“We’ll talk later. Go find the cafeteria, would you?”
“I’m not hungry.” And, jeez, I think I’ve earned an explanation.
“I’d love a decaf coffee, sweetie,” Meredith says. She looks at my dad, then gives me a smile. “You’ve been an enormous help already, but would you mind one more task?”
Traitor.
I leave, but I’m no idiot. Instead of closing the door behind me, I let it fall to barely cracked and step to the side—cafeteria, my ass. I lean against the wall and cross my arms like I have permission to loiter in the hallway. Break the rules blatantly and people rarely question you—a lesson I learned from Max.
I hear the vinyl chair creak and imagine my dad sinking into it. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Where were you?”
“Tacoma. Meetings. I had meetings all day.”
I hear Meredith sigh. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“You tell me. In this age of constant communication, how in God’s name could you have been inaccessible on a day like today?”
“I left my phone in my car. You know I don’t take it into meetings.”
“And you knew I could go into labor anytime. Jill and I called your office dozens of times. Where was Natalie?”
“She had the day off.”
“How convenient.”
The chair protests as my dad shifts his weight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
Dad, apparently, is speechless—a rare occurrence. But what is there to say? Sorry I missed the birth of our child, the baby we’ve been trying to conceive for years, seems glib. He’s so far up shit creek, I almost feel sorry for him. But then I recall Meredith, small and helpless in her hospital bed, without him.
The silence swells.
Finally, quietly, Meredith says, “You should have been here.”
“I know.”
“You have no idea what you put me through. What you put Jill through.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Christ, Meredith. Do you think I didn’t want to be here?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that enough?”
Is he apologizing because he regrets missing his baby’s birth? Because he failed his wife and scared the crap out of me? Or is he sorry because Meredith’s angry?
This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but instead of celebrating Allyson’s arrival, she’s stuck sorting out the mess Dad’s carelessness caused.
It’s so unfair.
22
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.