Always the Last to Know

by Kristan Higgins

  With that, she went back to her closet, her safe space, threw some clothes into her carry-on and left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sadie

  Pepper and I went over to my parents’ house the day after Juliet’s party and found my sister crying at the kitchen table, Mom patting her hand.

  “What happened?” I said. “Where’s Dad?” Panic speared my heart.

  “He’s fine. He’s watching SpongeBob,” Mom said.

  “What’s wrong, Jules?”

  “Nothing,” she wept. Pepper tried to crawl on her lap, whining. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, liar. First, I’m going to change the channel. SpongeBob? Is there something wrong with National Geographic? Then I’m coming back in here for the truth.”

  “You can’t handle the truth,” Mom said.

  “Mom! Did you make a joke? A Tom Cruise joke? What is this weird parallel universe I’m living in? Be right back.”

  My father was smiling at the TV. “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  He looked up at me. “Say.”

  My heart leaped. “Yes! Sadie! That’s right! Great job, Dad!” He smiled at me and looked back at the TV. I kissed his head. “Got anything else for me? Can you say ‘hi’?”

  Nothing. Well. That was okay. He’d almost said my name. “I’ll be back in a bit,” I told him. “Juliet’s having a crisis, and since this has never happened before, I want a front-row seat.”

  He didn’t respond or look at me. I left SpongeBob on and returned to the kitchen. “I think Dad just said my name.”

  “Good for you,” Mom said.

  My sister looked like hell, despite the fact that Pepper was now licking away her tears. “What’s wrong, sis?” I asked.

  “My life is falling apart.”

  “Oh, that.” My mom cut me a look. “Sorry. Is it really, Jules? You have the world’s best husband, two healthy girls, that incredible job, a house, health care, money . . .”

  She started crying again, and I felt evil. But come on. First-world problems, people!

  “She’s overwhelmed,” Mom said. “She’s allowed to be overwhelmed, Sadie. Your sister has done more with her life than anyone I know.”

  “Point taken. You have, Jules. You’re amazing and impressive and sometimes even likable.”

  “Sadie!” Mom snapped, but my sister snorted a little, then blew her nose.

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Mom, no offense, but you look wrung out. As much as we all enjoy my role as flaky little sister, why don’t you let me take over for a couple days? You two go to . . . I don’t know. Go to the city. Go to Boston. I’ll stay with Dad, and if your girls need anything, I can handle it if Oliver’s at work.”

  “Sadie. The town’s anniversary is less than a month away,” Mom started. “I have a thousand things to do.”

  “I think you’re allowed to have a day or two off, even if you run the universe, Mother. Especially after the winter you’ve had.”

  “She’s right,” Juliet said, her voice thick, tears still dripping. “You need some time to recharge.”

  “You’re going, too, Juliet. The two of you are best friends, and don’t bother denying it. I’m Dad’s favorite, at least. Oh! I know. That shithead Alexander took me to this great place last year. If he was good at anything, it was self-indulgence.” I pulled out my phone and typed a few words. “The Mandarin Oriental in Boston. Amazing spa.” Expensive spa. “I’ll treat. I just sold a big painting.”

  “I’ll pay,” Jules said.

  “Let me be the rich one this time,” I said, tapping away. “Okay? Okay. That’s settled. Ta-da! I just booked you a room for two nights with a couple hours at the spa. You go, girls. Throw some stuff into a bag, order room service, shop, eat, go on a duck boat. Enjoy. Relax. It’s an order.”

  They looked at each other. “I will if you will,” Jules said, and Mom smiled and went upstairs to pack

  A half hour later, they were gone, and I had to admit, it was kind of nice, being all bossy and in charge, like my mother.

  I went into the living room. “Crisis averted, or at least delayed,” I told my father. “So now it’s just you and me, Dad.” My doggy was creeping into the chair next to him, trying to be tiny. “And Pepper, of course.”

  “Dog.”

  “Yes! High five, Dad!” I held up my hand, but he didn’t respond. “You’re really getting better. I’m so proud of you. Can you say that again? Dog? Dog?”

