by K L Hughes
They stared one another down, barely suppressed laughter pulling at their lips. When Fiona snorted before she could stop herself, however, neither could restrain themselves any longer. They roared in each other’s faces, shoulders shaking and eyes clenched closed. Fiona tossed her head back. Her mouth hung open, but no sound escaped behind the tiny grunts of someone catching their breath every few seconds.
“Stop,” Michael said, between fits of his own. “Stop. You know I can’t handle the quiet laugh. Stop it.”
Fiona forced in a deep breath and blew it out slow. “Because your donkey laugh is so much better?”
“I can’t breathe,” he defended himself. “Stop it.”
“You telling me to stop makes it ten times harder to stop.” Fiona wheezed between the words. The laughter lost any semblance of purpose. They didn’t even know why they were laughing anymore, but they couldn’t make themselves quit. “Okay. Okay. Okay. We’re stopping now.”
She drew in a huge breath and held it. He did the same. “Don’t look at me,” she said, though she didn’t quite say it at all. It was more what she meant to say, because her lips were rolled under and pinched closed, so the best she could do was hum the words and hope he understood. Of course, they’d been in this predicament enough times that he did, and he quickly turned away.
Fiona clapped a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. She counted to ten in her head, the last of the laughter’s tremors vibrating their way out of her shoulders. When she felt calm enough, she dropped her hand and let out her breath. She heard Michael do the same and glanced over. He was looking at her again, grinning.
“You’re so annoying,” she said, to which Michael winked and stabbed one of her gravy-laden biscuits with his knife. “Hey!” He popped half the thing into his mouth before she could stop him, the other half falling haphazardly onto his plate, and pumped his fist victoriously as he chewed it down.
It was only then that Fiona became aware of the complete absence of sound. Michael noticed, too, given the way his fast, messy chewing quickly ended in a painful gulp. They looked around the table at the now silent family, then at each other.
“Well, that was probably the most sickeningly cute thing I’ve ever seen you do, Mike,” Grace said.
Michael suddenly seemed rather captivated by the table’s wood grain. He pursed his lips and dragged his finger over one dark section. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please.” Charlie scrunched his face up and let out an obnoxious laugh, hee-hawing like a donkey with every breath. Beside him, Sophie threw her head back, mouth open, and pretended to laugh. Her shoulders shook so intensely, she appeared to be seizing. They pushed at each other’s arms as they did so, and Charlie said, “Stop it. No, stop. I can’t handle your adorable silent laugh!”
“No, you stop.” Sophie pushed his shoulder. “You know I can’t withstand your donkey sounds. They’re too ridiculous and cute!”
“Stop.”
“No, you stop.”
“No, you st—”
“Okay!” Michael chucked a yeast roll across the table. It smacked into Charlie’s shoulder and nearly rolled to the floor, caught by Brian in the nick of time. “We get it. That was gross.”
Grace agreed with a nod. “Totally gross.”
“Gross,” Lizzie chimed and popped the last bit of a scrambled egg into her mouth.
“Grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” Brian said. “Right, Jess?”
“Huh?” Jessie’s head popped up from where she was subtly checking her phone under the table. “What? Oh, yeah, totally threw up in my mouth. Gag.”
The rapid thudding sound of Rosie’s fork knocking against the table drew everyone’s attention. “Oh hush, all of you,” she said. “Jessie Lynn, off your phone right now. Don’t make me tell you again. And the rest of you, stop teasing your brother and Fiona. They can’t help that they’re in love.”
“Whoa, Mom.” Michael shook his head, cheeks pinking up as fast as it took him to say the words. “Let’s not get crazy, okay? We’ve, uh, we’ve only been together a little while. Right, Fi?”
“Right. Yeah. Early stages, Mrs. McElroy. I mean, Rosie. But we’ll see where it goes.”
