“Do you have a Christmas tree yet?”
Charlotte, who usually breaks out the Christmas decorations and makes sure the family room is sporting a Monterey pine at least twelve feet tall during Thanksgiving weekend, has only retrieved the boxes of decorations from the garage. Seven large plastic storage containers are stacked in the corner of the dining room, an immediate reminder that she has greater things on her mind than tinsel and stockings.
“No,” I answer Alice with a smile. “Not yet.”
“We don’t have one, either.” Alice’s face goes long.
“I bet you will soon.”
She shrugs and says, “I don’t know. Mommy and Daddy seem kind of weird.”
“Weird?” I’m immediately hyperaware of my words and tone. I know Charlotte and Marco have kept their children in the dark about their marital troubles. Up until now I assumed the kids, including oldest and wise-beyond-her-years Alice, were safe and sound in that dark space. I shouldn’t be surprised by Alice’s comment, though. I was always vigilant about my parents and their constant tension and fighting. I’m sure Charlotte and Marco have kept their arguments to a minimum and away from the children, but it’d only be a matter of time before the kids would begin to suspect something was off.
“What do you mean by weird?” I ask.
She shrugs again and says, “Mommy seems sad, and Daddy’s really quiet.”
“Hmmm,” is the best I can come up with. This area definitely falls under motherly duties and not an aunt’s.
“And we don’t even have our Christmas tree yet,” Alice sadly points out yet again. “It’s weird.”
“That is weird,” I say, a bit aha-like with my tone. “I think if Mommy’s sad and Daddy’s quiet, it’s probably because they haven’t had time to pick out a Christmas tree yet.”
“Or put up the decorations?” Alice’s expression reads somewhat hopeful. I’m on the right track.
“Definitely. I bet once they find time in their busy schedules to get that tree and decorate for Santa, they’ll be happy. They won’t be quiet.”
“Yeah.” Alice nods repeatedly, smiling. “I think you’re right, Auntie Halley.”
“Hey,” I say, alighting on an idea. “How about we look at your mommy and daddy’s wedding album?”
If there’s proof of a couple that is happy, proof that can easily win over a ten-year-old girl, it’s her parents’ wedding album. Alice enjoys looking through old photo albums with my father, and she’s always jumping at the chance to show off her new school and soccer photos every year.
Seconds later Alice snuggles onto the sofa next to me, her long-eared stuffed bunny tucked under one arm. She helps me open the pearl-colored cover of Charlotte and Marco’s wedding album. The first photo is a large black-and-white engagement shot of them, a profile kissing shot in a park. As soon as Alice sees it she coos and says, “Mommy and Daddy are kissing.” Then she wrinkles her nose and begins to giggle.
“Like your Barbie and Ken,” I say.
“Yeahhh.”
We turn the pages, commenting on how beautiful Charlotte’s gown is, how funny Marco looks with cake on his face, how happy her parents look dancing together. Alice is completely enthralled, and little George even runs over when we’re halfway through to see what all the commotion is about. When Charlotte and Marco are embracing and kissing in one enlarged reception photo, George covers his eyes and begins laughing. He shouts, “Ew, kissing! Ew, kissing!” As he spins wildly about the living room, Alice telling him that it’s good—“Mommy and Daddy love each other, George”—a waking Leah stirs.
As Leah’s small moans turn into groans and then whimpers, I take a second to soak in the loving embrace and locked-eyed pose of Charlotte and Marco in one of their wedding photos. Both of them look unbelievably happy, smiling, holding each other close, Charlotte’s newly ringed hand gripping the back of Marco’s head, his forehead pressed to hers. It is, without any doubt, the happiest day of their lives. They’re right where they belong.
Leah is now crying, and I tear my eyes from the photo and move to scoop her up in my arms. I bounce her on my hip to soothe her and watch Alice carry on with the photo album without me. She’s as awed by her parents’ beautiful wedding album—that romantic and happy photo—as I am. Her grin doesn’t leave her face as she pages through the entire album. The activity has the distracting and uplifting effect I’d hoped.
