Page 105 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Do you hide behind large pieces of furniture at Sunday dinner?” Theresa has a giant Italian family that gets together for mandatory weekly dinners at her aunt’s house. Neither illness, weather, nor a light coma will excuse your absence.

Emma glares at the suggestion. “I’ve only gotten bigger recently.”

“Sure, you don’t look that pregnant for a pregnant person, but you look quite pregnant for a nonpregnant person. I think they’ll start to suspect.”

“IVF was this whole thing”—she waves her hand in an attempt to simplify something that’s too emotionally fraught to describe over a Kroger veggie platter—“and I didn’t want to bother you with my fertility stuff with everything you’ve been going through.”

I stare at her, snapping open the Christmas Coke can in front of me and waiting for her to fill in the dots.

“You’re going to get your ovaries removed. You don’t really want to hear me cry about my egg retrieval.” She picks a loose strand of hair from my sweater sleeve and frowns at it. I know my sister well enough to spot this bit of misdirection when I see it—her attempt to distract from how Emma Mullally just admitted to tears.

Is this how I sound with my mom when I compare our burdens? “I love you and Theresa, Em. You don’t have to hide stuff from me just because you tested negative. I want to be there for you through all this stuff. This baby too.”

She folds her lips shut, holding back whatever’s bubbling underneath. Emma’s always felt more comfortable roasting than emoting. I watch her wrestle with the urge to pinch me rather than continue on the path of sisterly vulnerability.

“How did it all happen?” I ask, taking a sip.

“So when a woman and a woman love each other very much, then Dr.Kirby—”

“Not that, you idiot. How did you know this was the moment to take that step? How did you know it was what you wanted right now?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“How am I supposed to know if any time is a good time for anything? Does anyone? You just have to make the choices that feel true to the life you want and hope like hell it will all work out.”

“The life I want has been a bit of a moving target lately.”

“Yeah, your social media’s been all over the place. Were you in a hot-air balloon at some point?”

“I was. Yes.” The hot-air balloon pilot took the photos for me while I held my knees to my chest on the floor of the basket and did breathing exercises.

“This is just like when we were kids and you tried out for track even though you’re a garbage runner, because you liked the idea of it better than the geeky stuff you did with Dad. You only let yourself be all obsessive with that train thing during Christmas. Theresa thinks it’s why you’re such an unbearable Christmas monster.”

“I thought it was my fun quirk.”

“Alison,” Emma huffs. “It’s literally the most unbearable thing about you. You watch The Holiday year-round. It’s deranged.” The future mother and person in this house most likely to put me in a headlock kicks me in the kneecap for emphasis.

“Stop with the violence,” I demand, resisting the impulse to tack on or I’m telling Mom. “Nancy Meyers transcends the holiday season, and Cameron Diaz is criminally underrated as a comedic actress.”

Emma furrows her brow. “You know what I don’t like about Cameron Diaz?”

I throw a red M&M at her face, but when she catches it in her mouth, we’re both too impressed to remember what we were arguing about in the first place.

Dinner goes by in a blur of mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and honey baked ham, and I can’t help but wonder what slow-cooker creations June’s made for the Berg family today.

For dessert, my mom passes the cookie tin around the table as she weaves her culty tales.

“What’s even weirder”—she bites into a jelly thumbprint shortbread—“is I was supposed to go to the Rajneesh compound with that roommate, but Emma and Alison’s father got the flu. The girl said it was a yoga retreat, but yeah, she was in the documentary.”

“Ms.Mullally, you seriously need to write a tell-all book,” Theresa implores.

My dad rubs small circles between my mom’s shoulder blades. “I’m always saying she has a story to tell,” he agrees. My mom eyes me knowingly.

Emma stands, making a meal of every minute articulation of her bones. “I love you all. This was wonderful, but I’m too pregnant to be up this late.”

My mom gasps theatrically, clutching her chest. “You’re pregnant?!”

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