outward for the photos.
She was already thinking up the Instagram post, how she would write about her gratitude for the community they’d created on The Land.
This would be the perfect way to announce the book deal too—I am so thankful for the kind souls who will make me capable of embarking on this journey.
Freya was not pleased in Angeni’s arms, kept looking back at Sitka, who had retreated to stand against the back wall of the kitchen, out of the photos.
“We are all so excited for you, babe,” Erik said over Freya’s cries.
Angeni bounced the baby, shushed her gently. “It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s smile for the camera.”
She whispered these words, ashamed at how naturally they came from her mouth. She didn’t believe in parents demanding certain displays of emotions from their children. But she couldn’t exactly post a photo on Instagram with her child noticeably distressed.
Aurora kept taking photos, seemingly oblivious to Freya’s meltdown.
“Do you want me to take her?” Erik asked.
Angeni shook her head. “She’ll settle. It’s all the excitement.”
“Ang, we are seriously proud of you,” Jer said.
“Seriously. A book deal!” Matt echoed.
Angeni smiled despite the discomfort rising within her.
Freya was not settling. Angeni could feel Freya’s body getting more and more dysregulated, her little legs kicking against Angeni’s belly, her face turning red, her little mouth widening so big to scream that Angeni could see the back of her throat.
“Shhhh,” Angeni kept whispering without effect.
“Should I cut the cake?” Aurora asked. “It’s from that little bakery you love.”
The bakery with the all-natural ingredients, the bakery that used whole wheat and spelt flours, flaxseed paste instead of eggs, applesauce instead of butter, maple syrup and honey instead of sugar.
“I can get some plates,” Sitka said from behind her.
Freya kept shrieking, but everyone else seemed able to treat it like white noise.
“So how does it work? They pay you now, and then you write the book?” Matt asked, his voice loud enough to rise above Freya’s cries.
Angeni was starting to feel hot and nauseated, Freya’s body like a ball of fire against her chest.
“Um, yeah. It’s called an advance, and I use that to live on so I can write the book.”
“So awesome,” Matt said.
“This book is going to change lives,” Aurora added.
Sitka put plates and forks on the island while Aurora cut the cake, carving out thin slivers and putting them on plates for Jer to pass around.
Erik handed a plate to Angeni as Freya continued to cry and squirm.
Angeni was appalled that he thought she could take her hands off their child at this moment.
He must have read her facial expression, one of complete annoyance. He set her plate on the island.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take her?” he asked. He looked sheepish and guilty.
She felt a wave of heat roll through her and knew this to be rage.
She was someone who went to great lengths to avoid feeling rage in her body.
She had become so adept with her somatic work, easing herself into a calm state with deep breathing and compassionate self-talk.
This rage, it was the rage of her youth, the rage of a past her followers could never know.
It was one thing to share the broad strokes of Erik’s story—a soft-focus Monet of his trials, tribulations, and triumphs on the way to sobriety.
Angeni’s image was completely different.
Society was always harder on women anyway.
Men could be forgiven nearly anything. Women, no.
“I can take her,” Aurora said upon noticing the tension between Erik and Angeni.
“Nobody needs to take her!” Angeni shouted.
It came out as a roar, something deep and guttural. Everyone quieted, almost instantly, including Freya, who had never heard her mother raise her voice.
Quickly, the rage dissipated and was replaced with shame, which was always how it went. This was the Jekyll and Hyde of every human being—rage and shame, shame and rage.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking around the room at the faces of the people she loved most dearly.
Matt and Jer looked dumbfounded. Aurora looked scared. Erik looked worried, so worried. Sitka was behind her, so Angeni couldn’t see her. Freya kept staring into Angeni’s eyes, transfixed and curious, like Who was that, Mommy? Or rather, Who was That Mommy?
She could smell Sitka approach from behind her, the vanilla scent of the balm.
“I’m sorry,” Angeni said again.
The room was pin-drop quiet. She could hear her own breathing. She wanted to hand the baby to Sitka and run into the forest, be with the trees, which would offer her their branches like arms of a hug.
“Here,” Sitka said, her voice gentle and kind, her hands already on Freya before Angeni could refuse.
Angeni let her take the baby, a passive allowance. Sitka had given her no choice, and that was a relief.