Her rant is cut short by the sharp whine of a chair being pushed back too hard against the hardwood floors. Cassidy stands and tosses her napkin onto her mostly empty plate. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to go lay down for a few minutes,” she says, one hand on her belly. I rise, but she waves me back down. “Please, finish. Everything’s been so good, Claire. I think I just overdid it,” she says, and I sink back into my chair. Little Matty coos and slaps his high chair for good measure.
Owen pats my hand and promises to check on her in a minute. Swallowing back tears, I nod. I could’ve predicted one of them storming from the table middinner; I just never guessed it would be Cassidy. I’m disappointed to see the faint gleam of victory in Mom’s eyes as she continues to sip her wine, ignoring the chaos she’s caused.
“She’s right,” Mom says, draining her glass again. “Everything is delicious. I wouldn’t take it personally, dear. Your sister’s always been so sensitive,” she says, shrugging.
Before I can stop myself, I slap my hands on the table. The candles shake, casting the room in shivering shadows, and everyone jerks their gazes from where they’ve been silently studying their plates. “Enough!” I hiss. “One minute she’s too sensitive; the next she has no emotions. What exactly is the proper amount of feeling she should show?” I snarl, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Somewhere my big sister is crying alone into a pillow, hiding her feelings, because unless you were willing to be silent and steady—like good-girl Claire—those feelings were either too big or too small. Normally, I’d let it slide and make sure dinner ended on a cheerful note. Not this year. Maybe all the silver has put me in the mood for change. “Lay off her, for once. Not everything needs to be psychoanalyzed by you. Sometimes decorations are just for fun, and sometimes social media posts aren’t meant to be dissected and taken so personally.” I’m rambling but don’t even care. I should’ve said it long ago. “Sometimes it’s okay to say you like something even when you don’t. Sometimes it’s even better to hit ‘like’ on a post and move on, keeping your comments to yourself.”
Everyone stares at me, mouths agape and forkfuls of food frozen midbite. The grandfather clock on the wall ticks ominously. Steve hides a small smile with his fist, and Dad bites back an impressed smirk. Mom picks up her fork and makes a show of finishing the last of her mashed potatoes. “These potatoes really are great,” she says, not looking in my direction. “Maybe after dinner you can show me that video,” she says, eyeing Derek from above her tortoiseshell glasses.
Clueless about the bigger problem in the room, Derek shakes his head happily. “I’ll get my iPad and show you before we watch the movie!” he says, pushing his empty plate away. “May I be excused, Mom?” he asks, eager to go upstairs and get his toy to show his loving grandma.
“Sure,” I say, too tired to argue.
Dinner was over, anyway.
* * *
Like our dad, Cassidy never let us see her cry. I’ve never seen Dad shed a tear, though Cassidy swears he did once after one of our old dogs died. Always a sucker for small things—like animals and his daughters—he’s a big man with an even bigger heart. I’m not surprised some old mutt broke his heart, and I’m even less surprised to find him already comforting Cassidy.
Hovering in the doorway to the library—a lofty name for the small room, which is hardly more than a couch and a few bookshelves—I watch Dad hold my trembling sister in his embrace. She leans her tearstained cheek against the soft flannel of his shoulder as he shushes into her hair. They don’t notice me at first, but I catch his eye and he smiles, urging me to come in. Tentatively, I walk across the plush carpet and sit on the daybed next to my sister. She wipes her face, now mostly dry, and sighs.
“I’m sorry,” she moans, a slight smile cracking one side of her pretty mouth. “I really didn’t intend on making a scene, but I was on the verge of either murdering Mom or bursting into tears. I figured running away was the least I could do to save us all,” she kids.
Shaking my head, I bump my shoulder against hers. “Well, you made me lose a bet with Steve. I had fifty bucks you’d start a fight at the table, ten extra if it involved food getting thrown. Never imagined you’d be the one storming out of the room.”
She rolls her eyes but grins. “Must be the hormones. I’m becoming a big softy. Didn’t have it in me to make her cry in front of the boys. Even if she deserved it.”
