I TAKE MEREDITH’S CAR HOME, SINCE MY parents will be spending the night at the hospital with their new baby.
The house is gloomy and too quiet. I consider calling Kyle or Leah, but I have no idea how to describe Ally’s birthday to my friends. My father missed the entire ordeal. In brighter news, I got to snip the umbilical cord!
It’s nearing midnight and I’m exhausted, but I’m also too keyed up to sleep. I take to the kitchen, dirtying all the measuring cups and spatulas in my arsenal. As I bake to the gentle whir of my new mixer, my posture loosens and my worries recede. I find my groove, that wonderful, intangible place where I’m scooping and sifting and stirring with an empty head and a satisfied heart, and I never, ever want to stop.
When the sky begins to lighten, I line my confections on the counter, wrapped and ready for transport. I’ve made Meredith’s favorites: a spongy almond-flavored butter cake with a crisp sugar glaze, chocolate babka, and lemon blueberry tarts, which I baked in the fluted tart pans she gave me for Christmas. As I admire my work, my stomach rumbles. I snag a tart—it’s to die for, just the right combination of sweet and sour—before retreating to my room and falling into bed.
* * *
When I wake, the day’s in full swing.
I send my dad a text, asking him to call my school so my absence will be excused. Then I scrub the kitchen, fold laundry, and set up the Pack ’n Play that’s been sitting, boxed, in the nursery. I pause only briefly to wonder if Max made it to school, if he’s hungover, if he’s aware of how completely my life has changed since yesterday’s roadside rescue.
Seems like ages ago.
Dad calls at lunchtime and suggests, since I’m playing hooky from school, that I come to the hospital for a visit. “Don’t forget to grab the camera,” he says. He hangs up before I have a chance to dissect the nuances in his tone, but if I had to guess, I’d say his marital problems haven’t disappeared overnight.
I indulge in a leisurely shower, then blow my hair out. I’d like to take Meredith her baked goods and I’d like to see Ally, maybe hold her again, but the anger and accusations of last night have made me gun-shy. It’s midafternoon when I finally leave for the hospital.
Meredith tears up when I present her with the pastries. “How will I ever eat all of this?” she asks, half laughing, half crying.
Apparently she has no plans to share with my dad.
He remains in the corner, holding a pink-swathed Allyson, looking on while Meredith and I chat about the baby’s first night. She tells me about the challenges of diaper changing and how gross spit-up is and how helpful the nurses have been. She devours two tarts, a slice of babka, and a good chunk of the butter cake as she talks. I try not to laugh, watching her pig out so enthusiastically. When she’s done, Dad passes her Ally and gets comfortable in the recliner, picking at one of the pieces of chocolate babka that escaped Meredith’s binge.
Since the three of them seem peaceful enough, I wander to the cafeteria. When I return with a large, heavily sugared coffee, everyone’s napping. Meredith’s in bed, and Dad’s crammed into the vinyl recliner beside her, one elbow crooked under his unnaturally bent neck. Ally’s snuggled into her hospital-provided crib, its clear plastic sides a window into her world. I use the camera to snap a few quick pictures, then plop down in another chair—a hard, plastic thing brought in by an attentive nurse—to drink my coffee and watch my sister snooze.
Her round face is placid, and her peach-fuzz hair is covered by the rose-colored hat Marcy knitted for her. She’s wrapped tight in a flannel blanket, but her eyelids twitch, like she’s having a vivid dream. I want to pick her up and hold her, but her fragility intimidates me. Babies are all too easily droppable.
Dad lets out a jagged snore. I hold my breath as Ally stirs. Turning her head slightly, she peers at me with graphite eyes.
“Newborns can’t see very well,” Meredith told me a few weeks ago, during one of her many baby lectures. I was only half listening, but that nugget of information resurfaces, spoken in the slightly haughty voice she often used while educating Dad and me on the ways of the enigmatic newborn. “It’s hard for them to focus on anything more than a foot or two in front of them, and they can’t fix their gaze until they’re nearly two months old.”
This I find hard to believe. My sister is staring at me as if she wants to sit up and have a chat, maybe hear the latest McAlder gossip.
Feeling like an idiot, I smile and give her a little wave.
She makes a soft gurgling sound and flails her tiny fists. I bend over the crib for a better look. She makes it again, the coo that sounds sweet and pure.
Worried she’ll wake my parents (our parents, I guess), I slide one hand under her head and the other beneath her rear, careful not to unravel the burrito-like swaddling Meredith wrapped her in. She weighs almost nothing, though she’s living and breathing and squirming a little. Gingerly, I bring her against my body and sit back down. She’s warm and she smells good: clean, the softest lilac. There’s a certain comfort that comes with holding her, like she might be capable of making life okay again.
My tranquil moment is interrupted by muffled voices in the hallway. I look to the door and see Marcy peering through the glass. She pushes into the room, tears streaming down her face. She’s carrying gorgeous fuchsia tulips and a WELCOME BABY GIRL balloon. School’s apparently out for the day, because Max is with her. He hangs back, hands buried in the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt, while his mom places the flowers on the counter.
She comes closer, squeezing my shoulder as she gazes down at Ally. “Oh, my … She’s so beautiful.”
