The setback, p.25
The Setback, page 25
“You really think God made the very problematic, very imperfect Earth and then, what? Just wandered away?”
Abigail sighs. “You can’t argue with faith, Helen. Faith is believing in something you can’t see, touch, or hear. Faith is not knowing, but believing nonetheless. I feel peace and happiness when I believe, so I believe.”
She’s right. You can’t argue with faith. It’s like trying to pick a fight with a wind gust. Instead of trying, I change the subject. “Okay, we’ve made plates of cookies, but the kids are still insisting we wait until tomorrow to deliver them. They’re all in the freezer, waiting.”
“Did you decorate the house?”
I nod dutifully. “I will warn you that no one could recall quite where you put some things, like the gnome family, and although Izzy took charge, the other kids aren’t convinced they got it right.”
“As if it matters.” But she’s smiling.
“It does to them.”
Abby’s kids are struggling without her. You can see it in their eyes, in their slow, forced movements, and in the way they all snap their heads around to look toward the door every time it opens, hoping against hope for a miracle. Christmas isn’t the same without her there.
She’s the heart of that home.
I know, because I miss her in the same way. That’s why I’ve spent so much time sitting in this boring hospital room.
“Alright, so the things I told you I ordered?”
I nod. “All wrapped and labeled.”
She winces a bit, but it’s unnecessary.
“Roger came in for three days. I had him do it.” My gay assistant is a hundred times better at wrapping than I’ll ever be. I tried wrapping two packages and immediately called for backup.
“Well, that’s good.” Abigail leans forward. “Even the big green—”
“Even that one,” I say. “You don’t have to worry.”
“We’ve spent exactly one Christmas in a hospital,” she says. “And that was when people were still hopeful about Nate. They thought he might recover. We sang songs. We watched movies. We wore Christmas pajamas.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Not long after that, he died.”
I was too busy to even show up for a visit that year.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to be there for all that misery and sadness. Either way, Abigail was alone with her kids with all that, and I can’t even imagine what it must have been like. “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t stay here,” she says.
“You have to stay here.”
An hour later, Steve’s off shift, and he and Dr. Peters are arguing with Abby.
“I know the fluid level’s still below a five,” she says. “Believe me when I say that I love this baby more than anyone, but my amniotic fluid has been hovering between a four and a five for almost two weeks. It’s not going down. The baby’s not in distress.”
Dr. Peters sighs. “If it wasn’t Christmas, would we even be having this conversation?”
Steve looks as if he’s given up on arguing. I can’t tell whether he’s scared of Abby, or whether she has convinced him.
“This baby may not be growing as fast as we’d like, but he’s not failure to thrive, and my condition has been stable. My husband’s an ER doc, and my sister bought a monitor and an ultrasound machine. Steve can check on things at home just like you have been here.”
I was initially opposed to the idea of her leaving, but I’ve been here a lot. She spends a few hours on the monitor and a few hours off. They draw blood once a day. They do her ultrasound once a day. I don’t know why Steve couldn’t do most of that from home.
“You have to call me twice a day,” Dr. Peters says.
Abby sighs heavily and nods, and then she freezes. Her eyes widen, and a smile spreads across her face. “Wait, you’re saying yes? I can go home?”
He sighs. “You seem to have been right about everything so far, and although you’re high risk, you’re right that your husband can check you as well as the techs here. If he promises to do that—wait. Do you have Christmas Day off?”
Steve bobs his head. “My sister-in-law’s getting married.” He clears his throat. “Or, she was. And now our friend’s getting married. So yeah, I swapped New Year’s to get off.”
“Wait, a wedding?” Dr. Peters frowns. “No dancing, and she can’t be on her feet for more than five minutes at a time.”
“I can go to the wedding?” Now my sister’s really happy. “Oh, Dr. Peters. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” He points at her belly. “Be smart, and take it easy.”
“We’ll see that she does,” I say.
“I’m counting on you,” Dr. Peters says, “because I think her husband’s scared of her.” He’s half kidding.
It takes nearly an hour and a half after that before we’re finally discharged, and then it’s another hour and a half to drive home, because Steve drives like my grandma. If she was recovering from a recent trauma that made her scared to drive. Also, if she was still alive.
“I’m never letting you drive again,” I mutter for the fiftieth time.
“We just got out of the hospital,” Steve says. “Do you really think we should endanger her life?”
I can’t help spluttering. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been going five over the whole way home, but some of us see the wrecks that happen when people drive like you, and it’s not what we need to experience firsthand on Christmas Eve.”
“Who do you think will be the most surprised?” Abby asks as we turn into the homestretch.
“My money’s on Izzy,” Steve says. “That girl is your most devoted fan. She made all the cookies—”
“She burned at least three batches,” I say.
“And remade them,” Steve says. “She’s been drifting around the house aimlessly while you’ve been gone.”
“I think Gabe,” I say. “He makes that little forlorn face when no one’s looking.”
“Interesting,” Abby says.
We’re nearly there now. Two minutes away, maybe three.
“I’m sure all the kids have missed me,” she says. “But I’m thinking the person who’s going to be the most excited to see us is probably. . .David Park.” Now Abby’s grinning.
