shame. She’ll never have the doting kind who spoil her rotten and smother her in kisses. Mine were pretty great. Guess we can’t all be that lucky.
Two Thanksgivings ago, my cousin brought her baby over. My mother flounced around like she was excited to be a “great-aunt.” She made a big fuss over the chubby-cheeked baby and carried her on her hip from room to room as guests arrived.
As soon as the timer went off on the oven, she shoved the baby into her brother’s arms. The first thing she did was run a hand down her cashmere sweater, examining each pearl button and picking off any crumbs or hints of drool. Her mouth was downturned, as if she’d been holding a smelling, shedding alley cat and not a little boy.
She didn’t give that kid another look the rest of the day.
My mother’s kindness and excitement are only ever for watchful eyes. Never genuine. Never without an agenda.
“We need to discuss Easter.” Mom reaches for her glass of water, the one she hasn’t touched since the server brought her a fresh one. She closes one eye and squints into the top of the glass, only to take a sip when she’s absolutely positive there are no fucking lemon seeds. “Your father and I have decided we should spend a long weekend in Lake Tahoe at the lake house. It’ll be relaxing and good for his heart. You’re both required to be there.”
Required.
I hate that fucking word with a passion.
It denotes a lack of choice.
She doesn’t need to say required. I’d go there anyway. Not because I want to, but because I know Noelle will, and someone needs to be there to save her from my mother’s incessant henpecking.
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” I say.
Noelle shoots me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen in our twenty-four years together on this earth. Ever since my father’s heart started breaking down on him, she’s been glued to his side. Every family function, every spare minute, she’s calling him, texting him, rushing from work to sit in the waiting room until he gets out of surgery.
She’s a tough broad, and I can say that because she’s my sister, but I’m one hundred percent positive she’s nothing but fluffy marshmallow on the inside. The hard exterior only functions to protect that.
“Do you remember how to get to the lake house?” Dad peers down his nose at the silverware, flipping it back and forth before lifting it to inspect for dried food remnants. “It’s been a while.”
She says that to make my father feel better. It was his favorite spot. We dreaded it. Once a month, from eighth grade until our senior year, we had to make the drive to Lake Tahoe, to the expansive cabin equipped with everything teenagers might possibly need to have a good time . . .
Like fishing poles.
Tackle boxes.
Campfire rings.
Butterfly nets.
Binoculars.
And bugs.
My father liked that we took a break from technology once a month. Said it recharged us. My mother liked the fact that we were temporarily cut off from outside influences of the friend variety. She never liked a single acquaintance of ours she met. Still doesn’t.
“We’ll be there,” Noelle says. “I’ll ride with Crew and we’ll meet you there.”
“Three-day weekend.” Mom lifts a finger in the air. “We’re making it a three-day weekend. Arrive Thursday night and stay until Sunday.”
Dad pretends to read a drink menu. We all know he doesn’t drink. His entire Promise Makers empire would crumble if anyone caught him enjoying so much as a wine spritzer.
“Can’t wait,” I lie.
T minus four weeks until my life implodes in my hands for the second time.
“Thanks again for watching Emme.” I scoop my daughter from Calypso’s arms. I waited hours for this. Lunch with my parents only solidified the fact that I’d much rather hang out with a toothless, drooling, dirty-diaper smelling mini human than Conrad and Susan any day of the week.
“Any time.” Calypso runs her hand along Emme’s back and steps away. She won’t make eye contact with me, and her hands can’t decide what they want to do. She touches her face, then her hair, then her hip. She tugs at her shirt before ambling toward a stack of mail at her kitchen able and rifling through it.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Calypso drops the mail and rests her palms at the small of her back. Her lips spread wide, but her smile is