Dad lets out a long breath. “And this is my cue to leave,” he says, patting us both on the head, a habit that once irritated us, especially as teens, when he found it especially fun to mess up our carefully sprayed hair. Now we both lean into it, embracing the mess. “I know your mother can be a little much sometimes,” he says carefully. He stands, and his full height towers over us as we sit on the sofa. I feel like we’re little kids again. “But she really loves you, and sometimes she doesn’t know how to express that love.” He stops, as if he’s already said too much. “Anyway, don’t be too hard on her. She’s always done her best. You girls aren’t as easy as you think you are.” With that, he gives us one long last look and leaves us alone in the library.
Turning to face me, Cassidy furrows her brow. “Really, I’m sorry I messed up dinner. I just couldn’t sit there any longer,” she says, her slight shoulders shaking.
I laugh. “I wish you’d stayed. I finally snapped at her and you missed it,” I say, amused at the surprised expression she gives me. “You would’ve been proud. I took a page straight out of your book and tried to put her in her place.”
“How’d that go?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“She basically ignored me and finished dinner.” I shrug, “I don’t have the same effect on her as you.”
Cassidy fiddles with a thread on her sweater. “I guess we should go back out there,” she mumbles, pulling the string so that the cuff unravels. “It’s my year to pick the movie.”
Each year we alternate who picks the holiday movie we’ll watch before laying out the milk and cookies for Santa. After settling on a movie, we each open a gift—always the same thing, pajamas—and change into them before snuggling up on the couch together as a family. Last year Dad picked Die Hard, insisting it was a Christmas classic. A minor argument over whether the boys were old enough to watch something so violent ensued, but Dad was persistent, and we relented. It didn’t matter anyway, since all three fell asleep before things got too crazy. I don’t even need to ask Cassidy her pick. It’s always the same.
“You know she hates that movie,” I groan, shaking my head.
She grins her most wicked grin, sending me back in time to when she was fourteen and I idolized every move she made. “Exactly,” she giggles. “But that’s not why I’m picking it. It’s undeniably the best Christmas movie ever made.”
I groan again. “Can’t you throw me a bone and pick It’s a Wonderful Life or Miracle on 34th Street?”
“Those movies are terrible, and you know it,” she says, laughing. “Love you.” She stands and heads out toward the kitchen, blowing me a kiss over her shoulder.
“Love you back,” I mutter, bracing myself for round two.
* * *
Kevin McCallister is ordering himself a plain pizza all to himself when Mom finally speaks up. I’m surprised it took her this long, although I’m glad for the small respite from hostility, short-lived though it may have been.
“Really, Claire, we should turn this off before the boys see any more of this nonsense,” she huffs, her wineglass replaced with a small tumbler of Bailey’s on ice.
Derek looks at me desperately, shaking his head against my chest. Home Alone is his favorite too. I gently smooth back his wavy hair, too long already even though it was just cut.
“It’s fine, Mom. Derek’s seen it and Shane’s about five minutes from passing out,” I say, nodding toward my middle son, who struggles to keep his heavy eyes open. Curled up beside Steve, he’s only managed to hold out this long for fear of missing out on something his big brother is doing.
Mom harrumphs from her spot on the love seat. Dad’s eyes have been half-shut since we opened presents around the tree. “I just don’t understand why you like such garbage,” she says, breathing haughtily into her glass. “What kind of mother would forget her own child at home, especially at Christmastime?” she says, the same complaint she makes each time we watch this movie. She loves lecturing about the McCallister family’s poor parenting skills, the mother’s in particular. Usually we nod and let her mumble under her breath until she’s exhausted her grievances and resigned to watching the rest in silence, stewing in self-righteous indignation. I should’ve known we wouldn’t get off the hook so easily this year.
