“Gramma Lizzy, did you see?”
“What, sweetie?” she asked, looking up like she was oblivious to everything around her.
“I got my Gingermelon! See! I knew it. Santa is real. This is the best Christmas ever!”
“So that’s a Gingermelon,” Gramma Lizzy said in wonder. “I can see why you wanted one.” She got up, deciding it was time to get the coffee cake and handing sleeping Evan off to Catherine.
There was the sound of plates and silverware and the refrigerator door opening and closing, and in no time she was back with a full tray, then back out again for the coffee cake itself. A well-orchestrated maneuver of serving expertise, as she busied herself slicing pieces and doling out plates, the first to her husband who had waited long enough.
“Now it’s time for someone else to open a present, Cara announced, tucking her elephant in the crook of her arm and picking up a small package from under the tree, the size of a jewelry box, and bringing it to Catherine who held a sleeping Evan. He had hardly made a peep since they left the hospital after having been up every hour on the hour all night like a little old man with jetlag.
“What’s this?” Catherine asked Fynn, forcing excitement where exhaustion now lived.
He shrugged back.
“I guess I’ll have to open it. Do you want to hold your brother, Cara?”
She nodded, climbing up on the couch and wedging herself next to Catherine, who maneuvered Evan into Cara’s lap while Fynn, who’d finished tending the fire, came around the couch to the other side to help her support his head.
Catherine turned her attention to the present, hoping Fynn hadn’t gone overboard. She tore off the paper and lifted the top of the jewelry box to find a tiny plate inside filled with teeny tiny cookies. She lifted it out of the box. Not just a plate, but a ring.
“Do you like it?” Cara asked excitedly.
She didn’t have words. Not an expensive piece of jewelry that her husband should not have gotten for her but instead a priceless little ring from Cara.
“They’re chocolate chip cookies. Like the ones you made for the school party. Maybe not peanut-buttery ones, but we can pretend. They’re hard too but they aren’t burnt,” she pointed out. “You told me that was the first time you baked any cookies by yourself ever, and you did it for me, so I did this for you to remember. Too bad there are only six on the plate. I wish it was a whole helleck.”
“A helleck?” William Hemmings chuckled. “What’s that?”
“A whole bunch. Like a dozen of them. But even more,” Cara explained.
Catherine touched her hand to her heart, tears coming to her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful. Such an absolutely perfect gift.”
She glanced at Fynn and saw the flicker of flames from the fire reflected in the unshed tears in his eyes. All for a thoughtful little girl they were so tragically lucky to have in their lives.
The doorbell rang, jarring them out of the moment. Catherine eyed the clock. It was hardly past seven. Drew and Klein and their gang were out of town visiting his family, and Tara and Jason were supposed to be coming over later. Much later. What if it was Uncle Walter? Showing up for Christmas? All his extravagant gifts setting the stage for crashing the biggest holiday of the year?
Fynn hopped up to answer the door before she could grab him and tell everyone to pretend they weren’t here. Be quiet. Or better yet, hide in case the guy started peering in windows.
The door opened sending in another burst of cold air and a jolly, “Merry Christmas!”
“I know we were supposed to come for dinner, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We have gifts to give and there’s no time like the present!” Tara announced.
“Very punny,” Catherine called back, surprising herself with the goodwill she felt at having her friend drop in like this.
“I can’t control her,” Jason said, hand up in surrender.
“Get used to it,” Fynn said. “I have one of my own.”
“You two are lucky,” Catherine assured them.
Tara and Jason put down their bags and took off their coats, handing them to Fynn to hang up, while Elizabeth Hemmings hurried to the kitchen to get additional plates and glasses with the-more-the-merrier ease. Catherine let all the bustle take place, happy to sit and bask like the new mother she was.
“I think Even needs a diaper change,” Cara said suddenly, holding her nose with two dainty fingers.
“It’s Evan, remember, sweetie?” Catherine corrected gently.
Cara shook her head. “I can read.”
“Of course you can read.”
“And it says Even.”
“What says Even?”
“That stuff from the hospital.”
“What stuff?”
“The papers in his diaper bag. I was looking at them because I thought they sent you home with homework,” Cara said, completely serious.
Catherine vaguely recalled shoving all kinds of things in the diaper bag when she was packing up to leave the hospital. “Hand me that.” She snapped her fingers impatiently toward the bag sitting on the floor near the front door, a few feet from where Tara stood.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Tara curtsied, pulling a sheaf of papers out of one of the exterior pockets and reading them over. “The kid’s spot on. It’s Even alright.”
She walked over to Catherine, who snatched them out of her hands and rifled through, certain she was being punked. It would be just like Tara. But no, there it was: “Even Henry Trager,” she whispered, reading the forms. The same on each. Not Evan. Not “Baby Trager”. Not a name at all. Even.
“You’re kidding,” Fynn said hopefully.
She shook her head, only the lump in her throat preventing her from screaming.
“Thankfully I can read really good. My teacher says I’m in the 99th percent, whatever that means. I could read it easy. Even Henry Trager. I like it,” Cara said innocently.
“What the—” Fynn cut off the swear word they were both thinking. “How did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine whined. “One of those nurses asked me his name to file for his birth certificate. She told me to spell it out—first, middle, last—”
“And?” Fynn prodded.
“She always did have some trouble. Not the spelling bee champ,” William Hemmings offered.
“Dad!”
He shrugged. “Remember eighth?”
“A lot of people get that wrong on the first try.”
“A lot of bad spellers do. I’ll give you that,” he razzed with a good-natured smile.
She was frozen for a few seconds, but then lunged into an attack. “Who asks someone who was just up for twenty-four hours straight trying to pass a human being, to spell anything, let alone something with legal ramifications?” she smarted. “You don’t give a field sobriety test to a new mom. I was still hopped up on drugs.”
“Tylenol is hardly a drug,” Tara asserted.
“Hospital strength is. It’s not available over the counter. It’s a controlled substance—i.e. drug. Besides, she could have read it back to me. If a nurse can’t read the word ‘even’ and see that it isn’t an actual name then I think we should be questioning the entire educational system in this country.” Because diverting blame was her only option.
She saw her mother opening her mouth. “Don’t say it. Not now, Mom.”
“Say what?”
“You know what. What you always say when things don’t go swimmingly—which is all the time in my life.”
“Life is real, not ideal,” Cara offered helpfully.
“I was only going to say that you can always have it changed,” her mother said. “It isn’t set in stone.”
“But it will be on his birth certificate,” Tara noted.
“Well, it’s unique.” Elizabeth Hemmings noted. “It certainly won’t be on the most popular names list this year.”
“Or any year,” Tara added.
2 ‘Til Series by Heather Muzik
2 Days ‘Til Sundae
2 Months ‘Til Mrs.
2 Weeks ‘Til Eve
Other Novels by Heather Muzik
Celia’s Journey
Apathetic
Or Forever Hold Your Peace
The Fairytale Mother
Contact: [email protected]
Find her on Goodreads and on Twitter @HeatherMuzik
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 34