On my second lap of the first floor, I check for photos of Jonah. Picking up frame after frame and trying to replace them in the exact same positions. The house is a baby shrine. There are an absurd number of photos of Sophia in every state of dress and pose—I particularly enjoy the one of her half-buried in a basket of laundry hanging above the washing machine in the mud room—but the only photo I find of Jonah is in the back corner of a bookshelf. It’s of him in a middle-school baseball uniform.
I fail at my attempts to translate the tanned, dirty-blond boy with a wide, metallic grin to the taller, darker-haired ghost who sulks in Cross Pointe’s halls. I can’t stop the comparisons. What happened to make him stop smiling so wide his eyes wrinkle in the corners? How come his broad shoulders are always creeping up and forward instead of squared and confident like his thirteen-year-old self?
I carry the picture frame to the kitchen without even realizing it. I lean against the marble countertop and tilt the photo so it’s fully illuminated by the track lighting—he was thin, didn’t quite fill out his red-and-white uniform. But even then you could see hints of the muscles he would develop. I can’t stop studying his grin—it’s confident, carefree. So open and sincere that I’m jealous of the boy he’d been.
If Jonah had attended middle school with the rest of us, he would’ve been prime crush material. If he’d stop scowling long enough to acknowledge anyone at CP High, he’d still be.
I flip the frame facedown on the countertop and check the baby monitor again—sleeping. Though I’m still curious, I make myself walk away from the photo and into the living room.
It isn’t even curiosity, really, just restless energy. I thought tonight would be different. I thought it would be nightmarish, like the night before Dad’s funeral—tidal waves of Evy’s tears. Mom’s grief, which demands and judges and suffocates and needs an audience. And me—helpless and guilty because I couldn’t cry, couldn’t stop their tears, and couldn’t fix anything.
I spent today preparing for that, and in the end I wasn’t needed. I could be at Jeremy’s party with everyone, making Amelia ridiculously happy by giving him a chance. I could be catching up with Evy. I could be home right now, sleeping. Or watching mindless TV and eating popcorn. So how did I end up in some stranger’s house watching Sophia sleep on the video screen of her baby monitor?
I didn’t have to agree to babysit. Really, it’s just a plaque—Mr. Donnelly won’t be too disappointed if we wait until next year to order it. I don’t need it as filler for my college apps. Dad would hate that I’m stressing over this. I need to let it go.
And who cares why Jonah doesn’t want to volunteer?
Or why there’s no trace of him in this house besides a photo that’s four years old? Not even a hat or a sweatshirt or a backpack on the first floor. Nothing of his written between the playdates and Zumba classes on the calendar on the fridge. No magazines with his name in the rack by the couch.
I’ve scoured the whole first floor, and there’s nothing here to teach me anything more about him. But it’s not like I’m going to go snoop in his room. That would be ridiculous.
I turn up the volume on the baby monitor until it’s slightly staticky and I can hear the soft splashes of the rainfall setting on her white-noise machine. Instead of soothing me, the rhythm makes me feel useless. I need a distraction, a purpose, an outlet.
There are four remotes aligned with military precision on the coffee table. These are framed by a neat stack of parenting magazines and a pink basket of teething rings, bibs, pacifiers, and burp cloths. I pick up the remote on the left and study it. Pick up the next one and compare them. I press the power button on the third one and the stereo blares to life with, “My teddy loves me. He’s got a big red bow—” I jab at the button again and hold my breath. The music dies instantly and the sound isn’t replaced by crying. Returning the remotes to the coffee table, I double-check the baby monitor. Sophia’s still sleeping and I still have nothing to do.
I cross to the bookshelves. Since I don’t want to read What to Expect When You’re Expecting or during the First Year or any portion of a child’s life, I hope there’s something tolerable and diaper free in their library.
On the top shelf is a book I recognize too well. It’s stuck between a battered copy of the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy and a hardcover bio-thriller. I pull it out and sit on the floor with it cradled in my lap, tracing the cover lettering like I did when I was seven and Mom would bring me to visit Dad at his office. This cover is different—a newer edition. What new criteria have they added to Teens in Flux: Adolescent Psychology by Ethan Waterford, Ph.D. And who is Roberta Schell?
Why does the cover advertise that she’s written a brand-new introduction to my father’s book? I flip the pages—turning past highlighted passages and pencil notes in the margins—wondering how a book like this would assess me. What would Dad think about how I’ve turned out?