  He didn’t. The words were infrequent, but they were words. That brain elasticity was coming back.

  For the rest of the day, we hung out. Took a slow walk around the town green, saying hi to some people we knew, stopping in the library to breathe in the good smell. I took out a book about real-life dog rescues and brought it home, made lunch and read to him. We went out onto the patio, and I deadheaded the flowers Mom had planted and made myself useful while narrating everything I was doing. Mom didn’t seem to talk much to him, and Juliet didn’t either. I made up for that.

  Dad didn’t try any more words, and his expression didn’t change much. Those little flashes were few and far between, but at least they were progress.

  Jules texted me a picture of her and Mom in big white robes, both of them looking a lot happier, and I texted back hearts and make sure you get the aromatherapy facial. Yes, it would be expensive, and no, I didn’t care. It felt nice to be the generous one. I didn’t even mind that the two of them were bonding (yet again) without me.

  When Dad started to yawn, I brought him back inside, where he settled back into his recliner and promptly fell asleep, Pepper curled at his side, pressing herself against him. It was three thirty.

  I wandered through the house. I didn’t have a lot of downtime when I was here, since I tried to keep moving forward with the work LeVon did, making sure we took walks now that the weather was nice, did art therapy, worked on motor skills and all that. It felt like a long time since I’d really seen the house.

  Mom had done a lot of work here. Every picture, every piece of furniture and art was thoughtful and well chosen. She even had a small acrylic I’d done in college (hanging in the downstairs bathroom, since it matched the wallpaper). Pictures of the family were framed and placed at even intervals up the stairs.

  It was a lovely house. Sunny and classic, homey and elegant. Not my style, but really pretty. I should tell my mother that. She’d like hearing it.

  My room had been remade into the guest room before I’d even graduated from college, and that was fine, too. Still, it was a little strange . . . nothing of me remained anymore. The horse figurines I collected in middle school had been given away, the bulletin board that had been plastered with pictures of my high school friends (and Noah) gone. The room was painted pale yellow now; when it was mine, two walls had been black, two purple. Couldn’t fault Mom there.

  I lay back on the bed. Ah, there was something familiar. The ceiling. That fuzzy-looking paint they used to use. I’d always liked that—it looked like a snowfield, and when I was little, I’d imagine tiny people crossing it, upside-down nomads huddling down for the night, coming to sleep under my pillow if it got too cold.

  One time when I was about nine, I’d been really, really sick with strep throat, the bane of my elementary school years. This time was extra fierce, though. My throat had hurt so much I had to drool into a towel, completely unable to talk, let alone swallow medicine. I was limp with dehydration, and the doctor told me to push fluids when I couldn’t even swallow spit, or I’d have to get IV hydration.

  Mom made me a vanilla milkshake and told me to drink it down. “It’ll numb your throat, and you have to drink something, or you’ll end up in the hospital.” I glared at her, sulky and sick, wishing she was more sympathetic, more worried and less . . . resigned. Maybe I should go to the hospital. Then everyone would feel sorry for me.

  “Drink,
Sadie.” Her voice had been firm, and she was right; the milkshake was so cold, it took the hurt away. When I had finished, she told me there were two raw eggs in there as well as my antibiotics and Motrin, masked by the taste of the extra vanilla extract she’d added. Then she tucked me in and pulled the shades, and I remembered falling asleep to the sounds of the other kids walking home from school and my mother in the kitchen.

  I knew I’d never have the same relationship Juliet had with our mom. Truth was, I didn’t really deserve it. I had been Daddy’s girl from the start. But she’d always taken care of me just the same. She always knew what to do, even if she . . . no. She always knew what to do. Full stop. It was time for Barb Frost to get some respect from her younger child.

  I called the Mandarin Oriental and ordered flowers and a bottle of champagne sent to their room. Yes, yes, it cost the earth. So what? I didn’t have children. I could afford it. “And for the card,” I asked the hotel clerk, “would you write, ‘To the best mother and sister in the world. Relax and enjoy. You deserve it. Love, Sadie.’ Thank you so much!”

