by Julia Kent
“Marie is about twenty minutes away,” says a warm male voice from the door. We all turn to find Jason standing there in a polo shirt with a boys' baseball team logo on it, holding a box of chocolates and wearing a grin. “I came to warn you.”
“She'll have coffee, though!” pipes up Shannon, who moves past her dad to my bed as if I'm iron and she's a magnet. “Sorry we're crashing!”
“No, you aren’t,” Andrew murmurs, but he smiles, like me.
“Once Mom arrives, I'll never get to hold the baby.”
“Babies,” Andrew corrects her. “Everyone gets a turn because we have two,” he adds loudly as Declan walks in.
An immediate scowl covers his brother's face.
“You are never going to stop bragging about that, are you?”
“No. Only way to beat me is triplets.”
Jason crosses the room, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and opens the chocolates with a flourish. “Marie had these handmade for you by a chocolate shop in Agnes' town. Said you'd appreciate them.”
Large clusters of chocolate-covered Cheetos, a dozen of them, rest in a plastic tray inside the gold box.
“Oh, my!” Mom exclaims, looking skeptical. “I know you love your salty-sweet Cheeto treats, but this is going a bit far. What are those?”
“Maple Cheeto creams,” Shannon explains, pushing the box toward me. “Try one!”
“That's disgusting,” Declan opines.
“It's testing really well with the fourteen-to-twenty crowd.”
“Testing?” he chokes out. “You're running market tests on that as a product for our stores?”
“No! Even better. As a coffee flavor.”
Jason, Mom, and Andrew start gagging.
I high-five Shannon over Will's little head.
“Can we talk about your babies?” Shannon asks.
“Please. Anything but Cheeto maple abominations,” Andrew says as he gives her a hug. “Hug me while I have two free arms.”
“That'll be a rare moment for the next year. I'll take you up on it,” Shannon whispers in his ear as they embrace. “Congratulations.”
Declan crashes their hug, the three of them in a big, happy tangle of limbs.
“Congrats, bro. Now introduce me to my nephews.”
Will unlatches and fusses, sudden low-grade warmth in his diaper an obvious hint at his distress.
“Perfect timing,” I say to Declan as he reaches for Will, averting his eyes as my gown slips. Once the baby's in his arms I pull the blanket up and smile.
“Why?” Declan waits two seconds, then laughs. “Got it. Someone needs a change.”
If you had told me five years ago that the suave billionaire dating my klutzy best friend would one day hold my son in his arms and matter-of-factly change his diaper when needed, I'd have said you were as crazy as Meghan the mystery shopper. She’s the one who called in sick six years ago, leaving Shannon to cover all her bagel-shop visits.
On that fateful day, she met Declan in the men's room of one of the Anterdec-owned fast-food restaurants. Yes, the men’s room.
And now he's my brother-in-law, my sons are his nephews, and my children are my best friend's daughter’s cousins.
Life doesn't get any more perfect than this.
For the next fifteen minutes, we play pass the babies, and I sample the special chocolates, loving Marie from afar for finding such a personal treat for me. My sons are attention magnets, as we revel in the joy of new life.
I yawn.
As if my yawn summoned a caffeine genie, Marie appears, holding two full trays of coffees, her eyes eager and her hands clearly itching to get a baby in them.
The trays go on the table that rolls over my bed and she glares at Jason and Shannon.
“You could have come and helped me!”
“We were busy,” Jason says to Will, who is in his arms.
“Busy hogging the babies! Give him to me. What's his name? Oh, hi, Amanda.”
“Get used to that one,” Shannon grouses. “We spend nine months building them, go through pain to produce them, and then they're born and we're just wallpaper to the grandparents.”
“Did you say something, dear?” Marie replies as Jason hands off Will to a rapt Marie.
“See?” Shannon throws her hands in the air, then examines the coffees. She pulls one with her name on the lid out of the tray, then finds mine and hands it to me.
I sip the breve carefully to check the temp before giving my bloodstream a healthy infusion of caffeine.
Andrew's cocked eyebrow says he's not sure about my coffee.
“One is fine,” I insist.
“It gets in the breast milk.”
“Now you're the caffeine police?”
He kisses my cheek. Jason gives him a look of approval, then comes to me, arms open.
A Dad hug is exactly what I need right now, especially as Jason whispers, “Can I consider them my adopted grandkids? Because I know they have James as a grandfather, but what kid couldn't use more?”
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe Marie and Jason do consider me one of their own.
And maybe that means we find the family we need, blood related or not.
Because blood doesn't make a family.
Love does.
Chapter 23
Andrew
“I can't help,” Amanda says in a mournful tone as we pull up to the front door of the house. Rather than having someone drive us home from the hospital, I've done it, wanting this to be a special moment.
Just the four of us.
“Of course not. I'll get the babies inside. You can wait and I'll come back out for you.”
“YOU CAN'T DO THAT!” she hiss-screams.
“Why... not?”
“The babies will be alone in the house! What if something happens to them?”
“Like what? A random bear in the woods finds its way into the living room out of nowhere?”