“Well, I just think you two are adorable together,” she said after a sip from her coffee mug. A smudge of peach-colored lipstick remained on the rim when she returned it to the table. “Tell us more. How’d you two meet? When did you get together?” She smiled at Michael. “I’ve been trying to convince this one to get himself a nice girlfriend for years now, and all the other kids have brought someone home to meet us at one point or another, though we like to pretend Jessie never did, given how all that mess turned out.”
“You said we’d never talk about it again, Mom,” Jessie snapped.
“I’m not talking about it.” Rosie sipped her coffee. “Then there’s Lizzie, of course. She’s never brought a boyfriend home, not even in high school, but then she’s always been a bit of a homebody. Always had her nose stuck in her books in school, though where all that ambition went after graduation, you’ve got me.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.” Lizzie stuck her tongue out and made a sound similar to that of a goat. It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense to Fiona, but she laughed anyway.
Charlie propped his youngest, Madison, up on his knee and took a thick cloth napkin to her gravy-covered mouth. “So, what’s the story, Mike?” Madison squirmed under his cleaning hand, but he kept a firm grip on her. “Sit still, Maddi. It’ll be over faster if you just let me do it.”
“Uh, well, we met at school sophomore year, and I guess we just hit it off.”
“Ah, college hookups,” Lizzie said with a dreamy look in her eye.
“Excuse me, Miss?” Rosie leaned across the table to poke her daughter. “Do you have a beau you’ve been hiding from us, too?”
Lizzie perked up as if someone had just jabbed her in the back with a cattle prod. Her spine went rigid, and her eyes bugged like those of a deer caught in headlights. Fiona couldn’t tell if it was a look of fear, guilt, or something else. Maybe Lizzie just didn’t like talking about her private life and relationships. Or maybe she was hiding something. Either way, Fiona found herself leaning toward her, as if she could possibly miss a thing from less than two feet away. She was painfully curious and didn’t want to miss whatever was about to pop out of Lizzie’s mouth.
“Ew, Mom. Stop.” Jessie grimaced as she chewed the remainder of her biscuit, sounding as if the taste had suddenly gone bitter.
“What?”
“Don’t say ‘beau.’”
Lizzie’s frozen spine thawed, and she relaxed as the new topic took hold—quite clearly saved by her sister’s undying disapproval of, well, everything.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s gross and old-fashioned. You might as well call yourself dad’s ‘little lady’ or whatever.” Jessie vibrated with a full-body shudder. “I gave myself chills just saying that. Ew.”
“Anyway,” Michael said, “where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?”
“You and Fiona met in college.” Lizzie leaned back and stretched her arms up over her head. Her plate was scraped clean, the yolk-covered fork lying in its center like a bloody sword discarded on a battlefield. She’d faced a giant made of food and slayed it with fervor. “And she took pity on you because you’re a sad little ginger who’s been in college for, like, seventeen years now and still haven’t gotten a degree. Am I warm?”
Fiona snickered. “Eh, he’s not so little.”
“It’s true. He’s gargantuan.”
“Okay, first off,” Michael said, “I didn’t even start college until I was twenty-four, and then, you know, it takes time to figure out what you want to do. So, shut it. And second, I can’t help that I’m tall. Besides, you’re one to talk, Liz. You might only come up to my belly-but
ton, but you’re plenty wide.”
“Damn right, I am,” Lizzie said, “and every last bit of me is perfection.”
“That’s right,” Rosie said with a chuckle. “All my girls are perfect just the way they are.” Brian cleared his throat pointedly, and Rosie gave him a look. “All my boys are, too, you ornery thing.” She turned her focus back to Fiona. “So, where did you and Michael meet exactly? Did you have a class together?”
Fiona wiped her mouth, having finished her last bite. She was so full, she was in physical pain, but she did her best not to show it. “Yeah. Yes, we had Calculus together, actually.” She glanced at Michael. Maybe they should have come up with some special sort of story to tell about an awkward meet-cute kicking off their soon-to-be epic love story. Then again, it wasn’t like the truth proved she wasn’t his girlfriend. Plenty of people met their significant others in college. Besides, Michael was smiling as if he didn’t mind, and it was too late to backtrack now anyway.