  The warm fuzzies I got were only slightly more fun than picturing their shock that I was so damn wonderful.

  That night, after I’d made mac and cheese for Dad (it was easy for him to spear with his fork), Dad watched a documentary on the wolves of Yellowstone that made Pepper tremble with the call of the wild (or terror, but I was going with the former). I set up my easel in the little glass bump-out that abutted the living room, having made a run home for some things while Kit, the rather bitchy home health aide, was here earlier. She was efficient, but she wasn’t very nice. I’d have to help Mom find someone better.

  But for now, all was well. Call me sentimental, but I was drawing a picture of my dad in charcoal. I wanted to capture him in one of his alert moments, with Pepper against him. His shirt was buttoned wrong, but in my picture, I’d fixed that, as well as the tuft of hair that just wouldn’t sit flat on the left side of his head, where he’d had his surgery.

  Sometimes, a picture took on a life of its own, almost against the artist’s will. This was such a time. I mean, sure, I knew how to draw a human. I was nothing if not technically proficient, as a wretched professor had once told me. But the Dad in my drawing looked too sad, and lonely, and nothing I did was fixing that. Every line I added just seemed to emphasize the feeling of being lost.

  Sometimes, the picture told the artist the truth.

  A knock came on the door, and I answered it, expecting Caro.

  It was Noah. And Mickey, holding the baby. “Hey!” I said.

  “Yay!” said Mickey. “We came to see your dad, but we get you, too! Bonus points!”

  “Come on in,” I said. Stepping aside, I glanced at Noah, feeling shy and blushy. His eyes. That hug. Curly hair. Et cetera.

  “Hi, Mr. Frost,” Mickey said. “Oh, hi, doggy! Look, Marcus! A doggy! Woof woof!”

  “Dog,” my father said.

  “He’s talking so much,” I told them, giving Dad’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Mickey deposited the baby on my father’s lap, and Dad held him. He smiled, even. There. Not lost or sad or lonely. My drawing was wrong.

  “I hope it’s okay that we’re here,” Noah said.

  “Yes, of course. It’s really nice of you.” My cheeks were hot.

  “Your mom is the bomb,” Mickey said. “She really helped me last year when I was pregnant. My own mom died a few years ago.”

  “Shit, Mickey. I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries. But it was hard. Pancreatic fucking cancer. She and Barb were friends, and we got close. Plus, Noah here has always had a soft spot for your family.”

  “Is this true?” I asked.

  He shrugged amiably. “Sure.”

  Marcus was babbling cheerfully and fascinated with my dad’s ear. I would need to trim some ear hair soon. Such was the life of a loving daughter. Maybe he’d like to go to the real barber in town, like he used to, every four weeks.

  “You guys want something to drink?” I asked.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Mickey said. “Half a beer. It’s good for nursing mothers. Don’t stink-eye me, Noah Pelletier. Split a brewski with me.”

  “Okay.” He smiled at her, and my heart pulled a little.

  They were a couple. A family. Not a romantic couple, but families came in all shapes and sizes, didn’t they? The ease between them, the affection, the way they were both so natural with their son . . . it was really lovely.

  I was jealous. The certainty between Mickey and Noah was not something I’d ever had. Not with Noah, because we’d been too young, of course, and later because we’d wanted different things. And not with anyone else. The past few weeks since dumping Alexander, I’d come to realize that I’d filled in a lot of his blanks with answers I’d wanted, always making the best assumptions about him, never once wondering if he was lying to me.

  Stupid.

  I got the beer, and one for myself, poured them in glasses, because we were civilized and all that, and went back into the living room, doling out the sad little half beers to Noah and Mickey and feeling very grown-up with my full glass. Mickey took the baby, who was starting to fuss, and clucked at him, making him utterly delighted.

  “Do you want kids, Sadie?” Mickey asked.

  “I see we’re going straight for the deeply personal questions,” Noah said, rolling his eyes.

