Page 82 of Mismatched

I watch my sister jump into action, trying to wipe bananas off her son and unbuckle him as fast as she can while his screeching grows in intensity. She looks harried and exhausted. And all I can think is—that’s going to be me. When the little peach inside me emerges, I will be at its mercy too. If it demands I jump, I’ll have no choice but to guess how high. Except Celia does it all with a glow, a satisfaction I don’t have inside me.

Because our mother never had it either.

Anton’s out of his chair now, setting aside the thrill of our announcement to stand awkwardly by my sister like he wants to help but isn’t sure how. All the while, our mother just sits watching, not lifting a finger. Like she did her time as a mom and is now enjoying seeing her daughter slave away the same way she did.

“I—I need the restroom.” I rise from the table, shoving my chair back.

But before I can escape the dining room, Dr. Adam comes back, holding a tube of something. He hands it to Anton. “Here. For the stretch marks. This really helps.”

My legs propel me from the room.

I don’t know where I’m headed, but my mother’s laser gaze, assessing my body, my stomach, keeps me going as far away as I can get. Out into the living room and up the modern, floating staircase barricaded by plastic gates. There are baby obstacles everywhere. A mat on the floor with arches covered in dangling things, an expensive-looking swing, some other contraption with a seatbelt that must do something. There are little soft toys everywhere, and suddenly I wish I could bury my face in Heartthrob’s fur. How could my sister ever, ever give up her dog?

When I reach the second floor, I’m not sure where to turn. There’s a hall with a bunch of doors, and I know one of them is designated ours, but I guess I just have to try them.

The first room looks like it hasn’t been touched since they moved in. Celia’s desk sits in the middle of the room. There’s an empty bookshelf in a corner. Some art prints and her framed diplomas rest on the floor against the wall, but the desk is piled with unopened boxes and it looks like no one’s been in here for months.

The next door is a bathroom, but when I open the one after that, I lean heavily against the doorframe. It’s the only room in the house that clearly has my sister’s touch. The crib, dresser, and changing table are all a traditional style, white and bright. The window hangings, rug, and rocking chair are plush. Soft and welcoming. There’s a little shelf filled with picture books. Tasteful photos of friendly farm animals on the walls. And the name Gabriel written out in bold letters hanging above the crib. It looks like a photoshoot from some catalog, not a room that a baby actually uses. It doesn’t even smell like diapers.

“Hey. Just thought I’d see if you need anything?”

I turn around to find my sister. Sans infant, thank God. Though I can’t help wondering whose care she left him in, of all the people to choose from downstairs.

“I um...” I don’t even realize I’m crying until I hear the tremor in my voice. I gesture to her son’s room for a distraction. “This looks nice.”

“Thank you,” she says, more warmly than I can remember her speaking to me my entire life. She scoots past me toward the dresser, grabs a tissue, and I’m grateful to take it from her. “I’m so sorry Mom spoiled your news.”

I look at her face, take in the sincerity in her eyes, and I nearly break into full sobs. Not because I’m sad about the botched announcement. Not for any reason my sister would guess.

“For what it’s worth, you look beautiful. And I’m excited for you,” Celia says.

My head spins. I can’t remember the last time my sister offered me a real compliment. Or one that wasn’t at least partly backhanded.

“Thanks. Um... I’m still getting used to the idea.”

Her eyebrows rise in some sort of understanding. “Oh—yes. Well, I wasn’t expecting Gabe either. Initially, the idea of him was quite a shock.”

I press my lips together, not bothering to correct her as I turn her words over in my head. “I thought you guys planned?—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly. “The important thing is, after all my initial doubts and worry, he has turned out to be the single most special thing in the world.”

And this is where I get off, I think. Because I finally understand—my issue isn’t really about the baby. It’s about me.

“You seem pretty great at being a mom,” I say quietly. Since apparently we now say nice things to each other.

She sits in the rocking chair by the window, leaning back like it’s a place she spends a lot of time. “I think you have to want to.” She glances toward the hall, down the stairs. “I’m not sure Marion ever did.”

My stomach, already near my feet, works its way into the floorboards.

A happy-sounding burble draws our attention to the door as Anton appears at the top of the stairs, carrying a very smiley baby Gabriel.

Of course. She chose him.

“There she is. I told you we’d find her,” he says in a placid voice I have never heard.

My sister rises from her chair with wide arms and an open smile. All signs of her being tired or exhausted have gone. She looks nothing if not restored.

“Hello!” she says as her son reaches for her from my husband’s arms. “Were you looking for Mommy?”

---