by Liora Blake
But Kate and I are sisters who think differently, act differently, and look like distant cousins rather than sisters. For every dark hair on her head, I have a strawberry blonde one—albeit the shade of blonde I’m currently sporting comes primarily from a bottle. For every trim, thin limb of hers, I have a sweeping curve. Really, the only physical trait we share is the Mosely family’s blue eyes. Kate is all unassuming, pared-down beauty, while I’m eyelash curlers and keratin treatments. Thus, she manages to look effortlessly fresh and natural, even when nothing is going according to plan and her husband is currently on a very tardy private charter plane somewhere between here and LA.
“When I called Trevor this morning to tell him my water broke, he cussed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.” Kate gives up a tired little chuckle and a sigh, then adds a gruff rasp to her voice. “‘Don’t you dare have our baby until I get there, Mosely. You hear me? Hold your breath or something. I don’t give a shit, just wait for me.’”
I offer a soft laugh in response to Kate’s anecdote. Nothing about this story sounds like anything less than truth, because Trevor manages to make even the coarsest, crudest, forthright statements merely sound like an ode to everything he loves about Kate. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man had only one purpose in this lifetime: cherishing my sister with a singular focus that eclipses everything else. Platinum records aside, that is what he’s truly gifted at. Seeing it play out is both heartwarming and heartwrenching. The latter, only because wanting that same adoration from someone, for myself, feels like an impossibility these days. I can almost feel spinsterhood nipping at my heels. Even if I’m determined those heels will also be ensconced in a pair of gorgeous Tory Burch mules when it happens.
Trevor and Kate have been here together for the last few months, nesting in our hometown, but Trevor reluctantly took a three-day trip back to their place in LA, hoping to wrap up loose ends on an album he is producing. Hoping if he did, it would leave him totally unburdened once the baby came. Kate assured him it would be fine, promising that she would do nothing but eat candy bars and stare at her belly in his absence. She practically shoved Trevor out the front door and tossed his suitcase behind him.
Kate sighs from the passenger seat again. “I reminded him that having a baby doesn’t really work that way. Not sure if he was about to cry or punch a hole in the wall. Maybe both.”
“You’re the one that married a retired rock-star hoodlum. Can’t expect him to clean up his mouth at this point,” I deadpan.
It’s been three years since they met, and in that time, despite declaring at the onset that no good could come from my sister canoodling with a guy who uses profanity at least every other word, I’ve come to appreciate all the rough edges that also make Trax so very Trevor-like.
Kate gives a weak smile at my lighthearted jab and suddenly I can see every bit of disappointment there. The palpable sadness that Trevor isn’t here, merely because of the fallibility of mechanical objects. Like airplanes, which sometimes have parts that break and leave an impossibly passionate man stranded on the ground thousands of miles away from where his wife is, in the tiny town of Crowell, Montana. Two places that couldn’t be farther apart in this moment, despite how these two have managed to make a life in both.
What’s worse is that my sister has already spent one too many nights at the Stratton County Hospital hoping and praying for a husband to come to her. Once, it was because her first husband, James, was dying in the emergency room after a car accident turned her life to icy shambles. Now, she’s on her way there again, wanting nothing but to feel Trevor’s hand wrapped in hers. Knowing all that means I would do absolutely anything to make this easier on her.
I offer the only thing I can to make this more bearable. Reaching over to grasp her hand, I manage to keep the car off the rumble strip while assuring Kate that everything will be fine.
Five hours later, Kate is holding a perfect baby boy in her arms and peeking up anxiously at the doorway to her room every ten seconds, in the hope Trevor will be appear there. I, on the other hand, have been continuously clenching and unclenching my fingers, trying to return proper blood flow to my digits. For a tiny woman, she gripped my hand like a pro wrestler for nearly three hours straight. I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t accessorized this outfit with lots of stackable rings on my right hand and a slew of bronze bangle bracelets on my left wrist, because between her hulking grip and an awkward stance that pressed my arms into the hospital bed rails, it was a relatively uncomfortable few hours. Not that I could say that out loud. Because, you know, I wasn’t having a baby.