“Well, Mom, you are the prime example of a perfect mother. Makes sense you need to criticize this fictional character to prove you are, in fact, superior,” Cassidy murmurs, smiling like a fox. “While you never left us behind on your trip to Paris, you also never let us forget you weren’t able to go to Paris because of us. Not sure which is more detrimental, actually.” She shrugs before turning back to watch the pizza delivery boy rushing from the sound of bullets on the screen.
Mom’s mouth hangs open in shock. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing, unsure if the sudden urge to giggle stems from the sense of discomfort in the room or the fact that I’ve never seen this particular look on my mom’s face before. Cassidy stares ahead at the TV screen, seemingly oblivious to the reaction she’s caused. I know better. Cassidy knows exactly what she’s set in motion.
“Of all the things to say to me,” Mom hisses, struggling to push herself up off the deep cushions of the couch. She jostles my father, who opens his eyes and looks around, blinking with confusion. “I didn’t come here tonight to be abused by my own children,” she huffs, shaking Dad’s arm a little too hard. “It’s time to go, Jack,” she says, her indignation turning to something else. Something far less funny. In the dim light, she looks like an old woman whose feelings have been hurt.
“Mom, stay,” I say, unable to get up under Derek’s weight. Steve pauses the movie and looks to me for direction.
Mom shakes her head, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. She looks older than ever. “Derek, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow and hearing all about the presents Santa got you,” she says, quickly dropping a kiss on my son’s forehead. “Thanks for having us over,” she mumbles as an afterthought, not looking me in the eye.
Dad ambles after her, clearly unsure what transpired while he dozed off. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” he says to the room, waving his bear paw of a hand to the rest of us, who wave back, a little stunned at how quickly the evening turned from bad to worse.
“Love you all,” he says, hurrying to catch up with Mom, who’s already out of sight.
Their footsteps echo down the hall, and only after the front door closes does Cassidy turn back to the rest of us.
“Was it something I said?”
♦ 36 ♦
CASSIDY
After
January 13
“NAMASTE,” THE INSTRUCTOR SAYS, bowing her head and touching her lips to her fingertips raised in prayer.
“Namaste,” I whisper in union with the rest of the class. I’m one of nine moms sitting in various formations, some propped up with pillows, depending on the size and heft of their baby bump. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, the smell of lavender mixing with someone’s coconut shampoo. Even the earthy smell of sweat is not entirely unpleasant. The room smells alive.
The silence is slowly broken as I open my eyes. Glancing around, I notice the different degrees of pregnancy situated around the room, everyone reflected in the mirror at the front of the room. Most of the women are visibly showing, but none so large that yoga has become too cumbersome. My own stomach is just starting to protrude. While dressing earlier, I had a moment’s pause before pulling on a formfitting top that highlights my little melon. I never saw a bump with my first pregnancy, and it still makes me feel as though my baby might never have existed at all. This time around I wear the added weight with pride, showcasing my ever-changing body.
Two mats away, a woman struggles to get to her feet. We lock eyes before I can look away, and a flash of embarrassment crosses both our faces before she collapses forward onto her hands and starts laughing, her curly brown hair falling around her cheeks and bouncing as she heaves a gigantic sigh.
“It was a lot easier getting myself down into this position,” she chuckles, lifting her gaze back toward me. “Maybe I’ll just stay in child’s pose,” she kids, letting her rear end collapse back toward her heels. She sprawls her arms out to either side and shifts to the right so her bump is awkwardly pointing in my direction.
“Here, let me help,” I offer, reaching my hands toward hers and hoisting her up. We wobble together for a second, but she ends up upright, using my shoulder for balance.
“Thanks,” she says, wiping a strand of tight curls out of her face. “I’m Layla,” she says. “I’d offer you my hand again, but I feel like we’re pretty well acquainted already.” She smiles widely, a dimple in each smooth cheek.
“Cassidy,” I say, noticing that Layla looks about ready to pop now that she’s not on the floor.
