by Deena Lipomi
“What?” I ask.
“The baby! Feel it, Mel.” Annie’s face glows like it supports its own solar system.
“No thanks.” Clearly Annie’s pregnancy is no longer a school secret. More like a hot rumor. Still, I’m not flaunting it while people like Justine exist.
“When we get home then,” Annie says like that settles it, like it’s perfectly normal for us to feel up each other’s torsos. Sure, we’re closer than we were a month ago, but only because she’s home a lot more now that she isn’t friends with Justine and her crew. It’s not like she asks me about my life, which I’m used to.
But can’t she tell that I don’t want to talk about her baby in public?
To think I was the one who wanted us to talk more.
As soon as we get home, Annie throws her jacket over the arm of the couch, grabs my hand and rests it on top of her stomach. “Feel her.”
I stiffen and stop myself from jerking away. Then I feel it. Life, movement, inside my little sister’s body.
Creepy. Cool. Weird.
“This is so strange,” I say, catching my breath and not meaning to say it out loud.
“I know,” Annie says.
We stand there in the living room like that, with my hand resting on her baby, Annie’s hand on top of mine, until the movement stops.
***
I spend Tuesday evening mounding mashed potatoes onto plastic trays with an ice cream scoop. The hospital cafeteria, decorated with paper turkeys, pilgrims, and cornucopia cutouts, is extra busy with tonight’s dinner crowd.
“It gets like this before the holidays,” Dexter says from down the line where he stirs unnaturally orange mac and cheese. My creamy recipe made with pepper jack and provolone is much more appealing but would probably up the hospital’s number of heart attack cases.
“Granny’s sick in the hospital,” Dexter continues, “and the family, they all feel guilty, so they come to visit before the actual holiday – without interrupting their own holiday plans. Cookin’ that twenty pound turkey is more important than family. Ha!”
I wonder how many customers hear Dexter, how many are offended, and how many know he’s right.
My family’s Thanksgiving Day isn’t exciting and never has been. It’s just an excuse to cook large quantities of food with specialized ingredients like fresh rosemary and thyme that we don’t have on hand any other time. Dad’s parents died before I was born, and Mom’s mother passed away twelve years ago and her father lives in a Florida retirement community. We never seem to have enough money to fly south to visit, and he never wants to fly north during the cold months, so Grandpa hobnobs with his Floridian friends for the holidays.
I wonder if he would fly north to visit a great-grandchild.
“Can I have two scoops please?” asks an older woman in a bright red sweater. “It’s all my Harold will eat these days.”
“Of course,” I say, heaping on extra potatoes for good measure. They are real today, not the reconstituted flakes we usually serve, and I dressed them up with extra garlic salt.
“Thank you,” the woman says, and hurries to the cash register.
I’m still watching her, hoping Harold gets better soon, when the next person in line clears his throat to get my attention.
“Devon!”
“Hey, cutie,” he says.
Devon’s the one looking extra cute in his blue knit ski cap. He’s never visited me at work before and I can feel Dexter’s goofy grin directed at us.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again before you took off,” I say.
“We’re leaving soon.” Devon’s family is from Niagara Falls, so every Thanksgiving they head northwest to spend the long weekend at his grandmother’s house. At least I’ll have one less distraction so I can get my college applications done. “I just wanted to say goodbye again.”
I want to nuzzle my face into his neck and kiss him until my lips are chapped.
I want to do more, all the things we haven’t done yet.
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
Devon reaches across the hot trays and touches my cheek. His fingers are still cold from being outside and they make me shiver in a good way.
“Hope your family has a good Thanksgiving,” he says.
“Yours, too.”
Devon leans over my pan of potatoes. The line forming behind him either groans in impatience or looks away.
I give him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I’ll call you when I get back, OK?”
“Sure,” I say, missing him already. “Yes. Definitely.”
The man behind Devon edges his tray in front of me.
Devon laughs and backs away. “I’ll call you Sunday.”
A new voice cuts in. “Belle, do you want some mashed potatoes?”
It’s Justine’s friend Samara, one of Annie’s former friends. She doesn’t recognize me immediately in my apron and hairnet but my cheeks grow hot anyway. The hospital cafeteria has always been a safe haven for me, hidden from classmates, a place where I don’t have to worry about being judged. Now I have a Justine spy in my midst. The fat and food jokes will run rampant.
Belle wears the familiar pink and purple scarf. Other than her missing hair, she’s a mini Samara. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together before, that they’re sisters.
I place a scoop of potatoes on Belle’s tray. She tries to balance it with one hand and the entire platter of food crashes to the floor.
“Oh no!” Belle wails.
“Oh, Belle, it’s OK,” Samara says, kneeling down to pick up the mess.
“It’s on my shoes,” Belle sniffles.
I find a dishrag and shimmy around my station. “That’s all right. I’ll help clean you up.” The next woman in line grumbles and I throw her a glare that dares her to say something when there’s a sick little girl who needs help. I swab up the floor and hold out a clean pile of napkins to Belle’s sister.
“Here, Samara,” I say.
She does a double take at the sound of her name.
