“I was working.”
I recall a drizzly afternoon several years ago, when Max and I discovered Bill’s old record player in the Holdens’ garage. Having never seen a record, we had no idea how to set the needle, but we got a laugh trying. The songs skipped and popped and jumped, and the two of us cracked up listening to phrases repeating. I was working—I was working—I was working. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard Dad use that phrase over the last few months, well, I wouldn’t have to worry about how to fund my culinary education.
“What are you thinking, Jillian?”
That you’ve been really self-centered.
That there’s more to your “I’m working” story than you’re letting on.
That I’m too scared to ask the important questions.
“Nothing.”
“I love Meredith.”
I nod, because I have no concrete proof against his claim. I’ve seen their affectionate moments: Dad’s hand on Meredith’s previously pregnant belly, her brush of a kiss across his cheek as he rifles through case files. And I’ve witnessed their more significant gestures of love: Dad driving Meredith to countless fertility appointments, writing checks to chip away at mounting debt. And Meredith, managing the Eldridge household with zeal. Still, I’ve seen enough reality TV to know that love doesn’t stop some people from exploring other avenues.
“I imagine this is hard for you to understand,” Dad says, reaching over to pat my knee.
I cannot believe he has the audacity to be so condescending.
“I understand more than you think,” I shoot back, making a hairpin turn into the parking lot of the local Chinese restaurant. An enormous neon panda rotates lazily on a signpost; its cartoonish apathy amplifies my irritation. I throw the car into park and yank the keys from the ignition.
Dad backpedals. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that marriage takes effort. Sometimes it’s wonderful. Sometimes it feels like a job—like the most tedious job in the world.”
His honesty dampens my frustration. “I know about effort, Dad.”
“You do—more than I did at your age, that’s for sure. You’re growing up, and that’s hard for me to come to terms with. You did good, though, stepping in to help Meredith.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“You did. She’s told me time and again that she couldn’t have done it without you. Plus, you’re staying focused on school, and staying away from Max.”
On one hand, I wish I could tell my dad what I really think: There’s not an excuse in the world good enough to pardon what he pulled on Ally’s birthday. And I’m focused on school because I suddenly need scholarship money, in large part because of him. And his assumptions regarding Max are unfounded and stupid. On the other hand, this exchange, his honesty and warmth, the bountiful compliments he’s sending my way … I’m clinging to all of it, tucking it away for safekeeping.
“Anyway,” he says. “You’re a good kid, Jill.”
He gives my hair a ruffle before climbing out of the car and heading into the restaurant.
24
ALLY IS NOT A SOUND SLEEPER.
I mean, I assumed she’d wake up during the night, but I figured Meredith would get her, change her, feed her, and put her back to bed.
That’s not how it works.
Ally’s up at all hours, crying and carrying on. I’m shocked out of sleep by her wails, then forced to lie awake listening to Meredith’s singing—“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” or “Rock-a-Bye Baby”—her footsteps echoing up and down the hallway as she paces with the baby. Occasionally it’s Dad who gets up, and then it’s the theme song from Star Wars I hear, hummed low and lethargically. Over and over and over.
She really is a leech baby; she purloins sleep.
According to Meredith, Ally naps all day. I wouldn’t know because I’ve spent the last couple of days suffering through school and work with a wicked case of exhaustion. Call me crazy, but common sense seems to dictate that someone should be keeping the baby busy during daylight hours so she—and the rest of us—can sleep at night.
I plan on spending my Saturday in sweats, experimenting with a classic chocolate soufflé recipe and napping sporadically. That’s until Meredith calls me into the nursery, where she’s dressing Ally in a cheerful pink onesie. “Marcy and Max are coming for a visit.”
“Max? Why?”
She glances at me, one hand resting on the baby, surprise widening her eyes. How’s she to know I’m head over heels for our neighbor, the very boy who’s made the last few months of my life agonizing? How’s she to know I have no idea what to say to him about his suddenly single status? How’s she to know that when I’m in his presence I feel like a hot-air balloon—swollen with heat, in danger of floating away?
“I mean, I just don’t get why he’d spend his Saturday sitting around with you and Marcy and a baby.”
“Because he wants to? And you make a good point. It’d be nice if you sat with us, especially since your dad’s working. I don’t want him to get bored.”
“If boredom’s an issue, maybe he shouldn’t come.”
“Jillian! I thought Max was your friend?”
“He was—is—but I planned to spend the day baking.”
Meredith bends to kiss Ally on the forehead; the baby squirms, kicking the air. “Can’t you bake later?” she coos. “This sweet girl and I want your company.”
I frown. “Using the baby against me? Manipulation much?”
Meredith grins, triumphant. “Thanks, Jill. I owe you one. They’ll be here in an hour.”
I sigh and head for the shower. So much for sweats.
It’s almost lunchtime when the doorbell rings. My stomach drifts to the ground, fluttering like a leaf in a downdraft, though I pretend I don’t hear the chime. I steal a cracker from the platter Meredith’s set out, loaded with Brie, grapes, and apple slices. There’s a big pitcher of lemonade, too. I don’t mention that lemonade seems unfitting for a day cool and cast in impenetrable cloud cover, though, because it’s nice to see her bustling around the kitchen the way she did before her pregnancy.
The bell sounds again. Meredith must give up on me being any help, because she hurries out of the kitchen to open the front door.
Marcy makes a beeline for Ally. She lifts her from her bouncy chair, snuggling her close. Meredith looks on, beaming. And then Max saunters into the room, pilfering my attention. He’s in jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, his hair covered by a Seahawks hat. He hugs Meredith and tells her how great she looks, then glances over his mom’s shoulder at my sister. Resting his big hand on top of Ally’s little head, he says, “She’s growing fast.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing, because Meredith grins and says, “I think so, too!”
He turns to me and, with a decorous nod of his head, says, “Jillian.”
I counter with my own stiff greeting. “Hello, Max.”