I’m about to offer to let her hold the baby when Meredith shifts. She opens her eyes, smiling at the sight of our neighbors. I drop my eyes to Ally, listening to softly spoken words of lucky and perfect, wondering at Max’s surprise appearance. When Dad wakes to the quiet commotion, the room erupts in congratulatory hugs. It seems the misery of last night is forgotten when he retrieves Ally from my arms and sits down next to Meredith on the bed. I’m not sure if they’re putting on another show or if they’ve decided to let last night go, but the sight of them beside each other is reassuring. I find myself relaxing into my seat.
Then Max crosses the threshold, moving toward me. After yesterday’s display by the river, I should harbor nothing more than ill will, but to be honest, I want to fall into his arms. He squats next to me, and his proximity sends my heart spinning.
Why can’t I ever stay angry with him?
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Pretty crazy, huh?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you hold a baby.”
Breathe, I remind my failing lungs. “I don’t think I ever have, until yesterday.”
“I heard you coached Meredith through it.”
I shrug, peeking at my dad; he’s consumed by his role of doting husband, paying no attention to Max and me. “That wasn’t what was supposed to happen, but I guess it worked out.”
He goes quiet, and I wonder if he’s thinking about how contemptuous he acted at the river yesterday, like I am.
Fix it, I told him while we sat in his driveway. I want to believe him when he says he’s trying, but how many times am I supposed to accept his regressions? He can be adorably charming, but there’s a bold line dividing supportive friend from dangerous enabler. Becky crossed it and never looked back, and I’m toeing it. I know I am.
He glances at our parents, fawning over Ally, who’s drifted back to sleep. “Hey, do you want to get out of here for a while? Go for a walk or something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Jill. I wanna talk to you about yesterday.”
I look at him, hard, my frustration poking its head around the corner. Why does he presume I’m a sure bet?
I shift my attention to the pale, pencil-point scar on his forehead. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always liked it. Maybe because it gives his otherwise perfect face a flawed sense of character. Or maybe it’s the story behind the scar: the two of us exploring the woods behind his house years ago, me stumbling into a wasps’ nest, the buzzing, militant insects and the pain of their stings immediately disorienting. Max rushed into the mayhem to pull me to safety, another near-death experience thwarted by his bravery. He ended up getting stung almost as many times as I did, mostly on his bare arms, but once above his eyebrow, too.
“I don’t feel like talking,” I tell him.
He frowns. His gaze skims my hair, loose around my shoulders, and I suffer the memory of his fingers running through it, pushing it back to reveal my neck. I shiver.
He notices, then looks meaningfully in Dad’s direction. “Let’s go out in the hall, then.”
“I said I don’t feel like it.”
“Jesus, Jillian. Are you never gonna to talk to me again?” Even whispering, he sounds wounded. It surprises me, this knowledge that I’m capable of inflicting hurt on him. I could start torturing him, just as he tortures me, though I would never. Power over his happiness is a taxing thing—so much so, it’s tempting to agree to that walk after all. But I have some pride.
“No, Max. Not today.”
I stand and grab the camera from the counter, then approach the baby lovefest. Marcy’s cradling Ally, staring down at her while Dad and Meredith look on. They’re speaking in hushed tones, which is probably what you’re supposed to do when a baby’s napping. I make a mental note for the future before bringing the camera’s viewfinder to my eye. I take a few candid shots before Dad says, “Jill, will you get one of Mer and me?”
Marcy lays the baby in Meredith’s arms. Dad sits on the edge of her bed. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, dropping his free hand to Ally. They stay like that for a long moment, unmoving, until Meredith looks up at him and, unbelievably, smiles. I capture a picture of the three of them; they appear a lovely little family.
Sucks that I can’t stop circling back to reality.
“Max, do you want to hold her?” Meredith asks.
He nods. Carefully, he takes Ally, tucking her in the crook of his arm like a football. He walks her to the chair I occupied earlier and sits down, totally at ease—the exact opposite of how I felt on the two occasions I held my sister.
“Get a picture, Jill,” Meredith whispers, nodding toward Max.
Something about viewing him through the camera’s lens brings sharp focus to my feelings, feelings that’ve been mixed up for months, feelings that were jumbled only seconds ago. I see him differently, in a startling new light. He’s not my neighbor or my childhood playmate, he’s not a screwup who’s forever making dumb decisions, and he’s not a boy I had a meaningless fling with, either. Thanks to the stark clarity of the lens, he’s Max, the only boy who’s ever made me feel like me.
My skin goes hot so quickly, I’m dizzy.
“Jill?” Meredith says, sounding far away. “Are you going to take the picture?”
I swallow the emotion scaling my throat, then click the shutter, capturing Max and Ally together. Short of breath, I trip over my feet trying to make my way across the room, lurching forward before recovering inelegantly. I dump the camera, which suddenly weighs a hundred pounds, on the counter. I feel Meredith, Dad, Marcy, and Max watching as I scramble to gather my jacket and my bag and my coffee. I don’t say anything, though their matching expressions of bewilderment beg for explanation.
I need to get out of the room before I cry, or pass out, or say something I’ll later regret. I need to collect my bearings, away from them.
Away from him.
I step into the cool, quiet corridor and press my back against the wall’s solid surface, reeling, thanks to one astonishing realization.…
I’m in love with Max Holden.