But every second of the bone-crushing pain was worth it. Kate was strong, stoic, and she didn’t curse Trevor’s name or do that thing where women rage against all men for getting them in this position in the first place. She just closed her eyes and disappeared into the discomfort until it was over.
While Kate holds her baby, I make my way to the other side of the room, knowing after so many years of watching her that she needs a moment. She’s an insular, independent woman and I do my best to let that play out when she needs it, the same way I’ve done my entire life as the slightly dopey little sister who has trailed after her, envied her, and exasperated her. Besides, enduring life so tenaciously—with all its little surprises—on your own is something I’m starting to do quite well—thrive and flourish under, really. Even if I once thought the notion of feminist self-reliance merely sounded like a fancy way of convincing yourself that you don’t mind eating every meal alone.
Kate’s room is relatively quiet, even with her door open to the hallway. An afternoon lull in this part of the hospital means there isn’t much to break the silence beyond the low hum and drone of the medical equipment.
This near tranquility also means that the sound of someone slapping a flat-footed sprint down the hallway is easily discernable, every squeak and shuffle of what I’m guessing is a pair of worn-out Chucks coming through clearly. Kate lifts her head for the millionth time and grins at the still-empty doorway until Trevor appears there, coming to an abrupt halt by latching on to the door frame with the grip of one hand.
Instead of barreling immediately into the room, he stops and lingers at the threshold, eyes flickering to mine for a half second before opening his arms wide and bracing them in the doorway.
“I was very clear, Mosely. I told you to wait for me.” Trevor says, voice faltering over our last name. “You don’t take direction very well, do you?”
Kate shakes her head and purses her lips together, but whether she’s holding back a smile or a wail, I can’t tell. “Nope.”
Trevor looks worn-down, dressed in his usual garb, a faded T-shirt and loose jeans, and so much regret etches his face. “I tried, baby. Devon and I nearly hijacked some CEO asshole’s jet. Simon talked us off the ledge on that one.”
Kate laughs, an undercurrent of relief in the frailty of it. “Oh God, Simon was the voice of reason? Not good.”
Awesome. Apparently, my brother in law didn’t come alone. Which means I’ll get to enjoy a few awkward moments with his tough-as-nails-while-still-gorgeous sister, Devon, and her wildly hot, charming boyfriend, Simon. Ideally, they’ll make out in the waiting room and feel each other’s asses blatantly, too. That way I can compound my singlehood by watching them carry on for all to see. As if my hand didn’t already hurt enough from Kate’s eagle-claw grasp, perhaps now I can add an envy-induced headache to the mix.
When Kate stretches her free hand out toward Trevor to urge him forward, still using her other to cradle the baby in the crook of her arm, the room turns so dense and thick with intimacy that all I want is to somehow disappear without either of them taking notice of my vanishing act. Maybe just a puff of pink smoke or a tiny glitter bomb from where I’m currently sitting to denote my absence.
Instead, I stay put and hold my breath while Trevor shakes his head at Kate and closes his eyes for a beat.
“Give me a minute, sweetheart. I missed t
he whole goddamn thing, so let me stand here for a second and just look at you. Both of you.”
Kate’s hand drops limply to the bed, but she fixes her eyes on his and waits.
Any second now, Trevor or Kate or both of them are going to start crying, I can feel it. I want to look away, but it’s practically a Hallmark card commercial, so I can’t. Finally, he drops his arms from the doorjamb and starts toward her. He reaches the edge of the hospital bed, pulls one leg up onto the mattress, and kneels toward Kate, taking her face in his hands, leaning in until his nose is touching hers. In his broken whispers, I can hear just enough, even though it’s probably too much. Apologies and endearments, with a few soft curse words to color all the reverence and make it clear we’re still dealing with Trevor, after all.
Kate lets her lips touch his for a moment and then pulls away so Trevor can see his baby up close. At that second, I start for the door because my heart is swelling and breaking at the same time. How those two got here, to a place where they’re both whole again, is a mystery and miracle. Because if you tried to understand how a brainy, overthinking novelist from the middle of nothing landed squarely in the heart of a ghetto-born, reformed-thug musician, you might spend a lifetime and never be able to find the logic in any of it.