“Oh, are you a math major, too?”
“No, I’m actually working toward becoming a nurse practitioner. It’s just a long road, and I’ve had a few light semesters along the way. Michael and I actually bonded over the fact that we were the oldest people in that class. Everyone else was, like, nineteen.”
“Well,” Rosie said, “I always say it doesn’t matter when you start, just that you do.”
“What if I start drinking?” Brian asked.
Beside him, Grace snorted. “A little late for what-ifs on that front, little brother. Didn’t you start when we were, what, sixteen?”
“Stop calling me ‘little brother.’ You’re literally three minutes older than me.”
“And every second of those three minutes counts.”
“It’ll count when you die three minutes before me, too.”
“Yeah, three minutes of having Heaven all to myself before my ignorant twin brother arrives.”
“Statistically speaking,” Fiona said and pointed at Brian, “you’re more likely to die first.”
Brian balked. “What statistics? That say what? Girl twins live longer than guy ones?”
“That women live longer than men. So, yes, I guess that would probably apply to twins as well.”
“How much longer?”
“Around three years on average, I think.”
“Listen, Mike,” Brian said, “your girlfriend, here, is really bringing me down with her so-called ‘statistics.’”
“She’s a medical student, idiot.”
“So?”
“So, I’m guessing she’s studied a lot more statistics than you with your general-studies major that you never actually completed since you dropped out.”
“Hey! General studies means I studied a lot of things, in general, and I had to drop out to take over the stores with Charlie.”
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter who’s studied what statistics,” Fiona said. “You can verify what I said yourself. Google is your friend.”
Brian narrowed his eyes at her, then pulled his phone from his pocket. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to break the no-phones rule for a second.”
“No, you don’t. Put that away.”
“Mom, it’s a matter of life or death, literally.”
“Well, you’re not going to die right now, son,” Rosie said. “You can look up your expected lifespan after breakfast.”
“It’s already after breakfast.” He stuffed one last huge piece of biscuit in his mouth and held up his hands. His voice muffled around the bite. “I’m done. See?”
“Uh-huh. Swallow first.”
As if on command, Brian immediately swallowed down his mouthful of biscuit. He winced as if it hurt, then choked. His eyes watered as he dissolved into a fit of coughing, as the rest of the table laughed and Rosie rolled her eyes.
“Grace, clap him on the back,” she said, just as Charlie Sr. shuffled into the dining room from the kitchen. The tip of his nose beamed as red as Rudolph’s, beat from the cold. A few strands of his gray hair were specked with fresh snow that hadn’t yet melted. He frowned at Brian.
“What’d I miss?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Rosie said. “Brian’s concerned about dying.”
“Huh,” he said, then shrugged. “Well, does seem like he’s well on his way, don’t it?” He kissed the top of Rosie’s head and took a biscuit off her plate. “Arms in the air, son.” He tore a bite off the biscuit and chewed it with his mouth open. “Pass me some of that gravy, will you, hon?”
Chapter 3
Grandma Sophia was everything Fiona imagined she would be: older than dirt, adorable, and lacking entirely in the filter department. Her thick red hair was peppered with gray, and she had the same dense cluster of freckles under her right eye as Brian, magnified by one thick lens of her oversized square glasses. Her festive red Christmas sweater, featuring a jovial Mrs. Claus, clashed with the royal-purple cotton slacks she wore and the gold oxford shoes adorning her tiny feet. To top off the look, an unlit Virginia Slim cigarette sat poised like a toothpick between her lips. It bounced as she spoke but never once fell. She hobbled into the family sitting room at an angle, leaning on a cane that looked more like a gnarled limb she’d hacked from a tree than anything store-bought. One by one, she loved on her grandkids, squishing their cheeks and hugging their necks, until she finally reached Michael, who hovered at the edge of the room with his fingers laced through Fiona’s.