“What?” I roll my eyes. “You’re funny. It’s Christmas. I told him we’d get together sometime afterward.”
“Don’t you think even a fake boyfriend needs some kind of holiday photo?”
“He’s Korean,” I say.
“A lot of them are Christian,” she counters. “He could be, too.”
“Actually,” I say, “Koreans aren’t really like us, where you have to be all or nothing. They’ll often be Buddhist, Christian, Catholic, and atheist at the same time.”
“You can’t be atheist and Christian,” Abby says.
“Tell them that.”
Abby has been unusually quiet and not nearly as feisty as usual over the past few weeks, as if her fear about the baby has drained away her usual verve. It’s nice to be volleying verbally again, even if it is about David almighty Park.
Only, when we reach the house, a familiar, shiny SUV is parked outside. Abby must’ve texted him. I thought maybe he’d gone somewhere for the holidays, because I haven’t heard from him in the past few days. I hate how weirdly excited seeing his car makes me. What kind of loser’s happy that her sister’s been messaging her fake boyfriend?
The second the car stops, the front door opens. “Hey Steve,” Izzy’s shouts. “You said that if we wanted, now that the snow has been plowed, we could ride—” She freezes. “Mom?!” She drops the bag she was holding and runs down the porch steps, slipping on a patch of ice and nearly falling on her butt. She does right herself, luckily, and then she sprints until she reaches the car.
Izzy rips the car door open and practically falls on her mother.
In two million years, there’s no way that either Abby or I would ever have done that to our own mother. Clearly Abby’s doing something right.
After their sister left the door hanging open, it appears the other kids heard her screeching. Ethan, then Gabe, and finally Whitney all rush out the front door.
“Mom’s home?” Gabe asks.
“Hey!” Ethan says.
“Yes!” Whitney practically rips Izzy away, trying to scramble in for a hug herself.
Maybe it’s because their dad died. Maybe that’s why they’re so happy to see her when they’ve been to the hospital to visit, and it’s not like she has anything terminal.
When Abigail finally stands up, even Ethan looks a little teary-eyed.
Gabe’s smiling, but he sounds almost sad. “Now it can really be Christmas.”
“It’s Christmas whether Abigail stays at the hospital or not,” I say. “Christmas is about Christ’s birth and the celebration of it.”
Izzy glares at me. “Yeah, yeah. But it’s also about family. You’re so clueless.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am clueless about that. I never wanted to be around family any more or less because it was Christmas. Seems ridiculous to me.
But then David pokes his head around the doorframe. “Looks like a pretty exciting day.”
“Why are you here?” I’m not sure why I’m so crabby. It’s not like I care that a teenager just corrected me, or that I’m upset that no one cares whether I come home.
“Your sister invited me,” he says. “Is that a problem?”
I roll my eyes. “May as well get a few photos out of it.”
“Why do you need photos?” Gabe looks at me, and then he turns and looks at David with a studious expression. “Are you making him a photo album for Christmas?”
I laugh. “No, but we’re doing—it’s like a school project. We have to take photos and share them online.”
Gabe nods. “Well, I hope you get an A. The last time I had to do a school project, Jacob Lyons sat on it and we all got a C.”
That makes Ethan snort with laughter. “I hated group projects.”
“Your whole life is a big group project with people who sit on things,” Steve says. “You’re working with cattle.”
“And they poop on things, too,” Gabe says.
The guys all laugh, because, poop. I find myself looking at David’s face as he laughs. Which I should not be doing.
“Let’s go inside,” Steve says. “Your mom’s not supposed to be standing for a long time or doing a lot of walking.”
“I can make you breakfast in bed,” Whitney says.
“It’s two in the afternoon, dummy,” Gabe says.
“Don’t say dummy,” Izzy says.
At the same time, Steve says, “You can make her lunch in bed.” He waves his hands to get people moving. It’s a good thing, too, because no one who just rushed out is dressed for the weather, and I think Whitney’s lips are turning blue.
I’d been staying at the hospital for the past two days so Steve could deal with some horse stuff and work a shift. Even though they’ve sent me lots of photos, it’s different to see it in person. The kids clearly spent every moment they’ve been off from school doing all the Christmas things they could.
“The gnome family looks really cute on the mantle,” Abby says. “I like it better than the entry table.”
“The entry table.” Izzy sighs. “Why didn’t I remember that?”
Her children follow her into her room like she’s the Pied Piper playing a tune. Steve follows closely after, lugging her bags.
Which leaves me alone in the most festive family room in America with David almighty Park.
I sigh.
“Should I go?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Clearly Abby was wrong.”
“What did she say?”
He shrugs. “No big deal. I have a few things to review for my new business plan.”
“Oh? Let me take a look.”
“I didn’t bring it,” he says. “Because it’s Christmas Eve.”
I sit on the sofa and pat the spot next to me. “Well, then you can tell me what you’re doing. Did you decide to sell off the supplier with the contract we discussed?”
