13. Eden
Eden
Itruly wonder how things happen to me sometimes. Like, am I an actual participant in my own brain, or is it just on a jolly doing and saying whatever the fuck it wants? That’s the only fathomable reason as to why I agreed to haul our arses to Britain with our crazy friends in tow.
It’s a question that echoes inside my skull as I watch Heathrow devour my sense of time and dignity.
We’re standing in the queue for border control, thirty-seven hours since I last knew peace, and the only thing keeping me upright is my spite-like devotion to proving Jenna wrong.
She said we wouldn’t make it to Gran’s before the end of the week. Watch me, Lucifer.
Behind me, Sloane is explaining “the cultural significance of Paddington Bear” to Meena, who is so jetlagged her eyelids are doing Morse code.
Next in line, Arin and Becca are synchronising their Fitbits to see who can log the most steps from here to baggage claim.
I can sense the beginnings of a disaster.
Becca hasn’t worked out that Arin does like ten times her footsteps considering he’s a tiny human.
I try to tune it out by focusing on the upside: at least if British Airways loses our luggage, I have three pairs of black jeans on my body right now.
No one will be mocking me for overpreparing then, will they!
Sloane tugs at my arm, eyes wide and a little wild with lack of sleep. “Did you know customs can legally detain you if you try to smuggle in dairy products?” she whispers. I fear she’s about to make a break for it, so I put a steadying hand on her. She’s vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.
“Were you planning on smuggling in cheese?”
She shrugs, which means yes.
The border agent is a soft-lipped guy with the look of a faded boy band member, and he makes direct eye contact when he asks, “Length and purpose of visit?” He scans our faces, then Sloane’s belly where she is unconsciously rubbing, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Congratulations,” he says, stamping us through.
Sloane beams all the way down the escalator, and I feel stupidly, irrationally proud of her. She’s not really showing yet, but she’s already got the glow. I wish I could say the same for myself. I look like the ghost of Queer Regrets Past.
“Next stop, the bolthole,” I announce, corralling the group toward the arrivals lounge. “We cross London, survive the trains, and then—” I pause to count heads, making sure Bella hasn’t wandered off to start a socialist lecture in a Pret a Manger. “We touch down in the land of my ancestors.”
Becca, ever the hype woman, raises her coffee cup in salute. “To Eden’s ancestral homeland! And to not dying on the M25!”
After surviving the trains, we pile into the hired minivan, which is far more European in actual size than the website implied, and which barely fits our group plus luggage.
Sloane instantly claims the front seat, stating she’s a medical risk, and we are monsters if we deny her the extra leg room.
The rest of us play a one-round elimination of luggage Tetris.
I drive because the idea of anyone else behind the wheel on the left side of the road is a risk assessment I am not prepared to make.
Sloane’s hand stays on my thigh the entire time, like she’s grounding me. If she’s nervous, she doesn’t show it.
The three-hour journey north is a test in patience I’m sure will come in handy when we have a screaming baby.
Mum has called twice, but I didn’t hear my phone, so now she’s harassing everyone else.
She’s super pissed we waited until she and Dad got back to the States before we decided to take the trip.
It’s not like I had a lot of input in any of this. Sloane and Becca are a force to be reckoned with once they get an idea in their heads. If the trip had been left up to me, it wouldn’t be happening until after the baby arrives. As soon as Sloane started making spreadsheets I admitted defeat.
Surprisingly, the weather is glorious, which has severely pissed off Bella.
She really wanted the wet-weekend version of Britain.
I’m happy as hell because it means the chance of Sloane getting sick is close to zero.
That’s one worry off my mind, thank fuck.
I’ve still got a million more, but I’ll soldier on.
The biggest worry is my gran not letting us leave in ten days’ time.
Sloane and Gran have been video chatting every week for years now. She had to stop my gran from grabbing the first flight to America when we told her she was going to be a great-grandma. In true Milly Sawyer fashion, she harrumphed and then ordered us to visit her.
Well, here we are. Pulling up at my grandparents’ cottage. It’s only a three-bed, so there will be some serious personal space issues happening over the next fortnight. Sloane and I get our own room, whereas Bella, Becca, Pia and the kids will have to share. There will be bloodshed, I’m sure of it.
I park the minivan at an angle that would make a German engineer cry, and we all stumble out, blinking against the sunlight.
The cottage sits squat and whitewashed at the end of a gravel lane, roofline slightly askew, as if the house itself is bracing for impact.
The front garden is a riot of overgrown hydrangeas, ancient lawn gnomes, and at least one ornamental sheep.
I steel myself and ring the bell. The door bursts open before I can even remove my finger, and Gran Sawyer practically bulldozes me with a hug.
“Eden! You look like you’ve been sleeping in your car,” she proclaims, then pivots immediately to Sloane and, with a gentleness she reserves for the genuinely fragile, enfolds her in a marshmallow-scented embrace.
“Oh, darling. Look at you. You’re positively glowing. ”
Sloane blushes so hard I think she might combust. “It’s just sweat, I think.”
Gran’s eyes twinkle. “Of course it is, love.” She shoos us inside and shouts over her shoulder, “Jenna! They’re here!”
Jenna slides into view, phone at her ear, hair scraped back in a severe bun. “About bloody time,” she says, kissing me on the cheek and giving me a dead arm. She gives Sloane a far warmer hug, then sails off to finish her call.
The rest of the group is already making themselves at home—Meena and Arin racing up the stairs, Bella testing the limits of the ancient Wi-Fi, Pia raiding the fridge for “anything properly British.” Becca, who is basically allergic to personal downtime, has located Gran’s tea caddy and is performing a full British tea ceremony in the kitchen.
Sloane surveys the living room, which is wall-to-wall family photos, mismatched cushions, and Gran’s art. “I’ve missed this place,” she says.