“Third baby,” Layla says, catching my surprised expression. I wince and smile sheepishly. I should know better than to stare at another pregnant woman’s stomach. “It’s okay. I’m huge, I know,” she says, her striking sand-colored eyes sparkling. “Would you believe it if I told you I still have almost three months to go? I swear I looked three months pregnant the day I took the pregnancy test,” she says, laughing and rubbing her lower back. “My ass will never be the same.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, flustered. “I didn’t mean to stare. You look beautiful,” I add. This is what the books mean by pregnancy glow. Layla’s skin is clear and shining from a light within. Each spiral of hair is bouncy and full of life, framing her heart-shaped face like a halo. I’ve never seen someone so pretty in real life.
“Please, I’m huge and sweaty and starving,” Layla says, bending at her knees to scoop up a red mat. “Want to go earn back the calories we just burned?” she asks, lifting one brow.
A hundred excuses come to mind. Squelching the voice screaming no, no, no, I refuse to let my insecurities get the best of me this time. Layla is exactly the type of woman who always intimidates me, tall and statuesque with strong features. Women like her make me feel small and less-than. I’ve always considered my petite frame a blessing, but when standing next to someone a foot taller than you—especially a woman—it’s hard not to feel like a child. Where Layla is obviously outgoing and dynamic, I’m typically reserved. Layla is a pregnant woman who wields her belly like a goddess, matronly and proud. Here I am with my tiny bump, constantly questioning my status as mother.
“You’re coming with me,” she says, grabbing my free hand and leading me toward the door. Before I can open my mouth to protest, she continues. “I’ll drive,” she says, nodding toward a minivan parked right outside the studio doors. I can’t help but smile. Even goddesses drive minivans.
* * *
“Girl, you are eating for two. Indulge!” Layla says, her voice loud and raspy and lovely. I’d ordered the scrambled eggs with yogurt and fruit. Considering most mornings I make do with a banana and a breakfast bar, I think my order is fairly indulgent. Layla has other ideas.
“I’ll have the Nutella French toast, a side of bacon, and home fries please,” she tells the waitress. Glancing at me, she adds, “Two sides of bacon. We’re hungry.” She rubs her belly and the waitress smiles.
“You can have some of my French toast,” she says. “It’s delicious here.” Sipping her orange juice, she beams at me like we’re old friends, not women who met literally an hour ago.
At times like this I wish I were better at small talk or girl talk—any kind of talk, really. The silence stretches between us, and I make myself busy looking out the window at the people passing by. Some a
re rushing, probably ticking errands off their never-ending list of things to do, while others enjoy a lazy Saturday stroll. I glance at Layla, afraid she’s bored, but she seems perfectly content to people-watch and sip her decaf coffee. Why is it I’m always so uneasy in these moments?
“How long have you been practicing yoga?” I ask, desperate for some conversation that might make Layla not regret inviting me to breakfast.
She shrugs. “I don’t really ‘practice,’ ” she says, adding her own air quotes around the last word. “I’m definitely not a yoga mom. I started during this pregnancy to help me relax and maybe meet some other moms in the area.”
I nod, happy to have found some similar ground. “Me too,” I say. “I’ve done yoga for a few years, but I thought joining a pregnancy class might help me meet people.”
“Is this your first?” Layla asks, her face open and innocent. I imagine slapping that perfect face, lashing out against this mother of three who ignorantly believes motherhood is something so simple. Is this your first? A question I’ve been asked dozens of times and will be asked a dozen more. Such a simple question, but the answer is anything but. I swallow back my irrational rage, hoping my smile isn’t as monstrous as I feel.
“And here you go,” the waitress announces, placing our food in front of us, the perfect buffer against more questions.
“Any other children?” Layla repeats. Almost the same, but somehow less hurtful.
I shake my head, stabbing into my eggs with one hand. “No other children,” I answer, the words falling like bricks from my mouth. Every time I deny his existence, I push my unborn son a little further away, dishonoring his memory a little more. How can I reconcile not having any living children with polite society? I haven’t figured it out yet, so I answer the complicated question simply. “How about you?” I ask, since this is how people converse. Even a social dummy like me knows this.
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