Even though I have my own son now, she was the first. The only girl. A piece of my heart will always, always belong to her.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
She jumps up and throws herself into my arms. I spin her around.
“Hi, Uncle Drew! I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just got here. I like your shirt.”
Then, from down the hall, I hear Steven and Alexandra going at it. And not in a good way.
“I told you to put him in his crate!”
“I was going to but—”
“Going to isn’t doing! I should’ve just done it myself—like everything else around here.”
“Can you give the martyr complex a rest, please?”
They’ve been like this lately. Tense. Strained. We’ve all noticed. It happens—live with someone long enough, they’re bound to get on your fucking nerves. My sister’s nag-athons don’t exactly make it easy. But Steven’s always known what she’s like, and he worshipped her anyway.
Until now.
It’s his tone that bothers me the most. He sounds tired. Worn-out. Fed up.
Mackenzie gazes at the floor.
I grasp her chin and tilt her face up. “How’s it been around here?”
She sighs. “Dramatic.”
I glance down the hall. “Yeah, I’m sensing that.”
“That’s parents for you.” She shrugs. “Can’t live with ’em, but emancipation is a costly and complicated process.”
I chuckle. “You know my door’s always open, right? There’s a spare room with your name on it.”
She glances at Thomas. “But that would leave Thomas holding down the fort. He’s just a little kid.”
“And what are you?”
Blue eyes stare up at me—wise beyond their years. “I’m the big sister.”
I lean over and kiss her forehead. Then I whisper, “This weekend will be good for them, I promise. Like a mini vacation. And I’ll talk to them—knock their heads together.”
She gives me a soft smile, as if she appreciates my effort but doesn’t quite believe it’ll do any good. “Okay, Uncle Drew.”
Matthew walks over, oblivious of everything but Mackenzie. “There’s my girl!”
She looks back at him and the smile free-falls from her face. She raises her nose and folds her arms. Did you feel the temperature drop? That’d be from my niece’s cold shoulder.
“Mr. Fisher, how nice to see you again. You’re looking well.”
Matthew groans and drops to his knees. Even though he’s over six foot, with a boxer’s frame, he looks almost diminutive when faced with my niece’s displeasure. “Mackenzie, you’re killing me, baby.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He pushes a frustrated hand through his light brown hair. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”
“Forgive you? For what? For depriving me of growing up with female companionship? For leaving me wallowing in a forest of penises? Is that what I should forgive you for, Mr. Fisher?”
Having babies is contagious—like mono. Once a friend or a relative has one, everyone wants one just like it. At Thanksgiving dinner, the year after James was born, Matthew and Dee-Dee announced that they were having a baby. That they were adopting a baby.
Brangelina? Get it now?
After they proclaimed their intentions, everyone was happy for them.
Well . . . almost everyone:
“What do you mean, you’re adopting a baby?” asks Frank Fisher, as he sits at the dining-room table of my parents’ country house on Thanksgiving Day.
Still holding his wife’s hand, Matthew faces his father. “What do you mean, what do I mean? We’re adopting a little boy! The paperwork is filed, and we’re waiting on the final approval, but the agency says that’s just a formality. Dee and I have passed all the big hurdles. He’s almost two months old—he’s healthy and gorgeous.” Matthew turns to Estelle. “I can’t wait for you to see him, Mom.”
Estelle beams back at her son with budding tears of joy. But Frank asks, “Is something wrong with your wife? Is she barren?”
Matthew’s smile falters. Before he can answer, Delores retorts, “No, Frank, I’m not barren. This is something Matthew and I have talked about doing since we were married.”
Frank wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin, tosses it down on his plate, and pushes back from the table. The air shifts—like a summer afternoon when the sun is shining, but the wind picks up and you can feel the storm that’s about to burst over your head.
“Why the hell would you want to raise a child that isn’t yours, Matthew?”