By dinner, the house is at full, vibrating capacity. The kids are feral, the adults half-feral, and the only person holding it together is Becca, who has organised a seating chart and a rotating dishwashing roster before most of us have even noticed food is on the table.
By eleven o’clock, everyone is asleep, apart from me. I’m full of energy for some reason, so I decide it’s time to reacquaint myself with the country footpaths. A brisk jog should do the trick.
The wind smacks me in the face the second I step outside.
There’s a little stone stile at the back garden, same as ever, with the field beyond half-swallowed by mist. The first few steps are awkward—the ground here wants to trip you, either through mud or by the casual placement of a random sheep turd.
My knees hate me. My lungs hate me. My brain is, for once, blissfully silent.
I’m halfway down the loop toward the cliffs, past the gnarled old oak tree that’s still chained off with a polite sign about “danger of collapse,” when a voice behind me yells, “Oi! Wait up!”
A silhouette lurches through the dark. For one harrowing moment, I’m convinced it’s some supernatural English scarecrow about to eat my face off, but then I register Lucifer’s voice.
“It’s been ages since I kicked your arse on a run.”
Jenna’s in running tights and a neon windbreaker so garish it should be illegal. She falls in beside me, grinning.
“Whatever. Are you just going to flap your gums or actually jog with me?”
Another dead arm, and I remember all the reasons I don’t miss my little sister living thousands of miles away.
We run in relative silence until we reach the halfway point, and I slump on the bench overlooking the beach.
“So,” I gasp. “How’s life here, really?”
She sighs. “Really good, E. Like seriously. Kiera is killing it at the university. We’ve got a really cool group of friends, and the bar is really taking off.”
“Wow, Jen. That’s great. I take it the move here is looking pretty permanent then, huh?”
She side-eyes me, looking guilty, which isn’t necessary. If she and Kiera are happy here, that’s all that matters to me.
“Don’t do the eye thing, Jen,” I say, still wheezing. “It’s not like I’m going to collapse from heartbreak because you actually like living here.”
She shrugs, picking at the edge of the bench. “Yeah, but…you know. It’s weird. I came over thinking it would be temporary, but, well, it’s definitely not. Plus, Gran has become overly attached to Kiera and would probably disinherit me if we left.”
I snort. “I see the wife has replaced you in the hierarchy.”
“She bought Kiera an iPad for work. She wouldn’t even buy me a SodaStream,” Jenna mutters.
We sit for a bit, not talking. The waves below us are loud as hell, and in the distance, I can see the lights from the village. I realise I’ve missed this—being outside when the world’s actually quiet, just the two of us and not the chaos of a group chat or a living room full of maniacs.
“How’s Sloane?” Jenna asks, more serious now.
“She’s…” I can’t finish the sentence. It’s not that I don’t know; it’s that I know too well.
She’s scared and glad and so tender it makes my ribs ache.
But mostly she’s Sloane: getting up every morning, organising the world one spreadsheet at a time, believing we’re going to rock the shit out of this parent thing.
Jenna lets the silence stretch. “Gran told me you freaked out when Mum and Dad left the first time they visited after Sloane got preggers.”
“Gran talks too much,” I grumble, though it’s true. I did freak out. For some reason, the thought of my entire family on another continent made me want to build a pillow fortress and never leave it.
Jenna stretches her legs out. “You’re allowed to be scared, you know. But don’t forget you’ve got us, and Sloane.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, realising she’s right. Now and then I need a reminder.
“You’re going to be a good mum, E,” Jenna says, so gently I almost don’t hear it.
“Yeah, yeah,” I deflect, “just as long as the kid isn’t allergic to sarcasm.”
She laughs, then stands up. “Not possible being related to us. Come on, let’s jog back before you freeze to death. I want to beat you up the last hill.”
“Not happening,” I say, but already she’s bounding ahead, neon jacket bobbing like a flare in the dark.
I follow, knees screeching. Halfway up the hill, I nearly eat shit on a path stone I should have seen and avoided.
As I catch my balance, Jenna turns and grins at me, and I realise—really realise—how much I missed competing with her, being her rival and her partner in crime, not just her distant, judgmental older sibling.
We get back and the cottage is silent. Jenna collapses on the couch and begs for water. Guess I’ll be getting that then.
She’s sprawled out so dramatically that I have to check if she’s faked her own death to get out of chores. I roll my eyes and fill a glass at the sink, splash her with a little on my way back. She squawks and hurls a throw pillow at my head, which I field effortlessly.
I take the stairs two at a time and slide into the tiny, ancient shower, grateful for the chance to rinse off the weird mix of airplane sweat and salt air.
Every British shampoo smells of tea tree or some herb I can’t pronounce.
I scrub until my scalp tingles and then stand under the hot water, letting my brain melt a bit.
After towelling off, I sneak into my old bedroom, where Sloane should be sleeping but is now wide awake smiling up at me.
“Hey, baby, feel better now?”
I drop the towel and stroll over buck naked, loving the way she eyes me. “Much. Jenna caught up with me and we had a mini race.”
“Who won?”
“That’s not the point,” I reply, making her chuckle.
She pulls back the duvet and pats the bed. “Come and squeeze into the world’s smallest double bed, babe. I need to koala bear.”
Laughing, I slide in next to her. Instead of snuggling in, she lets her hands wander.
“Excuse me, Mrs Sawyer-Bishop, but you’re getting mighty handsy for someone who just wanted to snuggle.”
“That’s before you got into bed naked, Eden,” she replies like I’m stupid.
I never thought for one second she’d want to get saucy in my old bedroom with our friends and my grandparents in the house.
Is this another side effect of the little goblin growing inside her?
Now, this is something I can get onboard with!