Chapter 2 #2
Amy closes her eyes and inhales slowly as Marie's face turns into a sour lemon. Jason whispers something in her ear.
A direct message comes in from Marie to Amy: Let her think that, but we know who you love more.
Thirty seconds. We got thirty bloody seconds of good behavior.
"Right. Here's the sensible plan." Mum leans forward, eyes bright with tactics.
"Base in Glasgow. Ye'll be close ta all the major football action.
Hamish willna have to fly across the ocean while the wee one is small.
We'll get ye a proper pram, not those American contraptions that look like airport furniture.
An' there's a wee academy that does developmental play.
Nothing too serious, just a small evaluation at six months ta make sure the bairn's grip is sound and his foot reflexes are guid. "
"Grip," Amy repeats, blinking.
"Ball control," Mum says, nodding. "Soft balls, mind. We'll no' be reckless. But ye need a good grip fer goalie. Canna assume he'll be striker like his da."
Da. Mum just referred to me as a da.
Mine upends his beer, finishing it off.
Marie sits up, checks her notes, and presents a spreadsheet as if Congress asked her to oversee the moon landing.
"Or—and hear me out—you're in Boston. We have the best hospitals in the world. I have privileges, you know."
"Privileges?" Amy snorts. "Mom, you're not a doctor."
"I've taught prenatal yoga at Beth Israel!"
"That's not the same as having admitting privileges at a hospital."
"I got free parking! Okay, fine, discounted staff parking. It's still a hospital privilege and it adds up, though. And I've already made a color-coded babysitting schedule through December of next year, including contingency blocks for illness and a dedicated column for Reiki and —"
"Mom," Amy growls. "You just found out. How would you have time to do that?"
"ChatGPT!" Marie crows. "I have it right here, open, and listening to my commands. It's awesome for getting good sex positions and making sure they don't—" Jason hits mute.
Marie unfortunately hits unmute.
"—use estriol cream as lube. Who knew? Anyhow, as for the reception, we can host it at Farmington.
A reception-only party, of course, because there is no wedding left to crash since you eloped, which we will not discuss because I am being good.
" She beams at the camera. "But now that you are pregnant, time is of the essence. I can get Moonbeam if I hurry."
Amy takes the field. Mum mutters, "What's a moonbeam got ta do wi' anythin'?"
"Okay," Amy says, the word soft but firm. "We love you and we want your support. Here's what we're not doing right now. We're not discussing where we'll live. We are not discussing a reception, but even if we were, my wedding reception would not feature Moonbeam the harpist."
Marie blinks.
"Moonbeam is very accomplished."
"Moonbeam played at a mushroom festival," Amy continues calmly, "where she wore a dress made entirely of fungi."
"It was environmentally friendly!"
"It smelled like dead raccoons."
"She had no control over where the mushrooms were harvested!"
"She also performed at a dog wedding."
"An emotional support dog," Marie says defensively. "And at least the dog mom got to plan her baby's wedding!"
Mum nods and oh no.
They're allying again.
"We are," Amy says slowly, pulling back on the growl humming in the back of her throat, "telling you we're pregnant. That's the news, and it's the only news we're talking about right now. We're happy. You're both going to be grandmothers who will spoil this baby."
Mum and Marie grin, sly smiles that make my tailbone tingle.
"Within reason," Amy clarifies. "We'll make decisions with our doctor. We'll make decisions with each other. And by 'each other,' I mean Hamish and me, not you two."
Their faces fall.
"That's the agenda. Now congratulate us like normal grandmas do."
Da just belches. He's our favorite grandparent right now.
Amy waits, back straight, chin level. I watch my wife—still a new word that feels magical every time I say it—and feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the beer I just drank.
"Uh," Mum says after a heartbeat, a little dazed. "Congratulations?"
Marie claps her hands once, the ring light flickering. Jason leaps a bit, startled.
"Of course! All the congratulations for my little girl. My baby is having a baby and I get to snuggle a newborn!"
They give us their faces, unfiltered and glowing.
Da's got a bit o' crisp on the corner of his mouth.
He's muted, talking to someone next to him, ordering another beer.
Mum just blinks. Marie whispers furtively with Jason, who is bent down, his ear against her mouth as he nods lightly, over and over.
Jason Jacoby will be reincarnated as a bobblehead in his next life.
"A wee academy at six months is too early," Mum says to herself, already revising her battle plan. "Nine months is fine."
That's as close to a concession as Mum will ever give.
"Absolutely no ball games before the fontanelle closes," Marie says in a voice that makes it clear she knows what a fontanelle is. Am I supposed to know? Is it a special fountain where you take babies? Or a kind of cheese you feed them? Is this an American tradition?
"However, I am free on Tuesdays for tummy time," Marie adds.
"Tummy time," Mum repeats with deep suspicion.
"It's exercise," Marie explains. "For babies. Not for me. Obviously."
Mum raises an eyebrow.
"If ye're doin' tummy time for exercise, Marie, ye need ta do it harder."
"HEY!" Marie shouts.
"Babies doing exercise," Mum says, eyebrows up. "Whisht."
"It's not Pilates," Marie says, offended. "That's for toddlers."
"We will... research this," Amy says.
"Soup," Marie declares out of nowhere. "I'm making soup. Chicken lemon or lentil?"