“YES! Or a piece of the ceiling could crack off and fall on Will's head. Maybe you lock yourself out of the house after putting them in there and coming back for me. Or a fire alarm could be set off by a faulty wire, and then there's an electrical fire, and the babies are trapped in the – ”
I gently press my fingertips over her frantic lips and lean in.
Amanda blinks slowly. “Wow. Mom was right,” she mutters under my touch.
“Right?”
“She said there would be a rush of hormones as my body adjusts to being not pregnant, and to cut myself some slack.”
“Pam is definitely right.”
“But you can't just leave them in there alone.”
“Sure,” I say slowly. “Then I'll help you out first.”
“You can't. I'm between them back here.”
“You insisted.”
“And I was right. Will needed me to stroke his eyebrow just right so he wouldn't cry.”
I smother a smile. She's so maternal. So territorial.
“It'll be okay. I'll use the stroller.”
“The stroller?”
“I'll unload Charlie. Click him in. Unload Will. Click him in. Then I'll unload you and click you in.”
“Ha ha. But the stroller? How will you wheel it to the door?”
“I'll go around back. It’s only one step there. And in the meanwhile, I'll text Gina to hire someone to install a ramp at the main door. We'll have this fixed in no time. It'll come up again and I don't want you to worry.”
The air around her changes.
“I have a feeling my life is going to involve nothing but worry going forward. It feels like I suddenly have to fix everything, and at the same time, have no power to do any of it.”
“You're not alone. You have me. And I have plenty of power because of you.”
She snorts. “You had more than enough power before we met and I'm certain I didn't give you any.”
I point to Will, who jolts as I reach into the backseat and unlatch him. “You gave me plenty. Fourteen point o
ne pounds' worth.”
Our eyes lock.
I've never loved her more.
“WAAAA!” Charlie's shrill cry pierces the moment. I go to the trunk, pull out the double stroller, and unlock the long contraption with a snap worthy of Jason Momoa opening a lawn chair. Three minutes later, I've got their car seats clicked in, and they're wailing in unison.
But first things first.
“Get them inside!” Amanda urges me, sitting in place, clutching a pillow to her midsection.
“They can cry for a moment. I have to help you down.”
Turns out, it's easier to get two screaming newborns out of the back of an SUV than a mother who just had abdominal surgery, but we manage.
As I push the stroller toward the back of the house, Amanda glares at the car's back door. “We need a four-door sedan.”
“We'll get whatever you want,” I call out, speeding the boys around to the back porch, up the single step, and coming to a halt next to the kitchen island. Charlie's screaming, but startles as I place his seat on the counter. Will's next, and then I unclick my older son, his sniffling face on my shoulder in seconds.
“Andrew?” Amanda calls out.
“In here.”
Shuffling sounds precede her, then she's in the doorway, frowning. “Is he okay?”
“Shhhhhhhh,” I murmur in his ear.
Magic happens: He calms down.
“Will?” she asks, wincing as she walks, clutching the pillow like she's holding her guts in.
Which, actually, she is.
As if on cue, Will stops crying, eyes going wide at the sound of his mother's voice.
Mother.
My wife is a mother, I'm a father, and we're home. Our life as parents begins now.
“You sit,” I order her, worried she's going to pop a stitch. Strength is a given in Amanda, and she'll work herself into the ground to do whatever needs to be done in any given situation, but right now, having her rest on the sofa so she can recover is more important than any notion she has of contributing.
“I will. But...” Helpless wonder covers her face as she looks at the twin chorus on the counter.
“I've got this. They'll calm down in your arms. Go sit down. Now.”
One corner of her mouth goes up in a wry smile. But she listens.
That is a miracle in and of itself.
Working double shouldered is a new skill I need to acquire quickly. The learning curve can't be slow. Fortunately, I work with one of the finest personal trainers in the world, and Vince's lessons haven't just been about building muscles.
Coordination and balance have been key.
Holding Will and lifting Charlie at the same time is easy, as long as I pretend it's fine to have kebab skewers poke out my eardrums. These boys have lungs.
By the time I get to the living room, Amanda's on the sofa, pillows arranged, top down, breasts lovely and full.
Funny. A few days ago, that sight would have my junk twitching in my pants.
Now? It's just beautiful.
And besides, those breasts aren't mine anymore. Not for a long while.
She's as efficient as she is gentle, the babies' cries upsetting her, but we power through together. Her finger goes under Will's lip to unlatch him twice before she's satisfied with how he's feeding, Charlie fussing against her ribs before finally moving less, suckling more.
A long, slow sigh comes out of her when they're all in place.
It's my chance to look around.
Our house is different.
Fundamentally changed.
Because I'm the father now.
When we left the house, amniotic fluid pouring out of my wife, the boys ready to make their entrance into this strange new world with cool air and bright lights (but hey–boobs with milk, too, so there's a consolation prize), my father was the only man who had lived here with the title of Dad.
Not anymore.
A smattering of gifts covers the front hall table, but the Red Sox-themed box with a huge card on it that says FROM GRANDPA LEO makes me stop short.
Damn.
I pick up the box and stare at it. Amanda can't see this now. She's too fragile. I'll put it in the closet for later.
“Andrew?”
I freeze and look up. I'm directly in her line of sight.