That buys us about forty minutes of stress-free conversation. But once we’ve covered everything he recalls, I’m back to not knowing what to say. Luckily, Izzy comes shooting out with a basket of laundry. “Hey! Mom wanted me to ask if you had any laundry you wanted done?” She looks pointedly at my bag that’s still resting on the floor of the entry hall.
“Ah. I better get that put in my room.” Abby hates things lying around, which makes sense. With nine hundred and forty-eight people living here, a few people leaving something out adds up fast. But I imagine pulling out my bras and whatnot and passing them to Izzy, and I physically shudder. “I’ll do my laundry later.”
“You alright?” David asks.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m going to have to second his question,” Izzy says. “In the entire time you’ve been here, and it’s been a long time, you have never once done your own laundry.”
“I pay you to do it,” I hiss. The little brat’s starting to tick me off.
“Actually, you probably overpay me.” She grins. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready.” She salutes. “At your service.” And then she’s gone again, and the awkwardness descends.
“Why is laundry a sensitive issue?”
“It’s not,” I say. “Not at all.”
“Okay,” he says. “Well.” He stands up. “Looks like I should grab my stuff and go.”
I don’t want him to leave, which surprises me, but I have no idea what reason I’d give to ask him to stay.
“Alright.” I stand up. “I better get my stuff put away.”
“I’m glad your sister’s home,” he says.
“It only took an ultrasound machine in the game room, and a baby monitor right next to it.” My laugh sounds forced.
“Wow, I wonder what that costs.”
“It turns out, you can buy a crappy vet one they use in the field for under a few grand. Eddy could have loaned us that one, probably. Or you can get a refurbished one for humans that’s only ten or twenty grand. But if you really want a good one, one capable of reading delicate things, like, say, the amount of amniotic fluid around your nephew, you’re looking at eighty to a hundred grand.”
“You’re a good sister,” David says. “That’s a lot to spend to have her home for Christmas.”
With the giggling and the laughter coming from her room, I don’t even regret it. “I’m not sure that buying things really makes me a good sister.”
“But you were there at the hospital with her, too.”
“I wasn’t when her husband was dying.” The words just shoot out, like I’ve lost control of my mouth. Or maybe the guilt is just catching up to me.
David doesn’t say anything, so I sneak a sideways glance. He looks thoughtful, which is totally useless to me. I have no idea what to say to someone unless I know what he’s thinking.
“You should take some cookies with you,” I say. “Here. I can grab you some.” I hop up and head for the back of the house.
As if she heard me, the door pops open and Whitney emerges. Izzy’s coming from the opposite direction, her arms now free of laundry. They almost run into each other. I need to go past them, into the laundry room Izzy just vacated. That’s where the big chest freezer is.
The one that I don’t have permission to use.
It’s a little embarrassing, honestly. The first week I was here, I didn’t push it hard enough or hold it long enough to close it, and since it was full of food, it all spoiled. Abigail was not pleased. My license to use it was revoked, and it hasn’t been reinstated.
Which is stupid. I’m not ten years old.
I still use it whenever I want, just not when people are around who might rat me out. And the two girls in front of me are the two most likely people to rat me out in the entire house.
“Hey,” I say. “Can one of you go grab a cookie plate for David?”
“They don’t have the jam thumbprints yet,” Izzy says. “Or the gingerbread men.”
“I think he’ll survive.” The plates look so full already, I have no idea where more cookies would even go.
“But I love gingerbread.” David’s face looks entirely innocent, which is suspect in and of itself.
Whitney frowns. “Do you need to leave? Why can’t you stay and wait until they’re done?”
“Yeah, the gingerbread men are the best part,” Izzy says. “Mom has a recipe where they actually taste good, because it uses less molasses. Only, they don’t look quite as nice. They kind of spread out, like marshmallow men.”
“Still, it’s worth it,” Whitney says. “We voted on them last year, and the marshmallow men won by a landslide.”
“Only Mom picked the ones that looked better and tasted worse.” Izzy laughs. “And she didn’t really, she just wanted the plates to look pretty.”
“I could stay,” David says. “But I think your aunt—”
“Oh, never mind her,” Izzy says. “She’s always insisting on stuff, but we just ignore her.”
“Sadly, that’s true,” I say.
David’s laugh is larger than I’ve ever heard from him. “You know,” he says when he’s finally stopped. “If I could have gotten that on video, along with your beleaguered expression, we could have broken the financial part of Twitter.”
“So will you stay?” Izzy asks. “It’s annoying having to roll all the shortbread into balls. You could do that part.”
“Here’s a tip,” David says. “When you want someone to do something you don’t like, you’ll have better luck if you don’t tell them up front that it’s annoying.”
“Maybe,” Izzy says. “But if I lied, you might get mad. If I tell you that I don’t like that part and you stay, you’ll feel helpful. Then you can flirt with my aunt and no one will be annoyed at you because you’re doing something we don’t like. It’s a win for both of us.” Izzy’s shaping up to be just as big a brat as her mother.
“You’re a little horrifying,” David says.
“So will you do it?” Whitney asks. “I can go get the sesame seeds.”
“And let’s pull the cookie plates out too, so Mom can see them,” Izzy says. “We’ll deliver them later, but Mom has to stay in the car when we do.”