Kate murmurs their son’s name. Nicholas Duke Jenkins. His first name in homage to the brother Trevor lost years ago and the middle name in memory of our long-passed father. In the smallest whisper a grown man can muster, Trevor says hello.
“. . . Hey there, Nic.”
I turn to sneak in one last look and find Trevor holding Nic as Kate lets her head fall back against the pillows, eyes closed and resting finally. Because Trevor being here does what it always has. He reminds Kate that she isn’t alone, that it’s safe, and whatever burden she has, she doesn’t have to shoulder it alone.
And the sight of such unburdening is so wonderfully raw and tender, I want nothing more than to know what that feels like.
As I amble down the hallway, I notice all the nurses craning their necks blatantly toward Kate’s room. When one of them sees that I’ve caught her staring, she drops her gaze and pretends to look at a chart. The move sends cold hackles up the back of my neck and every mama-grizzly component of my familial loyalty rises up inside me. I stop and turn purposefully back toward Kate’s room and pull the door shut. When the nosy nurse looks up to see what I’ve done, I send her a look I hope conveys that if she tries anything shady, I’ll have her for lunch. I consider the ol’ draw-my-index-finger-across-my-neck motion to emphasize the point, but decide that the nonverbal threats can wait. She’d better pray we don’t get to the verbal ones.
Honestly, can people not understand how intrusive it is to hover over someone’s private moments like that? Even if that someone happens to be newsworthy? Before Kate met Trevor, I used to eat up every trashy gossip magazine out there, relishing the way a celebrity fiasco made my own simple yet stable life seem just peachy. But ever since the time my sister became the fiasco, I can’t much enjoy the diversion of them.
If Kate and Trevor were a little less humble, a little more self-absorbed, they would have locked down this side of the hospital and sent in a team of attorneys to secure nondisclosures from everyone, the nurses on down to the janitors. But their lives in Crowell are typically low-key—only when we venture out of our tiny town and into the greater county do people really gawk. When people call out to greet Trevor across Crowell’s town square, it’s not because he’s Trax, it’s because he’s Kate’s husband. So the disregard of our townsfolk to his big-deal-ness means that Kate and Trevor don’t think about protecting their privacy they way probably should.
Once I’ve satisfied my need to send everyone in the vicinity a silent message to stay clear of room one-twenty-one, I make my way back to the waiting room. Because Kate is a hometown girl and Trevor has practically been adopted into our rural family, the relatively small room is nearly overrun now. Kate’s neighbor Sharon is here, making small talk with Kate’s old coworkers from what used to be our family’s newspaper, Herm and Rita. Even the weird British guy, Abe, who owns the local cycling shop has made an appearance, because he’s Trevor’s bestie here in Crowell.
Segmented off and standing a few away is the LA contingent, including Trevor’s mom, Marilyn, and his manager, Damien. Simon, his bandmate, is laughing at something and grinning and looking so good, it makes my jaw ache a little. For one night—admittedly, it was the night of Kate and Trevor’s wedding, which probably explains exactly how lovelorn and misty I was feeling in the first place—I was wickedly close to him, and those gray eyes of his were nearly delirium-inducing. We never got past a few glancing touches and a smattering of soft smiles, but I still think about what it would have been like had we crossed that line.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Devon’s voice, for all that it sounds like a screeching car wreck to me, is actually annoyingly feminine, with just the slightest husky rasp to it, so everything she says sounds seductive and sexy, even to my straight-girl hearing. I don’t recognize the man she’s talking to, his back to me, but from the dark dress pants and white uniform shirt topped with navy-blue-and-gold-striped epaulets at the shoulders, he must be the guy who leisurely steered the private plane here. A dark gray knit beanie covers his head, with a few unruly tendrils of hair peeking out from around the edges, all of it lending a casual edge to the rest of how he’s dressed.
