Chapter 8 #2
"Did you ever go to the aquarium and let your ankles visit their cousins?" I ask as I fork the salad.
Everyone laughs through their nose.
Under the table, MOM brOUGHT THINGS lights up:
Shannon: manatee ankles run in the family didn't you know
Carol: mine were more like baby seals
Me: my ankles want you to STFU
"How's work?" Mom is going for a new angle, trying for casual, but she fails miserably. "I saw an article about Hamish and that resort. Something about 'face of the brand'? Is my grandchild going to be born on a ski slope?"
I put my fork down.
"Article?"
Shannon makes a low, impressed sound. Carol pauses mid-crouton.
"You know how I am about staying up to date on gossip. One of my websites. Or a social media account? I can't remember."
My appetite disappears. This means James leaked the idea, trying to gin up interest and make it a viral push.
I take my time answering, picking up my fork again and cutting my chicken into unnecessarily tiny pieces.
"We're talking it through," I say. "Jody's in negotiation mode. Hamish is thinking. None of this is public, you hear?"
I point my fork at Mom, and she nods. Mom's the weakest link.
Shannon pinches the bridge of her nose, leans in, and whispers, "James?"
I nod. She mutters a curse.
"Will he do it?" Mom asks. "The three of you would be so cute in a bunch of commercials and magazines."
The three of you. Baby isn't even born yet and we're practically committing to photo shoots.
"We're... thinking. No one's signing anything just because James wants to have his way."
"Is that what this is about? James is behind this?" Mom's face tightens. "If you and Hamish don't want to do it, tell James to go eat rocks."
"He texted Hamish," I say. "First it was 'Merry Christmas,' then a paragraph about how turning down the deal would let the family down and that letting me weigh in makes him whipped."
All three of them make the same disgusted sound in three different registers.
"That man," Mom mutters. "He hasn't changed since I dated him."
We all pause. Yes, Mom and James dated long ago, long before she met Dad. Our family tree is a Mobius strip.
"What did Hamish say?" Carol's jaw flexes.
"He's pissed. I held my ground, though. All contracts go through Jody. Hamish wants my career and identity to be separate from his."
"Our big Scottish marshmallow." Shannon's eyes soften.
"How do you feel about it, Amy?" Mom's eyes are on me.
I usually hate that question, like a pop quiz I haven't prepared for. But this time, the answer is clear.
"I feel... okay," I admit. "Like I have a say. Like we can choose. I like our life right now. Our place, my job, Hamish figuring out the sportscasting while he does rehab. I don't want to do something just because a rich man with a big ego and fading power is trying to stay relevant."
"You know you're kind of a big deal at work, right?" Carol smiles.
"I'm competent," I hedge.
"She's doing it again," Shannon announces. "Performative humility."
"Those interns follow you like ducklings," Carol says. "You come up in meetings as the person who can handle a crisis."
"You got that trait from me." Mom nods, looking proud.
All three of us just blink quietly.
I clear my throat. "Can we go back to talking about my bowels?"
"Fine," Mom sighs, reaching for her cappuccino. "Let's talk about yoga instead."
"Bowels it is," Shannon groans.
"No, listen." Mom sits up straighter. "At the studio, I've had three clients ask about prenatal yoga.
Three—that's a sign. I'm thinking of starting a special new class.
Gentle and supportive, lots of breath work.
Partner poses. You and Hamish come sometimes, not every week, but once in a while.
It would be good for his knee and your back and my heart. " And her bank account.
She's asking. Not announcing. This is new.
"You want to start a prenatal class," I repeat.
"Yes. For the community in Mendon. And selfishly, I'd love to see you there. But I will not—" she raises a hand, "—I repeat, will not, ambush you with it or beg or plead or blackmail. You get to say no. I am evolving."
"Look at you, Mom." Shannon claps quietly. "Personal growth that does not involve a restraining order."
"What would the class be like?" Carol leans in and Mom lights up.
“Does this make you want to be pregnant, too?” she asks her.
“Only if vibrators can knock you up.”
Mom sighs and continues. "Warm room, not hot. Bolsters. Breathing. Hip openers and pelvic floor work. No chanting or crystal sound bowls, just me talking about awareness and strength. And snacks afterward."
"Snacks?" I say.
"Healthy ones," she adds quickly.
I picture Hamish on a yoga mat, huge and awkward and trying so hard, snickering through partner poses but taking it seriously because it matters to me. It makes my chest ache with happiness.
"I like the idea," I admit. Mom's eyes dart and I can feel her neurons planning when to rent a larger space. "In theory. I can't promise we'll be regulars. But if you keep it about the class and not about 'OMG, my famous son-in-law is here,' we'll come. At least once."
"No social media," she swears, eyes shining. "No flyers with your faces."
Under the table:
Shannon: she's going to tell everyone Hamish is coming and she'll make me bring Declan
Carol: Dad did say they need a new oil tank
Whenever Mom knows in advance that Declan or Hamish will be at one of her yoga classes, the increase in attendees lets her buy something fun. For people in their sixties, I guess a new oil tank falls into that category?
The basket of bread we swore we wouldn't touch is almost empty. We finish our salads and the check arrives in its little black folder. Four hands go for it at once.
"I've got it," Mom insists.
"Nope," Shannon says, blocking her. "My treat."
"We talked about James, so it goes on the Anterdec card," Carol tries, but Shannon whips her card out.
"This comes out of my mental health budget," she says firmly.
"You don't have a mental health budget," I point out.
"I do now," she says, handing the server her card.
Everyone bundles up and we step back out onto the sidewalk. The sky is flat white, the air sharp. We huddle in a four-way hug under a lamppost still streaming tired fairy lights. Mom squeezes me extra hard.
"Text me if anything feels off," she says. "Anything. A cramp, a headache, a weird sneeze, green labia—"
"Green what?" I gasp.
"Nothing," she waves off. "Just know I love you and I'm so happy for you."
"I love you, too, Mom, but now I can't stop imagining green labia and you're terrible for putting that in my head."
She laughs. I don't.
We peel apart. Shannon heads toward the T, saying something about school pickup time.
Carol strides off toward her parking garage and the micro-hell that is Boston traffic.
Mom hustles next to her, tote thumping her hip, no doubt already thinking about that new oil tank and maybe now they can fix the broken garage door.
I'm halfway down the block when MOM brOUGHT THINGS pings.
Shannon has posted a GIF of a progress bar frozen at 0%.
Underneath, she adds: haha mom forgot to show us the other things in that bag
Carol: shhhhhhhhhh
I stop under a bare tree, gloved hand going to my midsection on instinct. There's nothing to feel yet, but I know there's a tiny person in there, oblivious, swimming through my family's noise. An image of a green manatee fills my mind. I hate my mother sometimes.
But of course, I love her too much to really hate her.
I flip my camera and snap a quick selfie with pink cheeks, clear eyes, red hair a little wild, smile small but real, and send it to MOM brOUGHT THINGS.
Then I add a picture of a manatee and, for the next fifteen minutes, I learn there are an alarming number of manatee GIFs in the world.