I turn to Belle. “Dexter over there’ll give you a new plate of macaroni and cheese, and then come back for some more mashed potatoes, OK?”
Belle nods as I take her gooey tray and says, “You know Samara? She’s my sister.”
“Yeah. We go to school together.”
“I go to school, too!” Belle says. “Are you and my sister school friends?”
Samara flashes me an embarrassed smile.
I set the tray of dishes beside me and squat down to meet Belle’s eyes, ignoring the line behind her and Samara. “My sister and your sister are in the same grade.”
“Eleventh,” Belle says. “Now you and my sister can be hospital friends. But not best friends. Samara’s my best friend.”
I nod, suddenly choked up by this five-year-old. “It’s good to have your sister as your best friend.”
“Let’s go,” Samara says, taking Belle’s hand. “We need to have lunch before your treatment.”
“What’s your name?” Belle asks before Samara drags her away.
“Melanie.” I stand and brush off my knees.
“Bye, Melanie! We’ll be back for more mashed potatoes.”
I have a feeling from the way Samara rushes off that she won’t be back, not today. But for once I don’t believe it’s because she thinks I’m too fat, too unpopular, or too beneath her.
Instead it feels like she doesn’t know what to say to me about Annie now that she’s out about her pregnancy.
She can join the club.
Chapter 21
A week later, I busy myself making three-cheese veggie lasagna while Mom hauls Annie to the doctor for a check-up. I pretend I don’t care that they will come back with pictures of the baby. What difference will it make if it’s a boy or a girl, has ten toes or eleven, since as soon as it’s born Annie will give it away?
None. That’s what I keep telling myself.
“Two eggs.” I grab them from the
fridge, talking to myself to fill the silence of the house. I crack them into a bowl and then add two cups of ricotta cheese when my phone rings. I answer it with the less cheese-covered of my hands. “Hello?”
“Mel?” I can barely recognize the voice through the static and sniffling.
“Kasey?”
“Dude, I’m a wreck,” she says through sobs.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I’m coming over, OK?” She rings the doorbell. “I mean, I’m here.”
I open the front door as Kasey pockets her cell. Her face is red from the cold and streaked with tears. The ends of her hair stick to the dampness on her cheeks.
“Mel, I was so stupid,” she says through her tears.
Oh god, if she tells me she’s pregnant, I’ll seriously consider the possibility that I’ve entered a parallel dimension where no one is who she seems.
I lead Kasey to the couch and hand her a box of tissues. She blows her nose like a foghorn.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Me and Carlos. We’re on separate continents. Why wouldn’t we be attracted to other people and want to go on dates with them if they live in our same hemisphere?”
OK, she didn’t say anything about being pregnant. I calm down a bit.
“I should probably be surprised we lasted this long. I mean, we haven’t seen each other in person since last January. But Mel, I really loved him. I really love him. And he dumped me!” She hiccups. “What am I going to do?”
She sounds so much like Annie talking about Harris that it twists my stomach.
“You're strong, Kase,” I say. “You’re going to be our valedictorian, go on to veterinary school, and be a rich and famous animal researcher and scientist. You’ll meet so many people.”
“But I’ll miss Carlos so much. I already do.”
“Of course you do. Missing him is OK. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” I think about Annie as I say this, hoping it’s true for everyone.
“I feel so weak,” she says. “It sucks.”
I bring her a glass of water and when I set it next to her, she wraps her arms around me. “Thanks, Mel,” she says.
I hug her back, wondering how I’ll survive next year without her nearby.
“You’re so lucky to have Devon,” she says when we pull apart.
I twitch. “Once we start college we’ll be long distance, like you and Carlos.”
“Dude, don’t look so forlorn. Boston and Williamsport aren’t that far apart. You can take a bus.”
“I guess,” I say.
“Don’t compare your relationship to mine. You and Devon can create your own reality,” Kasey says, her eyes drying. “Let’s not think about this anymore. Besides, it’s only fall. Who knows, by the time we graduate, you could have Sal Malone!”
“Ugh,” I groan and hang my head. “I can’t believe I was so into him.”
“Oh, you were,” Kasey says.
I throw a couch pillow at her and we both lay back, laughing.
“You’re staying for dinner, right?” I ask.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Kasey helps me assemble the rest of the lasagna and soon the house is warm from the oven and smells like herbed béchamel sauce. Dad comes home sometime while we’re putting together a green salad, and Mom’s car pulls into the driveway as we finish setting the table.
Dad opens the door from his office and shuffles into the kitchen. “They’re home?” he asks.
“They just pulled in,” I say, lining up the salt and pepper shakers.
Annie bursts into the house with a rush of cold air. She holds a strip of photos up to the ceiling lights. “That’s her!”
“It’s a girl?” Dad says, his voice catching in a way I’ve never heard.
“She’s a girl,” Annie says.
“Dude, let me see.” Kasey hurries to Annie’s side. “Come on, Mel.”
The crisp December cold radiates from Annie’s coat and she smells like leaves and smoke, the scents of a late fall evening. She doesn’t look or feel like a mother. But she is.
