Julia’s throat closes up again, so she just shakes her head silently. Oliver nods, seemingly understanding that there’s nothing she can say right now that would make things better.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lia,” he says softly.
That stops the mess of self-hating thoughts in her head, just for one moment. The way he’s using the nickname he gave her in high school. The sincere emotion in his voice. Julia feels tears drowning her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss too, Ollie.” And they find themselves in each other’s arms. Julia closes her eyes and breathes in his familiar scent. They used to be best friends. They used to be each other’s touchstones. And she can’t understand why they drifted so far apart over the years.
Just for a moment, held tightly in Oliver’s arms, Julia lets herself pretend that everything will be okay.
A shriek shatters the moment, and before Julia realizes it, she’s already running toward the kitchen. This is something that will never cease to amaze her, the way that ever since Emma was born, her instincts have become razor-sharp when it comes to anything involving Emma. Julia used to be a deep sleeper until Emma came along; then the slightest noise would propel Julia from the depths of her sleep and shoot her out of bed in under a second. And now she’s hurtling toward the kitchen because Emma has shrieked, and Julia should have known better than to leave Emma alone in the kitchen with strangers—what idiot mother does that? She has never hated herself quite as much as this. Every day is another chance for her to practice yet more self-hatred. Poor Emma, what—
“Mommy, look!” Emma is shouting, and there are no tears, just Emma holding up a bun in the shape of a pig. Julia stops short, her heart still thumping wildly, and as she watches, Emma lifts the bun and squeezes. Thick yellow cream squirts out of the bun pig’s butt, and Emma screams with laughter. “The pig poops!”
Julia is torn between being grossed out and laughing. From where she’s standing at the stove, stirring a pot, Vera looks at them and smirks. “Very good, eh? I say to myself, ah, what will her daughter like? And I make these buns, they filled with salted egg yolk custard. Lick it off your arm, Emma, don’t just waste the custard, there are children starving in—well, everywhere, I would think. Even here in San Francisco.”
Emma lifts her chubby arm and licks the golden liquid from her wrist. Her eyes light up. “Lick, Mommy,” she orders, lifting her sticky hands.
“No, honey,” Julia immediately says, “that’s . . .” That’s disgusting, Marshall’s voice slices through her mind. Already she can see him, his upper lip curled up in disgust. Why’re you letting her get away with that kind of behavior? You need to do better at disciplining her. For a moment, Julia freezes, unsure what to say to her own daughter. She’s so used to nodding along with whatever Marshall says, but Marshall isn’t here now. Marshall won’t be here for good. And would these strangers in her house judge her?
But then Vera comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a washcloth, and says, “Has your mommy try the custard?” Emma reaches up higher, her eyes shining with excitement, and Julia’s heart cracks open. She wants to try the custard, would happily lick things off her daughter’s sticky hands any time she gets the chance to. And so she does. And it does, indeed, taste very good. She hugs Emma tight and whispers, “Thanks, baby girl.” And just for a fragile moment, as fleeting as a butterfly’s fluttering wings, Julia feels that maybe she’s not the world’s worst mother after all.
THIRTEEN
OLIVER
It’s hard to believe that he’s finally here, after all these years, inside Marshall and Julia’s house. He’d stayed away for so long, unable to bear the weight of their marriage, the weight of his bitterness and festering resentment toward Marshall. He’s in Julia’s space, after all this time, and he doesn’t quite know how to handle himself. When they were teens, he was the one who spent the most time at Julia’s, hanging out in her bedroom, listening to music and eating sour gummy worms, and doing homework or chatting or whatever. Her parents had trusted him so much that they were okay with her keeping the door closed when he was over.
“It’s because they know you don’t have the balls to do anything,” Marshall had said.
Maybe that was true. Oliver certainly wanted to do all sorts of things, but he never did, never even tried, because . . . why? He never understood why he didn’t. Maybe because he always worshiped Julia, always saw her as someone so far beyond his reach. Marshall didn’t have any such qualms, of course. Marshall didn’t even seem to realize that Julia existed, not until the night she wore a low-cut top to Bobby Cullen’s party and Marshall couldn’t keep his eyes off her chest. Oliver had a sick feeling in his stomach the whole night, but, of course, he didn’t do anything, not even when Marshall snuck up to Julia with a red cup stinking of cheap booze and that smirk that no girl could ever resist. Oliver had thought it would be just another one of Marshall’s many short-lived flings. But weeks went by and they kept going strong. And when high school was over, they didn’t split up for college. Instead, Julia decided to defer her enrollment at Columbia and instead followed Marshall to Santa Cruz. Oliver lost it then. He told her she was throwing her future away for his asshole of a twin who’d cheat on her the first week of college, and she told him that his jealousy was an ugly thing to see, and that was that. They didn’t talk again for years afterward. When he found out that they’d gotten married right out of college at city hall, he sent a congratulatory card but received no reply. When Emma was born, Oliver popped by at the hospital with flowers and a onesie set, but Marshall told him that Julia was too out of it to see any visitors. He got to catch a glimpse of Emma, so tiny, swaddled in a pink blanket, and then the tears attacked his eyes and he stumbled out of the hospital before he broke down completely.
Over the next few years, Oliver tried to be a good uncle to his only niece, sending her gifts every birthday and Christmas, but received no thank-yous from them. He liked their photos on Facebook and Instagram, smiling quietly as he watched Emma grow from a tiny infant into a chubby toddler. Most of the photos that Julia posted had captions like: “Best daddy ever!” and “I’m so lucky to have such an amazing husband!” so Oliver figured that they were happy and accepted that he’d been very wrong about Julia and Marshall as a couple and that it was best for everyone involved if he kept his distance.
But now, he’s here in their space, and he feels like he’s violating their privacy, like he’s somehow broken their happy bubble. He has no business being here in his brother’s house, standing a few paces away from his wife, watching as she licks custard off her daughter’s arm. He turns away, wanting to give Julia as much privacy as he can, and his eyes rest once more on the pile of trash bags filled, strangely enough, with Marshall’s things. Oliver doesn’t understand, can’t come up with a good enough explanation for the bags. It feels very soon for Julia to have packed up all of Marshall’s things. Just two days after Marshall’s death. Or maybe she’d packed them up before Marshall died? But why? According to Instagram, they were deliriously happy with each other.