Chapter Ten
Three weeks after finding the notebooks, I take the bus to Augusta to attend Haley’s baby shower.
Dylan’s been poring over Grams’s notes, wrapping his head around the remaining storylines—which characters get killed off, the twists in Zane’s love life, the expanding map of locations, the emergence of new magical creatures that require further development.
I’ve been bingeing the existing books, trying to catch up.
I’m not a fast reader, so I’m only halfway through book twenty-one when I stash it in my tote and walk the mile or so from the bus stop to Haley’s beautiful Arts and Crafts home.
My parents offered to pick me up if I needed a ride, since my self-inflicted unemployment meant I couldn’t afford a car. I politely declined.
Two hours later, I’ve confirmed with absolute certainty that while engagement parties are distinctly uncomfortable for the perpetually single, for the non–parentally inclined, baby showers are downright torture.
Not only did I have to play name the melted candy bar by sniffing what looks like a poopy diaper, chug from the baby bottle, and pin the clothespin on the nose of anyone who says baby, but also, apparently, asking a woman when—not if, but when—she plans to have children of her own is still widely accepted as a socially appropriate question.
I’ve met at least twenty of Haley’s friends, and nearly every conversation went something like this:
Me: Of course. She’ll be a fantastic mother.
Me: Nope. (Braces for next question.)
Friend 1: Waiting for the right time?
Me: No, not actually.
Friend 1: But you do want children?
Me: (not wanting to get into nearly two decades of deeply personal thoughts about my childbearing potential that began with being told at age sixteen during my first pelvic exam that given my body’s anatomy, I’d have a hard time getting pregnant, so around the same time I was learning to drive a car, I began assuming I wouldn’t have kids, then realizing in my twenties that I wasn’t forming a stable, long-term relationship and I had no interest in raising a child on my own, then gradually accepting that I enjoyed a lifestyle that didn’t include parenthood and I’d only considered it because I’d been conditioned by society to assume not wanting to become a mother meant something was seriously wrong with me and Darwin should rise from the grave and have a word, then being so exhausted dealing with students who wanted me to entertain them and guide them to easy A’s instead of impart knowledge and improve their critical thinking skills, until the absolute last thing I wanted was another person around twenty-four seven whom I had to teach, even just how to count to ten or not pick their nose) No, I don’t want kids.
Friend 1: (smiling sweetly) Oh, but you will. Just wait.
Friend 2: (joining the conversation) I used to be focused on my career, too, worried I’d have to make sacrifices, but honestly, becoming a mother is the best decision I ever made.
Friend 3: (also joining) Right? I know. Everything I do matters so much more now because it impacts my children. It can’t just be me, me, me, all the time.
Friend 1: No one dies with their last wish being “to work more.”
Friend 2: You don’t want to wake up one day with regrets.
Friend 3: And the longer you wait, the harder it gets.
Me: (smiling politely) Anyone know where the bathroom is? I really need to pee.
I don’t need to pee, but I escape to an upstairs bathroom, hiding away like I did at Louisa’s, and like I probably will at Eleanor’s holiday party, because the only biological clock I’ve ever known is the one that alerts me when I’ve spent two full hours as a giraffe surrounded by zebras who demand to know why my neck is so long and what I did with my stripes.
I try to de-stress by washing my face with the handmade lemongrass soap Haley buys from a sustainable shop on Etsy, drying with a sustainable plush hand towel she bought from a chic start-up that recycles and repurposes celebrity-worn couture.
I might, at this very moment, be patting my cheeks with fibers that used to hug Beyoncé’s backside.
I’m still stressed when I finish, but at least my face smells nice, and I haven’t increased my carbon footprint.
Needing a few more minutes away from the mom brigade, I drop the lid on the toilet, take a seat, and find my phone in the gray velveteen jacket I’m wearing over my gray rayon dress and gray cotton tights. At least they’re different tones of gray. One is almost blue.
Philippa: How are things in Chicago?
Amelia: Oh, the drama!
Philippa: What now?
Amelia: Remember Jake Reynolds, the admin head in my department?
Philippa: The guy you thought might be fooling around with his student assistants?
Amelia: He Was fooling around with his student assistants. Got caught making out with one on the sofa in his office. Multiple witnesses. He didn’t even try to defend his actions
Philippa: Yikes. So was he finally fired?