I can’t help but notice, though, that I haven’t seen Charlotte and Marco look at each other like that in a long time. Not even half that happy, half that consumed by each other. As Leah’s tears dry and she becomes fascinated by my necklace, I catch myself hoping that Charlotte and Marco will find their happily ever after again. And that I can find mine with Adam, too. As Marian said, don’t we all deserve one? Someday, somehow?
When Charlotte and Marco return home, all three kids go crazy. George clings to Marco’s legs, Alice vies for her mother’s attention, and Leah jumps up and down on her haunches, waiting for someone to pick her up.
Marco, whose face is fortunately no longer pinched or glazed over, asks me in low, even tones, “Were they well behaved?”
“A-pluses all around,” I say cheerily.
Marco’s eyes meet mine for the first time since he and Charlotte returned. “Good,” he says. For only half a second does the corner of his mouth twitch upward, as if about to make the smallest of gracious smiles. “I’m glad to hear. Thank you, Halley.”
“Absolutely.”
Marco’s eyes move to Charlotte when I ask, “So did you have a good time on your date?” Date being the code word for today’s parental outing.
“It was really good,” Charlotte says. She meets Marco’s neutral gaze.
He gives a nod and reply of, “Really good.”
“That’s great,” I say, relieved. Relieved to hear the session went well, relieved to hear so from both of them, relieved to see that tension has been replaced by what I think the murmurings of reconciliation look like.
“Look, if you need me in a bind again—” I offer.
“Thanks, Hals,” Charlotte says. “If we’re in an absolute bind, yes, we’d love the help. But our sitter expects the same day, same time every week, so hopefully we won’t have to bug you much.”
“It doesn’t bug me,” I say, rubbing Alice’s head. She looks up at me with a grin. “Every week?” I glance from Charlotte to Marco. I don’t want to be nosy, but does that mean this is a good sign? That they’ve both decided to work through this?
“Once a week,” Marco says.
“You and Mommy are going on dates every week?” Alice says dramatically.
Marco ruffles Alice’s hair. “That’s right,” he says, his voice turning up in a friendly tone, as it often does when he’s talking to his children.
“But what about us?” George whines.
Marco takes Leah from Charlotte’s arms and says, “Mommy and Daddy’s dates are good for all of us.”
Charlotte gives me a small, hopeful smile. “Baby steps,” she says under her breath.
Marco looks to his wife. He may not be smiling, but he is present in a way he wasn’t earlier. Whatever happened behind closed doors, and maybe even in their alone time during the drive there and back, must have really done wonders. I’d hardly say Charlotte and Marco are a happily married unit, but I think they’re well on their way.
“Mommy! Daddy!” George cries, stealing Marco’s gaze from Charlotte. “When are we going to get our Christmas tree?”
“Yeah!” Alice chimes in. “And the decorations! You said after Turkey Day and it’s after Turkey Day!”
I grab my sweater and purse and move to the front door.
“Thanks again, Halley,” Charlotte says, touching my arm and giving me an optimistic look before I step out the door.
“What are sisters for?”
“Daddy! Mommy!” Alice and George howl in unison.
Charlotte turns to her impatient little ones and says, “You want a Chris
tmas tree, huh?”
“Yeah!” they shout.
Charlotte looks to Marco as Marco says, “Then I think we better go get a Christmas tree.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I hear Charlotte say as I make my exit.
Sixteen
I squint at the screen of my vibrating cell phone. Its persistent and heavy vibrations have woken me from a dead sleep. The alarm clock reads half past five in the morning. I can’t imagine who’d be calling at this hour. I squint some more, trying to make out the name on my phone. Unable to read it with sleepy eyes, I blindly answer the call.
“Halley!” the caller shouts.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Nina went into labor.”
“Griffin?”
“She’s five centimeters dilated,” Griffin says, clearly electrified by the news.
I shoot up in bed. “Oh my—”
“Rylan’s coming a bit earlier than expected—three weeks—but the doctor has given a healthy thumbs-up. Nina is great. If we’re lucky, we’ll be popping open that champagne sometime today!”
“Oh my goodness!”