Given that he’s not sporting a proper pilot’s hat, and seems to have made himself at home here chatting up Devon, he’s not much for professionalism and probably spent too much time flirting with her to focus properly on getting the plane in working order. Shouldn’t he be back at his plane already? Doing whatever slacker private pilots do before flying back to LA? A little more efficiency and a little less drooling on the pilot’s part, and they might have gotten here in time for Trevor to welcome his first baby into the world.
Devon is wearing a skintight black tank top paired with black yoga pants, because that is what she always wears. Not even for the reason most normal women wear yoga pants, because we’re feeling too lazy or bloated to put on regular pants. In her case, it’s because she does approximately nine hundred hours of yoga a week. Hot yoga, power yoga, blah, blah, blah. She even sucked Kate into the vortex and now they both have those lean, ripped yoga arms that don’t wing around when you wave at someone. The rest of Devon’s body matches her arms, no flimflamming anywhere. She’s beautiful and self-assured in the way some women are, those who take space in the world without apology and never hesitate to expect respect. It’s a quality I’ve worked on for the last few years, figuring out how to be more for myself and nothing less for anyone else—but for Devon, it seems to come naturally. The freedom that comes with that must be so damn liberating.
Her green eyes flicker over to mine, coolly composed, and I see her stretch one arm out and shove her fingers into the back pocket of Simon’s jeans, where he stands less than a foot away, talking to Damien. Without even turning to look at her, he reaches back and untucks her hand, then wraps his fingers in hers. Another glance from Devon my way, to make it absolutely clear that she’s marked him as private property for her enjoyment only.
Jesus. Duly noted. Like I was even planning to try to seduce him, anyway.
OK, fine. Maybe a small, tiny, practically imperceptible part of me would consider it. Maybe I wanted to have a man look at me like that again, the way Simon did that night at Trevor and Kate’s wedding. Even for a couple of hours. Because it’s been a long time since I indulged in the distraction of a man and some flirting that may or may not lead anywhere. And I miss it. I miss letting a guy focus on me, doing all those things men do that make it seem as if you’re all that matters. A few hours wasted that way might convince me that being both desirable and self-reliant isn’t just a ridiculous fantasy.
Sharon sidles up next to me, gently tugging on the end of my shirtsleeve and allowing my attention to focus elsewhere. “How is she?
Better?”
Nodding, I smile a little and let everything else fade away. Perhaps now I can escape the cloud of heavy-handed emotional stuff in this hospital for a moment and catch a breather outside. After that I’ll be holed up here—until I’m positive Kate doesn’t need anything else—trying to decide which pathetically out-of-date magazine in the waiting room to read first. Perhaps I’ll start with the self-esteem damaging women’s mag that’s trying to masquerade itself as a fitness journal. The cover shouts of a workout that will give me skinny-jean-worthy thighs in six minutes a day. I like skinny jeans, don’t love my thighs, and consider six minutes to be the right amount of time for a workout.
Backing out of the room, intent on a few moments of fresh air, I smile. “She’s perfect now. I’m going to head outside for a bit, so make sure no one interrupts them for a while, OK? I’m sure Trevor will come out once they’re ready for the ambush of cooing and tears.”
I catch a glimpse of the pilot again just as I turn to leave the room. When he chuckles at another witticism from Devon, I suddenly want someone to punish for Trevor’s absence, and this guy makes the perfect target. He’s leaning in toward Devon and speaking quietly, in a rich, resonant tone that is far too easygoing for my taste right now.
“Plus, Trevor needs a few minutes alone with her and the baby.” I raise my voice deliberately. “Since fancy private planes apparently travel at the speed of molasses, he missed out on everything.”
The room immediately turns silent. Simon manages to ease the tension slightly by snorting out an uncomfortable laugh. I saunter away and step around the corner. No more than five steps beyond, there is a door leading to the outside. My hand lands against the door, but when I start to push it open, a loud voice emerges from the waiting room.
“Aw, come on, Shoelace. Don’t go getting yourself all tied up in knots. I got him here in one piece, didn’t I?”