“What's that?”
“One of the gifts.”
“Do I see my dad's name on it?”
Damn her good eyes.
“Yes.”
A wide moon gaze meets mine. “Can you open it?”
She's so vulnerable, breasts out, babies nursing, her face haggard and glowing at the same time. Doing this to her now feels harsh. Hard.
Unfair.
“Why don't you open it later?”
Her hands reach out. “Give it to me.” There's no quarter in that voice. I have to comply with the order.
So I do.
With careful fingers, she opens the present, saving the card for last. Inside the box are two little baseball hats with Red Sox logos, and onesies made to look like jerseys.
Her hands shake.
But she opens the card.
“Dear Kids,” she reads aloud. “You haven't met your old Grandpa Leo, but I hope to take you to a game with your mom and dad one day, and get it right this time. Love, Grandpa.”
Get it right this time.
Air whooshes out of her like a tire going flat. I bend down, eyes at her level, and put my hand on the cocktail table, careful not to upset the delicate balance she has going on with the babies and nursing.
“Leo's trying. He really wants to meet the babies,” I say, watching her closely.
“I know.”
“We can cut him back out of your life again if it's too painful,” I whisper, as if the truth is too hard to say in a full voice. If I had complete control over the mess with Leo, this would be easier.
But I'm not Amanda. This is her call.
“It's painful having him come back, but I'm not sure it would be any less painful to pretend he's not trying.”
There are layers to being an adult. Seeing the world as a nuanced, complex place where people aren't all bad or all good is part of operating at a mature level. Watching Amanda work her way through the choppy waters of that journey is an honor.
It's also heartbreaking as hell.
“Andrew? Can you get me more water?” Amanda asks sheepishly, moving carefully to stretch her shoulders.
“Of course. What else? Are you hungry? Need more pillows? Need a–” Before I can finish, a long yawn escapes from me. I try to hold it back as if it's a sign of weakness.
I fail.
“Just water.” My yawn is contagious, Amanda's arms going up to stretch, pain taking over her expression as the stretch proves to be a bad instinct.
She clutches her midsection and breathes, hunched over the babies, who are quietly snacking.
“Need your pain meds?”
A nod is the only answer.
A minute later, I'm handing her the water and an ibuprofen pill the size of a water softener salt pellet, when there's a light knock at the front door. My phone buzzes.
So does Amanda's.
“That must be Mom,” she says, yawning again. Panic takes over in her eyes. “Hide the gift from Leo! I haven't told her he's back in my life.”
I grab the box, card, and torn wrapping paper and shove it in a big basket in the closet.
The sound of a code being punched into the front door means it's–
“Dad?” I say loudly, trying to warn Amanda, whose breasts are laid out like they're on a charcuterie board. She's no prude, but given this is the first time my father's been near her since the babies were born, she grabs a small blanket and quickly covers her chest.
Pam comes in right on Dad's heels, carrying a brown paper bag with the logo of Amanda's favorite Greek restaurant in Newton.
“Hello, hello,” Dad says, the second word turning to a whisper as Amanda holds her finger up to her l
ips in a polite shhhhh gesture.
To my surprise, Dad complies, tiptoeing backward with an impishness that makes me do a double take.
Dad doesn't do silly.
Is he drunk?
Pam bursts into a huge grin as she sets the bag of food down on the table, the scent of spiced lamb and beef mixing with garlic and freshly baked pita. My mouth waters. My stomach growls.
Dad is staring at Charlie's head, his gaze filled with so much emotion I have to turn away.
“When they're done, you can hold them,” Amanda whispers, then yawns, trying to hold it back.
“Let me make you a gyro you can eat one-handed,” Pam offers to Amanda, who smiles gratefully. I was prepared to help my wife, but Pam's doing just fine mothering her.
Mothering the new mother.
“Congratulations, son,” Dad says, coming in for a handshake that turns into a hug.
“I didn't do anything, Dad!” I laugh in his ear, but I appreciate the embrace. “Amanda and the surgeon did it all.”
“Your work starts now,” he says in earnest. “You have a chance to do it better than I did.”
What do I say? Social convention makes words like You did just fine or You were a good father spring into my mouth, hurtling over the truth in an effort to please and soothe, to remove the tension of reality.
Amanda rescues me. Or rather, Will does, by popping off, giving Amanda a chance to hold him up to Dad.
“Meet William,” she says softly. Dad turns to her, arms outstretched, eyes on the baby.
“Wait,” Pam and Amanda say in unison, then look at each other, surprised. “You need to wash your hands,” Amanda adds to Dad, whose eyebrows go up.
But he goes to the guest bathroom off the foyer, water running shortly, Pam at his heels.
And when he returns, he holds up his palms and looks to Amanda for permission.
Her nod grants it.
Watching my father hold my son is a moment that will be etched in my memory until the day I die.
A day that will come one day.
A day when Will and Charlie will be there, I hope.
Amanda's eyes glisten as she watches Dad, who stares at Will, his throat jumping with a hard swallow. “He's beautiful,” Dad says in a choked voice, closer to tears than I've ever seen him.
Oh, no. I can feel mine rising to the surface, too.