Griffin says there’s a bet going on the hour Rylan will arrive. I ask if he’ll share with me some of the wagers. He’s going with ten in the morning—“It’s aggressive,” he adds, “but I’m just so ready to meet him!” Nina refuses to bet, and I assume that has something to do with her bouts of moaning and heavy breathing in the background. Griffin’s parents both bet noon, his sister and brother both two o’clock, and Adam four.
I switch my phone to my other ear. “Is Adam there?”
“No,” Griffin says. “We’re actually asking everyone to hold off on visiting until Rylan’s born. Give us a few hours, maybe even a day, depending on when he comes,” he explains, adding that they are excited to have everyone meet their son, but they want to soak up the very newness of their firstborn and early moments of parenthood as just the two of them.
“Absolutely,” I say. I couldn’t imagine, if I were to ever go through labor—and that is obviously a hypothetical—that I’d want the whole world pouring into my room, seeing me at my most vulnerable, most exhausted, most uncomfortable. Besides, I’ve always thought it rather unfair that when a newborn arrives everyone showers the baby with adoration and attention, while the poor mother, who did all the work, plays second fiddle. Yes, a newborn is thrilling, but I can’t think of what would put me into postpartum depression faster than that kind of a reception.
“I’ll come over whenever you and Nina like,” I say.
“Great.” Griffin sounds hurried, for obvious reasons. “Oh, you want to bet?”
“I’m in.” I consider Adam’s four o’clock bet and decide to follow closely behind. “Put me down for five.”
“This evening?”
“I sure hope so, for Nina’s sake.” God, the possibility of being in labor for twenty-four-plus hours!
Griffin says he’ll contact me when Rylan’s born, and then let me know when to head over for a visit. The anticipation of one of my best friends welcoming into the world the thing she’s wanted for so long, more than anything else in life, is almost too much to bear. I can’t imagine what Griffin and Nina must feel like. In my anxious anticipation I almost forget to apply mascara to my left lashes, and at work I accidentally trash two important e-mails instead of moving them to a folder.
Shortly after two o’clock, Griffin sends a text message complete with a photo of a tiny, swaddled, blue-beanie-capped Rylan. Rylan James Burke is here! Griffin’s text reads. 6 lbs, 2 oz, 18 in. Mother and baby beautiful and healthy.
My heart swells as I read the announcement and gaze at the photo of my nephew. This is indeed a perfect day for Nina, for Griffin, for everyone who gets to be a part of this special little boy’s life.
Griffin sends another text message shortly thereafter, letting me know I’m welcome to visit sometime tomorrow. In my excitement I call Adam before I respond.
“Hals, have you heard?” Adam blurts over the phone as soon as I say hello.
I laugh and say, “Yes! Rylan’s here!”
“Omigod, Halley. It’s incredible. This is so exciting! And isn’t he adorable? He’s so small!”
I laugh again and say, in a joshing tone, “Well, he is a baby, Adam.”
“Omigod,” Adam says, as if he hasn’t heard me. “It’s just, I’m so happy for them. I’m so excited to go and see him. Omigod, Hals.” For a moment one might mistake Adam’s exuberance for that of an expectant father’s. The idea sends a pang to my heart, but then baby Rylan’s face flashes into my mind, and I feel nothing but pure joy at the news.
“Hey, uh,” I cut in. “You want to drive over to see him together tomorrow, maybe?”
“Damn.” Adam’s voice is thick with disappointment. “I can’t get out of the office until after seven.”
“Okay.”
“But I can manage a lunch-break visit.”
Because I don’t want my visit rushed so Adam can return to his office on time, we agree we’ll drive separately and meet at noon tomorrow. Ready, at long last, to meet our nephew and godson.
“Hey, Adam,” I say before we hang up. “Congratulations.”
“Adam!”
As soon as I spot my handsome husband walking toward the entrance of the BirthPlace in Westwood, where I’ve been eagerly awaiting his arrival, I let my excitement burst forth. I wave my hands overhead.
“Adam. Oh, I’m so excited to meet him!” I squeal, letting myself fall into Adam’s welcoming, tight embrace.
“Have you met him yet?” Adam asks with a broad grin.
“Are you kidding? Meet him without you?”