Amelia: You do remember working here, right?
Philippa: Promoted to Assistant Dean?
Amelia: Transferred to another department, with a raise and a better job title
Philippa: Of course he was
Amelia: Then we all got a memo to immediately remove any sofas we might have in our offices because “students might misconstrue our intentions” and “the optics are bad”
Philippa: You know it’s Peak Academia when they haul out the word “optics”
Amelia: Right? Address the sexual predator. Not the sofa
Philippa: But boys will be boys and sofas will be . . . optically questionable?
Amelia: I hate that I can’t nap in my office anymore. Thanks to some dude
Philippa: Funny who often ends up getting punished when men misbehave
Amelia: This place never changes. You were wise to get out
Philippa: My bank account says otherwise
Amelia: Your bank account will recover. As long as you don’t buy it a sofa
I have to laugh at that. Even while I’m cringing.
Amelia: Enough about me. How are things with the pirate king?
Philippa: Good. Also not good. I think I have a crush
Amelia: Do we still call it crushing in our 30s?
Philippa: Isn’t it still crushing when it’s one-sided?
Amelia: Fair point. Does he know?
Philippa: God, I hope not. We’re finally acting like housemates. Not two people with minimal social skills who ended up living together by pure chance and have no clue how
Amelia: I meant to tell you. I read the first book
Philippa: Not your usual literary fare, huh?
Amelia: It was fun!
Philippa: You didn’t mind how pulpy it was?
Amelia: Honestly? I loved it. The last three Booker Prize winners were a total slog. Trauma after trauma. Misery upon misery. They should rename it the Suffering Prize
Philippa: Probably wouldn’t sell as many books
Amelia: Now if they had a Hot Pirate Prize . . .
I smile through an eye roll. I do not need encouragement on this front.
A knock on the door makes me snap upright.
“Phil? Want to join us for cake, or should I bring you a piece up here?” It’s Haley.
I don’t know if her friends told her I was looking for a bathroom when they last saw me or if she safely assumed I ran away to de-people for a while as per my usual pattern at events like this.
Either way, I love that she’s offering me cake instead of demanding I rejoin the party.
I tell Amelia I have to go but I’ll catch up later.
Then I open the door to find my seven-months-pregnant sister standing in the hall, resting a hand on the doorframe.
Her dark, wavy hair is in an explosive topknot, and she’s wearing a sexy color-block sweaterdress that scoops low in the front and stretches over her belly.
She also has on big gold hoop earrings and three statement necklaces, which is grammatically overwhelming but visually striking.
Her sleeves are pushed up, revealing the delicately inked iris on her forearm.
It’s my favorite of her many tattoos, for obvious reasons.
“Sorry,” I say. “I needed a break. I’ll come back down.”
“You sure? We’re about to play guess the baby food flavor.”
I wilt against the counter. “Can I eat cake without playing more baby games?”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell everyone you have dietary allergies and need to sit this one out.”
“Thank you!” I step forward and wrap her in a tight hug, belly and all.
“And thank you for the gift card for the diaper service. That’ll cover a lot of diapers.” She pulls back but takes hold of my hands. “You sure you can afford it?”
“Of course.” Actually, it was a stretch, but Haley and Mischa had been trying to get pregnant for over seven years. They deserve as many diapers as this kid needs. “Saved me from having to shop for toys and tiny clothes. You know cute gifts are outside my skill set.”
“All the cute stuff will get barfed on soon enough anyway. Good thing I had all that practice with vomit cleanup back when Lou discovered alcohol.”
We share a laugh, recalling wild nights when the five of us conspired to prevent our parents from discovering Louisa’s first forays into partying.
Hangovers and embarrassing social media photos soon tempered her habits, but for about six months, it was all hands on deck.
While we’ve always talked among ourselves, we know how and when to keep secrets from our parents, even if we never openly acknowledge that’s what we’re doing.
We knew Riley was gay before he came out to our parents, and even though they were great about it, no one let anything slip until he was ready.
They still don’t know about Haley’s graffiti phase or Eleanor’s sobbing breakdown when she lost the election for student council president in her senior year of high school, and to her newly minted ex.
And they don’t know about my hunt for our grandmother’s outlines.
I didn’t even have to ask. My siblings understood.