“In this one you can’t tell really well what you’re looking at.” Annie points to the first photo. “But this is her back. Aren’t they cool, the 3-D photos?”
“It looks like a fossil,” Kasey says.
I stare, not sure what I’m supposed to recognize.
“In this one,” Annie points to the second photo, “she’s on her side – see her legs and the profile of her face?”
It’s hard for me to distinguish between the arms and the legs so I keep my mouth shut.
“And in this one, she rolled over for us. Isn’t it great? Look at her, isn’t she beautiful?”
Holy crap.
The baby looks real.
The eyes, nose, mouth, they’re so clear. I shiver and can’t turn away.
“The doctor said with this photo she was positive it’s a girl. Isn’t she beautiful?” Annie says again, shoving the picture into my hand.
I’m afraid to get my fingerprints on it so I barely touch the image.
“You really should take a look at the photos, Charles,” Mom says, bustling in with shopping bags. That’s when I realize Dad is still hovering in the doorway to the kitchen.
“I did read about this 3-D technology.” Dad edges closer.
“Look, Dad.” Annie takes the photo from my hand and gives it to our father. “That’s her.”
I watch him take it all in, the fingers, the toes, the baby girl. His face softens, like a ripe peach, delicate. I’ve never seen him like this before.
“I need to sit down,” Annie says, shrugging out of her jacket. Dad and Kasey follow her to the living room, carrying the photographs. The timer beeps so I head to the kitchen to check on the lasagna where Mom is leaning on the island with her head in her hands.
Crap. She wants Annie’s baby to be ours.
Frustration bubbles inside me like my skin will burst. Mom doesn’t get it, that Annie putting her baby up for adoption is the only way to fix this family. We can’t keep a child to connect Annie (and to connect all of us) to Harris.
I pull the lasagna pan from the oven and practically throw it onto the counter.
Mom flinches at the rattle of metal on faux granite. “Melanie. Please.”
“What?” I say, banging open the silverware drawer for a spatula.
She runs her fingers through her hair and plasters a smile on her face. “Aren’t you happy for your sister?”
“I am,” I say. “You’re the one who’s not.”
A shadow creeps into the shadows beneath her eyes. “This is hard for me, OK?”
“It’s hard for me, too, and Annie. So don’t try to guilt her into keeping the baby when she wants it gone.” I storm from the room to announce that dinner is served before Mom can reply.
***
I lay on my bed, stuffed from overeating lasagna, tired from keeping secrets and dealing with emotional family drama, and bored from writing my English assignment.
Then my cell rings and it’s like I’ve been fed the elixir of life.
“I saved you a piece of lasagna,” I say to Devon when I answer.
“Sweet.”
“You mean savory.”
Devon laughs at my lame joke. “Annie had her boy-or-girl appointment today, right?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“So, which is it?”
I pick at the lint on my comforter. “Girl.”
“Cool,” he says. “I like girls.”
Now I laugh. “I’m glad.”
“Hey, I was just wondering,” he says with unusual hesitation, “can I ask you a question?”
“Um, sure?”
Devon pauses again. “Does her father know?”
“Dad? Yeah, he was there. Why?”
“No. I mean the baby’s father.”
I will the question to go away.
“Mel? Sorry, I was just curious, you know, since you never talk about the fat
her.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“Well, it kind of does, doesn’t it? Why does the guy always get left in the dark?” Something metal clangs in the background, probably car tools. “I didn’t always live with my dad, and living with my mom sucked. She’s not totally right in her head. It was hard for my dad to get custody even though it was better for me just ‘cause he’s a guy.”
I knew Devon’s parents were divorced and he rarely saw his mom, but I never thought that his family hadn’t always been set up that way.
“You’re right,” I say, “but with Annie it’s not the same thing.”
“Annie might think that,” he agrees. “I just know things aren’t always fair to the guys.”
“Har – I mean the baby’s father is totally out of the picture,” I say, almost pleading. “Trust me.”
“Sorry. I know it’s really none of my business but I can’t help wondering sometimes. I do trust you.”
The sad thing is he shouldn’t, not completely. I seal my fingers around my pillow. Does Annie know what her secrets are doing to me? To us?
Would she care?
I don’t know how long we sit in silence with only the sounds of a car shop in the background.
Finally Devon speaks. “Sooooo….”
“Yeah?” I cringe, waiting for him to say we have nothing to talk about so it might as well be over.
“Can I stop over tomorrow?”
“You want to?” I ask. With my college applications safely submitted – on the last possible day – I definitely want him to come over to show him I still care.
“Of course,” he says. “Just don’t let someone eat my lasagna.”
“OK. Tomorrow.” I exhale. “I’ll put a ‘do not eat’ sign on your food.”
He laughs and I finally breathe enough to fill my lungs.
“Good night,” Devon says. “Sleep tight. I’ll think of you.”
“You, too. Good night.” I hang up with a tingly heart just as Annie knocks on my partially open door. “Yeah?”
“I got a hang up phone call.” Annie walks in picking at her fingernails that she never used to keep unpainted let alone ragged. Blood dots her cuticles. “Maybe it was Harris?”
The yearning in her voice kills me. “Annie –”
