Chapter Nine April 8
Chapter Nine
The thing about babies and pregnancies is that they serve as a real live measure of time. I watched all second and third trimester as Georgie’s bump grew larger. Rounder. Harder.
On Christmas morning, Georgie bemoaned her swollen ankles as we unwrapped presents by the tree.
By Valentine’s Day, Georgie’s cheeks had completely puffed out.
And while bathing suit shopping together over spring break, I couldn’t help but notice how her breasts had doubled in size.
It’s like her growing baby belly is a clock counting down our remaining few moments of normalcy.
“No, no, Lennon, the parsley goes here,” Mom says, taking the tiny garnish from my hand and placing it delicately over the homemade platter of baba ghanoush.
We’re hosting a small baby shower for Georgie.
This wasn’t Mom’s idea. She doesn’t like flaunting Georgie’s pregnancy in people’s faces.
She’d never want any of her snobby friends to think she condones my sister’s actions.
But when Mom learned Georgie’s friends were going to throw her a baby shower at one of their homes, she quickly stepped in, taking hold of the reins.
I think it’s been good for her. To have this distraction.
The baby is due to arrive at the end of the month, and watching Mom frantically cooking, baking, and bossing around vendors kind of makes things feel almost normal. But also, very real.
Mom finally broke the news to her family over Christmas.
Her parents didn’t quite understand. Especially when Mom said Georgie and Zach weren’t getting married.
My grandparents blamed Mom, and then themselves for allowing her to move to Canada to marry my father in the first place.
I know they’re old and old school and say mean things in a fit of rage, but if they truly believe Mom would have been better off in Palestine then that means they’d be okay with the idea of neither Georgie nor myself existing.
While my mom and dad would never say something like that to me or Georgie, even in the heat of the moment, they do care far too deeply about what other people think.
Mom proceeds to straighten all the dishes on the folded-out plastic table that we rented for the “small” shower. This went from a gathering of about ten to somehow needing rented tables, matching tablecloths, and, of course, floral centerpieces.
Mom can never do anything small.
The guest list includes Mom, Georgie, me, Andie, ten of Georgie’s friends, along with some of their moms, Zach’s mom, his grandmothers, and a few of his cousins. Mom also invited her closest, least judgmental friends, most of whom do not attend our church.
“Are we all done here?” I ask, looking at our transformed backyard. The decor is subtle, but beautiful. Florals on every table. Some fun, but muted, balloons surrounding the dessert table. And even though it’s early spring, Dad has had the backyard professionally tended to.
“Yes, yes,” Mom says, examining the alignment of the multiple cake stands and rushing over to adjust them. “Go get ready.”
I look down at my black T-shirt and jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Mom’s gaze snaps from the decor to me. “You can’t wear jeans to a baby shower.”
“But it’s at home. I bet Georgie’s friends will be in jeans.”
“You are not Georgie’s friends. You’re the baby’s aunt. Wear your paisley dress. The one I bought you last Easter.”
I throw my head back. “I hate that dress. It’s so corny.”
“Corny?” Mom asks, giving me two seconds of eye contact before she rushes over to a table to recenter the florals.
“It’s itchy and short. And I didn’t shave my legs.”
Mom breathes out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Wear dress pants, then. And a nice blouse. Go. Yalla.”
What even is a blouse? This is not how I want to spend a Saturday in April. Especially when it’s so nice out. But I’ll suck it up. For Georgie. Seeing as I don’t have a choice in the matter anyway.
I enter the house from the backyard to find Dad at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. “Made lunch for myself,” he says proudly.
“You’re not eating the catered food with the rest of us?” I ask.
Dad pats his slightly inflated belly. “Have to watch my sodium intake.”
“What’re you going to do during the shower?”
Dad’s dressed in khakis and a polo. His hair is freshly washed, and the smell of his cologne lingers in the air.
“I was invited to Zach’s home for drinks and cards.”
“You’re going?” I ask, my eyes wide at this revelation. Dad at Zach’s home with Zach’s dad? Weird.
“I said I’d stop by. Can’t be rude,” he replies, an obvious strain in his voice. Dad’s not the most social guy, and this situation is sure to be awkward. I’d go with him to alleviate his obvious anxiety, but I’m expected here since I’m a girl and god forbid we upset gender norms.
“How’re you doing at school?” Dad asks, almost out of nowhere, but it’s not out of nowhere. He probably feels bad because all the attention has been on Georgie lately and my ninth-grade year is almost over.
“Good,” I nod, walking over to help him dry dishes. “I’m really enjoying Music class.”
Dad cracks a grin. I know he’d much rather I focused all my time on maths and sciences, but that’s just not where my heart is.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I don’t have any grandiose plans of running off to be a singer. It’s just kind of fun.”
“Are you playing any instruments?” Dad passes me the last dish before drying his hands.
“The piano, a little. Mrs. Morales, my teacher, knows that I like to write and she’s helping me turn some of my poetry into a song.”
Even though it’s faint, there’s a small but proud smile on his face. We both speak the language of music. “Play it for me when it’s done?”
“You’ll be my first official audience,” I say, putting the last plate away. “Outside of Mrs. Morales, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So, Georgie’s due date is in ten days.”
Dad’s smile falters as he looks down. His nod is slight but it’s there. “The baby could come any day now.”
“Hard to imagine,” I say. “A whole other human living here. Crying. Pooping. Crying.”
My words manage to make him laugh a little.
“It will be an adjustment, but we have God with us, and we will figure it out. Together.”
My dad leans on faith extra hard when life goes askew.
But sometimes I feel like he uses talk of God and faith as a reason to cut a conversation short.
To stop us from delving deeper. I want to know how he’s really feeling about Georgie’s impending birth because I’m scared, and it feels like I can’t tell anyone that because no one else is admitting they’re scared too, but I know they are.
How can they not be? Life as we know it will never be the same.
It hasn’t been the same since the end of last summer.
“I have to go change,” I say, tugging at my T-shirt. “Mom’s orders.”
As I begin to walk away, Dad calls out, “Lennon?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning back.
“Want to grab ice cream tonight after all of this is over? Just you and me?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Your treat?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “The down payment for the castle in Ireland will have to wait.”
“Ireland? Are you trying to kill me? You know I can’t live without you right next to me.” He laughs.
“Yeah,” I say, not laughing back. “I know.”