  “You don’t have to answer,” Mickey said. “Sorry. Too personal? Is he right?”

  “No! No. Um . . . you know, maybe?” I answered, trying not to look at the man who’d once told me he wanted me to bear five children. “I love kids. I’m a teacher. An auntie. I just never was . . . I don’t know. In the position of really having one.”

  “Squatting, you mean? Or feet in stirrups?” Mickey grinned.

  “Please tell me your birthing story,” I said, smiling back (and relieved not to have to dissect my thoughts on being a mother). “You know you want to.”

  “I do!” she said. “Because I was fucking heroic, right, Noah?”

  “You were. Are. Every day.”

  “Spoken like a well-trained man.” She hiked up her shirt, whipped out a boob and started feeding Marcus. “Okay. So there I was, driving down the fucking highway.”

  “Marcus’s first word is going to be ‘fuck,’” Noah said.

  “And suddenly I’m sitting in a puddle, and I think, shit, did I just pee myself? But no! My water broke!”

  Like every woman on the face of the earth, Mickey thought her labor was the most special thing that ever happened. And, like every woman, she was right. She walked me through the details of contractions and transition, the pain, the pushing, her fear of pooping herself. I glanced at my dad, but he seemed content, his hand on Pepper’s head.

  “And then they put the mirror up so I can see his little furry head coming out, and I’m thinking, ‘Is that even me? It looks like the surface of fucking Mars or something!’ You ever see your parts stretched out like that, Sadie?”

  “Sadly, no, but I can’t wait after hearing this.”

  “So anyway, I’m half-horrified, half-fascinated, half in love with myself because my fucking body is producing a human child, and Noah is crying—”

  “Were you?” I asked.

  “Manly tears. Yes.” He smiled, that fast, flashing smile that was like a bucket of lust splashed over me.

  “And then the baby’s head pops out, and there’s this gross little spurt of blood because of the tearing—”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I said, my stomach rolling.

  “—but it’s a baby, right? A baby!”

  “As opposed to the hippo we’d been praying for,” Noah said.

  “And then one more push, and there he was, all gross and slimy and fucking beautiful.” Her eyes were full of tears. “Best day of my life.”


  “Mine, too,” Noah said, and he got up, kissed her head and sat down next to her, an arm around her shoulders.

  “Well,” I said, “that was disgusting, but I’m glad you went through it, because I’m rather fond of this little guy.”

  “Here’s my advice. Don’t have kids if you’re not dying to. They’re adorable, tiny terrorists, that’s what they are, holding you hostage till the day you die.” She slid her little finger into the baby’s mouth, and he popped off, treating me to a graphic view of Mickey’s nipple. Then she passed the baby to Noah, who put him on his shoulder and patted his back.

  Noah Sebastian Pelletier was so . . . perfect. My face felt soft and gooey with adoration, same as when I saw pictures of Chris Hemsworth holding his children.

  “What’s the prognosis on your dad?” Noah asked. “Any updates?”

  “What? Oh. No updates, but he’s getting a lot better. Right, Dad? He said my name today. He’s a lot more attentive, too. Doing great.”

  “No,” said my father, and we all froze.

  “What’s that, Daddy?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Are you . . . Do you need something? Are you okay?” Keep it simple, LeVon had said over and over. “Dad. Are you in pain?”

  “No.”

  “Do you need something?”

  “No.” His eyes, once the same seaglass blue as mine with a burst of gold around the iris, seemed faded and tired, but his gaze was steady on me.

  My heart was pounding. He was trying to tell me something. Not just a word, but something important.

  “Do you want us to leave, Mr. Frost?” Noah asked.

  “No.”

  “Um . . . are you worried about something, Dad?”

  His face muscles worked as he tried to get the word out. “Bahr.”

  “Barb? You worried about Mom?”

  He didn’t say no. My shoulders relaxed. “Mom and Jules are in Boston. They’re having a little girl time. Here.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and showed him the picture. “See? They’re at a spa. Don’t they look happy? But I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”