“Hey Grandma,” he said as she approached. He stooped to embrace her with one arm and let her pat his back. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, I’m gettin’ by, hon.” Her grainy, weathered voice was the clear opposite of Fiona’s own grandmother’s voice, whose speech could be described more as a series of mouse squeaks than as actual words. “Come down here. Let me see your face.” She adjusted her glasses, then cupped his cheek. “You’re just growin’ on up, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He placed his free hand over hers. “Looks that way.”
Fiona smiled as she watched them together. She noticed that the more Michael was around his family, the more he was starting to sound like the fresh-faced country boy she’d met years earlier. Her smile fell, however, when Sophia’s blue eyes suddenly landed on her. They dropped briefly to her hand, where it was entangled with Michael’s, then crawled back up again.
“Oh, Grandma,” Michael said, “this is Fiona Ng. She’s my girlfriend.”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed a moment, then her wrinkled face split into a smile. Fiona couldn’t tell if it was genuine or manufactured. Old people were always either the best liars or the worst. They’d had decades to practice their poker faces or decades to stop caring if people knew how they truly felt or not. It felt a little like Russian roulette; you never quite knew what was hidden in the chamber—disapproval or joy, loathing or acceptance. Fiona sincerely hoped that whatever was lurking behind Grandma Sophia’s smile was more the latter.
“Finally got tired of us asking, huh?” Sophie waved Fiona down to her level and held out her hand. It was smooth and soft to the touch. Her bright-blue veins bulged and sprawled like spider legs under her thin, pale skin, but her handshake was firm. “Well, she’s a pretty one, ain’t she?”
“Thank you,” Fiona said, breathing her in. The scent of stale cigarettes mingled with the overwhelming odor of menthol. She imagined Michael’s father helping her rub Bengay on her joints right before heading over. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. McElroy.”
Sophia chuckled. “And such good English, too.”
“Oh, Christ.” Lizzie scoffed from where she stood leaning against the opposite wall. Fiona realized, in that moment, that everyone in the room was watching them. “Really, Grandma? You couldn’t just say ‘Nice to meet you, too?’”
“What?” Sophia wobbled around to look at Lizzie, keeping hold of Fiona’s hand in the process
. “It was a compliment.”
“Mom,” Charlie Sr. said and shook his head at her.
“Oh, don’t ‘Mom’ me.” She waved a dismissive hand at him. “You kids are so sensitive these days. Can’t even give my own grandson’s girlfriend a kind word.”
Fiona didn’t want the situation to spiral, so she said, “Actually, Mrs. McElroy, English is my first language.”
“Well, is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, enough with this ma’am nonsense.” She patted Fiona’s hand. “Call me Sophia.”
“All right, then, Sophia.”
“I meant no offense, hon,” she said. “Back in my day, all the Chinese was immigrants.”
“Grandma!” Lizzie’s outcry nearly brought a wave of laughter up Fiona’s throat and out. The sheer discomfort of the moment stirred in her belly, and Fiona’s response to being uncomfortable had always been to laugh. She’d never been able to attend funerals because of it. She always just sent flowers or a card instead.
“What?” Sophia snapped at her granddaughter again. “What’d I do now?”
“Not all Asian people are Chinese,” Lizzie said. “You shouldn’t just assume where someone’s from based on how they look.”
“Well, excuse me, Elizabeth. I didn’t realize Chinese was an insult now.”
“I actually am Chinese,” Fiona said, still awkwardly holding Sophia’s hand, “but only part.” She didn’t have the slightest clue why she felt the need to elaborate or explain, but the words barreled out anyway. “My dad’s Chinese. My mom is Malaysian. They both grew up in Singapore, though.”
“Oh, is that right?” Sophia’s eyes glazed.
Fiona still felt the need to clarify. “I was born in Los Angeles,” she said. “I lived there all my life until I moved to St. Louis for college.”
“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Sophia patted Fiona’s hand, then wandered off toward the kitchen, leaning on her cane. “Rosie, is there any bacon left, hon?”