“Come on.” Adam takes my hand in his and leads the way inside, his smile never leaving his face. Not as we walk up to reception, nor as we swing by the gift shop to pick up a bouquet of white roses and a giant balloon of a stork delivering a blue-blanket-swaddled baby, and not as we walk down the lengthy corridor to Nina’s room. His already massive grin even miraculously grows when he lays his eyes on his nephew for the first time.
“Nina,” I whisper. Nina’s sitting upright in bed, her hair sleekly brushed straight and tucked behind her ears. She looks both the happiest and the most exhausted I’ve ever seen her. “Congratulations!”
Nina holds her arms out and I carefully hug her. She rubs a hand across my back, and when I pull out of the embrace, tears are instantly streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, the emotions,” she mutters, fanning her flushed face. “They’re all out of whack.” She points to the end of her bed, where Griffin is standing proud and tall, the tiniest bundle of baby in his arms. “And every time I look at him and hold him I just get even more emotional.”
Adam sets aside the gifts and kisses his sister’s cheek. “Hey, sis. How are you doing?”
“Never better.” Nina pulls a tissue from the box by her bed. “Best I’ve ever been.”
“Congratulations, you two.” Adam turns to Griffin, who’s completely enamored with his son.
“Guys,” Griffin says, gingerly adjusting a tightly swaddled Rylan in his arms. “Meet Rylan. Rylan, meet your uncle Adam and aunt Halley.”
Adam moves toward Griffin, and I stride up to Adam’s side. I loop my arm around his waist. Adam doesn’t peel his eyes away from Rylan for a second.
“May I?” Adam asks.
“Absolutely.” Griffin’s about to place Rylan in Adam’s arms when Nina clears her throat. “Oh, yeah.” Griffin brings Rylan back toward his chest and motions with his head to Nina. “Disinfect time.”
“Right,” I say, remembering Charlotte’s constant warnings to squirt some disinfectant on our hands before handling her newborns.
When Adam and I are prepared, Griffin carefully places Rylan into Adam’s arms with the slow, extracautious motions of a brand-new father. Rylan doesn’t stir. His eyes are shut tight, his lips so small—his mother’s—his cheeks puffy, eyebrows dark. He is a beautiful and perfect mix of his parents. He
’s wearing the blue beanie he wore in the photo yesterday, and judging by his eyebrows, I bet he’s already got a good amount of his father’s gorgeous dark curly hair on his sweet head.
“He’s beautiful,” I say. I run the side of my index finger across his impossibly silken cheek. “Amazingly beautiful. Good work, guys.”
Adam doesn’t say anything. He just stares at his nephew, that broad grin of his ever present, pulling at his eyes in that wrinkled way it has. Adam seems almost mindful of his breath, as if he is concerned that his usual exhalations might wake the sleeping baby. His arms are strong, supporting and protecting Rylan, though his touch is gentle, just like his voice.
He quietly says, “Hi, Rylan. I’m your uncle Adam. We’re going to have a lot of fun together.” I tighten my hold around Adam’s waist. “I’m going to teach you everything you could want to know about sketching.” Adam speaks softly. “And your dad and I are going to play ball with you. And you’re going to love the ocean. You’re going to have a lot of adventures, little buddy.”
I lightly touch a hand to Rylan’s bundled body. “You’re very loved, Rylan,” I say to him in a whisper.
“Very, very loved,” Adam repeats in earnest.
I cast a glance at Nina, and she’s looking on in wonder and joy, much like Adam, like Griffin . . .
I watch as Adam holds Rylan against his broad chest. He gingerly shifts his weight from his left to his right, rocking and swaying in his stance. Like a natural.
“Halley?” Griffin asks. “Would you like to hold Rylan?”
Before I can formulate an answer, I find myself struck by the sheer beauty and perfection of this moment. I’m struck by the naturalness with which Adam holds Rylan. The beauty of Adam’s genuine grin as he holds his nephew in his arms. The perfection of my husband holding a baby. I’m struck not only by the joy that fills me at this special moment but also by the immediate, unexpected, and overwhelming sadness that I feel. As Nina sheds tears out of joy and an abundance of emotion, my eyes brim with tears out of sadness at the sight of my husband holding what he wants so very much in his life.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 24