"Lemon," I answer, too quickly. Amy squeezes my knee under the laptop.
"ChatGPT, add chicken lemon soup to my to-do list."
"Marie, you need to enable the voice feature," Jason says, exasperated.
They mute and flail at each other again.
Mum disappears and reappears holding a baby kilt the size of a potholder.
"Thought I'd show ye. Da said it was a bit optimistic, but it's not too soon after all. Look, proper pleats! And we've got this heirloom cowbell, available for the first match."
She holds up the cowbell. It glints.
Marie, not to be outdone, hits Share Screen.
Her desktop is a riot of open tabs. A PowerPoint springs to life, a mood board labeled 'Reception-Only Celebration: Tasteful, Understated, Barely Even Noticeable.
' It features white doves, a fog machine, a flower wall, and the aforementioned harpist, Moonbeam, who appears to be wearing antlers and yes, something fungal.
"Barely noticeable," Amy reads.
"I can reduce the fog," Marie says grudgingly, clicking a clip-art button to launch floating heart animations.
"I can reduce," Mum echoes, lifting the cowbell. "Perhaps a smaller bell for church."
"Church?" Marie blinks. "We're doing church?"
"No," Amy says sweetly. "I thought we were doing soup."
"Soup," Mum agrees, then frowns, confused.
From the off-screen tile, Da's voice:
"Congratulations, son. Amy." Then a pause. "I unmuted for that. I'm mutin' again."
"Here's our deal," I say. "We'll tell ye what we need. When we know. An' if ye want ta be helpful, we'll give ye jobs."
"Jobs, aye." Mum perks up. "I like a list."
"I love a list," Marie says, one-upping her.
"Grand. We'll get back ta ye wi' that list."
"Can my list include Moonbeam?" Marie says hopefully.
"Your list includes soup," Amy reminds her. "We love you," she says. "Thank you for being excited with us about the baby."
"We will be good." Marie beams.
"We'll be statuary," Mum adds, touching the tartan. "Very fine statues. Quiet."
They'll also be liars.
"Wonderful," Amy says. "We'll call soon."
We wave. The call ends with an overlapping chorus of I love you, be careful, eat protein, and Da says a brief Gaelic blessing I suspect is actually a bawdy old sailor's song about not getting the clap in port.
The laptop goes black. For half a second, there is a silence so profound, it rings.
Then both our phones begin to ding in a staggered cascade that turns the condo into a pinball arcade. The texts roll in:
Congratulations!!! from Marie, with seventeen gifs
A cowbell emoji orchestra from Mum
A picture of a soup pot
A kilt
A PDF contract for a reception venue with the file name DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT
A link to a baby academy with a logo that looks like a football wearing a graduation cap
Three calendar invitations
And a video from Da of a man taking a piss in the corner of the pub, the dartboard a pizza slice in the righthand corner.
Amy drops the test back on the coffee table and falls into me, laughing and crying into my shoulder. I gather her close and kiss her hair.
"We survived," she says into my shirt.
"Aye. We're very brave. Heroes."
"I'm only five weeks along," she moans. "This is them on their best behavior. Can—can you elope from giving birth? Because sign me up."
"I think the only way out is through, pet," I reply, and tilt her chin up to kiss her properly.
She smiles into my mouth and then, with a wicked little sound that erases my IQ, swings her leg over my lap and settles on me, knees on either side. The laptop wobbles. I catch it with one hand and set it down safely without breaking the kiss, which should be considered performance art.
Amy pulls back, eyes dark. "Hi," she says, breathless. My hand slides under her shirt and finds warm, soft heaven, her breast filling my palm.
Pregnancy will make them bigger. Oh, dear Lord, have mercy.
"Hi," I answer, throat rough. "I could kiss ye all day. Lick ye senseless. Make ye pregnant twice over."
"That's not how twins happen."
"It's worth a try."
"Promise?" she asks, rolling her hips in a way that makes me forget every language I've ever learned. True, I only know two, but still.
"I swear."
A polite throat clears. We freeze.
Slowly, very slowly, we both turn our heads toward the laptop we definitely closed.
Or thought we did.
Da's tile has reappeared. The camera is now squarely on his face. He is not laughing. He is not frowning. He's just... there.
"I think ye forgot I was on," he says, perfectly mild. Then, without changing expression, "Ye ken, that's how ye got in this pickle in the first place."
Amy's mouth drops open. There's a beat so silent, we could be inside a monastery.
"Aye, Fergus! Ye watchin' porn again? What'd I tell ye aboot that in ma pub?" A man with a face of putty, except for his very red nose, appears next to Da.
"Didna ken it could get worse," I murmur into Amy's neck.
Then we both dissolve. Amy tips forward onto my chest, laughing soundlessly until she squeaks. I clutch her and howl. Da allows the ghost of a smile, nodding once like a referee who has witnessed enough.
"Dinna say a word o' this ta Fiona," he says, and clicks off for real.
I close the laptop and press my forehead to Amy's.
"I love ye," I tell her.
"I love you back." She kisses the corner of my mouth.
Our phones chime again. Outside, the dark Boston night is crisp and cold. Inside, our condo smells like garlic and the future, and I swear to whatever patron saint watches over me that whatever I did to deserve this life, I'll do it more.