Darla gaped at me. “The baby ain't even two days old and now you're worried about that?”
“It's not worry. Just... caution.”
“I can't talk about this with Mama, Trevor. She just spent fifteen minutes on the phone crying and guilting me into agreeing to care for baby Cal if she dies, and to move back here to Ohio and co-raise him with my stepsister. The last thing I'm gonna do is add 'he might be autistic' to the mix.”
“Chances are low for him to be on the spectrum. But I can't keep my mouth shut. Not when my own first-born brother…”
“Gotcha.”
Her head slumped forward in defeat. I leaned toward her, hand going to hers. “I'm sorry.”
“Naw. Don't be. You're concerned and telling me to just be aware. I know.”
“And you have a lot dumped in your lap.”
“Being told I might be the one to care for my brother is a big burden.”
“Now it's one we share.”
She squeezed my hand. “Thank you. God forbid if something happens to Mama, I'll need the help.”
“That's not what I meant.”
Alarm flashed in her eyes.
“Although,” I added quickly, “of course I'd help.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm Rick's guardian when my parents die. I'm in charge of him. And now it sounds like that's what Cathy's asking of you. To be in charge of your brother if she dies before little Calvin is eighteen.”
“But Rick's already over eighteen.”
“Right. But he's profoundly autistic, so he's not considered capable of taking care of himself. When Mom and Dad are both gone, I'm it.”
“It's not the same.” Her voice was tentative, gentle.
“No. But it's similar.”
Raking her hands through her hair, Darla stood, frustration seeping from her gestures. “This is all too much. Too much. I get a call from Calvin out of the blue, telling me to come back because Mama had a baby. Now I'm suddenly agreeing to change my entire life if the worst tragedy I could imagine ever happened. I don't ever, ever want to lose someone I love suddenly again. EVER. You hear me, Trevor? You and Joe can't never die before me.”
“I can't promise you that.”
“WHY NOT?”
“Because I'm not God.”
She threw her hands up in anger. “First Mama, now you? Why's everyone bringing up God suddenly?”
“Because when so much changes so quickly, it starts to feel like there's a supernatural hand reaching in, playing with life's wiring.”
“More like shoving my tongue in a light socket. Bzzzt! Bzzzt!” She mimed being electrocuted.
“No one said life was smooth.”
“No shit. You read that on a motivational poster back at Harvard?”
“Truck stop bathroom stall on the way out here. Technically, the graffiti said, 'No one said shit was smooth,' but it sounded better my way.”
“Now I know I'm In Peters, because you're quoting truck stop bathroom wisdom. God damn. Can't escape this life, can I?”
“Were you trying to?”
Every cell in her body slammed to a complete stop.
“I didn't think I was.”
“You don't have to have all the answers.” A yawn, deep and sonorous, rippled through me, making me shake like a wet dog.
“You sound like a therapist.”
A laugh escaped me, followed by a smaller yawn. I walked to the coffee machine and made another cup, settling in for the ride.
“Sometimes I wish I were, but I don't think I could be one. I'd be too frustrated by people saying they would change but not actually doing it.”
“Never thought about it that way.” One glance from her, uncertain and vulnerable, made me cross the room and wrap her in my arms.
“You love people fiercely,” I whispered into her hair, caressing her back. “You always have. You feel everything deeply. You speak your mind.”
She snorted at that one.
“You live, Darla. I've never met anyone in my life who is as one hundred percent there as you. And now this big new change has arrived in the form of a sibling, something you wrote off forever ago. It'll take time to adjust.”
“Trevor, when in the hell did we start talking like adults? You sound strong. Grounded. Centered. And I feel sad that I'll be pulled in two directions – life in Massachusetts and family life back here. But I don't feel as confetti-minded about it as I would have a few years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm sad. I'm not defensive or overwhelmed or angry. I'm sad because I know how important a whole 'nother being is. Little Cal is going to be so loved by Mama and Calvin. And my stepsister will be his daily life Auntie. Her kids will be like siblings to him. He's been born into a pretty goddamned good life.”
“He has.”
“And I'll be the Massachusetts Aunt. Only he'll say it like Ant and not Ahnt. And that'll be good, but I'll never be in the blend of his daily life. I just won't. Because moving back here to live ain't in my bones. You and Joe are. The band is. Life in Mass changed me, and I like it there. So I'm adulting hard core right now. Not making excuses. Not trying to please everyone. I'm just – ”
Bzzzz.
This time, Darla grabbed her phone, read the text from Cathy, and made a face.
“What?”
“She wants pads to handle bloodclots, and I quote, 'The size of some of the possum Calvin finds as roadkill sometimes.'”
Can you feel yourself go pale? I just did.
My second cup of coffee hissed, so I pulled out of Darla's embrace, took my cup, and watched her make a second cup for herself. You spend long enough with someone and they become part of the scenery. Not taken for granted, and certainly not wallpaper you ignore.
More like an assumed presence.
I didn't find myself studying her the way I used to, when we were first together, but lately I found myself deeply connected to her. Maybe it was the emergency baby. Maybe it was something more. But watching her make coffee tapped into a rhythm inside me, as if she were an external piece of who I am and her movements wove a record of who we were.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
“Mama has not mastered the art of the long text,” Darla said dryly, drinking her second cup. “What's up with these Gen Xers? Does Every.Single.Thing need to be a separate text?”
“My mom and dad do it too. Generational, I guess.”
Darla just huffed. “Well, we're at nineteen items and counting.”
“Might want to buy her a case of condoms, too.”
Darla's eyes were as big as dinner plates. “For Mama?”
“And Calvin.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because they're clearly having sex on the regular and – ”
“LALALALALA CANNOT HEAR YOU LALALALALALA.”
“ — and,” I persisted, “Cathy's fertile. You said she thought she wasn't.”
“Yeah, well, I'll buy them some baby hats and bottles and a carseat, but I draw the line at buying my MAMA some condoms.”