Page 8 of Cascade

I rub my palms against my eyes and sit back in my chair. “It’s ok, Hunter. I’ve always got you looking out for me.” He tosses me a sandwich and my stomach starts to rumble. “Thanks, man. What’s up?”

He sits down and folds his hands, and his mouth works up and down a bit like he’s not sure quite what to say. “Well,” he starts. Then he sighs. “Abigail would like to have a baby.” When I don’t say anything right away, he says, “A human baby. That we create together.”

“Yeah, yeah, I assumed that part.” I take a bite of the sandwich. I don’t know what to say to him. “So, um…that’s good? Right? Youaremarried, after all. It can’t be totally unexpected.”

“Hm,” he says, and stares at me. His eyes are unblinking. It’s unnerving. “I wasnotexpecting this, actually. Although I believe Abigail and I would create a fantastically intelligent and capable child.” My brother always talks that way, whether he’s describing one of his research experiments or his wife’s potential baby. And my sister is equally as smart as him—they both went to Ivy League schools and all that nonsense. I think they soaked up all the genius genes from my parents so there just was “regular kid” left by the time Fletcher and I came along.

“Hunter,” I tell him. “Are you worried about being a dad? Is that it?”

He nods. “I do not do well with unpredicted situations.” He reminds me of how caught off guard he was to find himself attracted to Abigail to begin with, let alone when he had to figure out how to verbalize his feelings to her. “Children require emotional guidance, coaching through social situations…patience…”

I finish my sandwich and crumple up the wrapper, tossing it into the trashcan next to my desk. “Hunter,” I say, “Abigail can coach your kid through social stuff. She’s really good at feelings, man. And you have all the patience in the world when it comes to the tissue samples you stare at!”

“Tissue samples do not cry, though.”

“Look, isn’t Dad better at this sort of pep talk? I mean, he has actually been a parent…and we turned out ok. Sort of. Fletcher’s doing well anyway.” My younger brother just got nominated for another award for the work he does broadcasting sporting events. He’s the mastermind behind some of the world’s most famous bike races, fancy auto races in the Middle East, tennis…he’s everywhere.

“Fletcher avoids coming home,” Hunter says. And that’s probably true, too, but that’s nothing to do with us or how he was parented. I glance at my monitor and realize I’m almost done with Ed’s work, but I’ll need to kick my brother out if I’m going to have it in time to mail before the post office closes. Of course Ed refuses to e-file.

“Hunter, go home and bang your wife,” I tell him. “Nobody is going to let you be a bad father, ok? Your kid will be surrounded by family and chickens and the coolest science toys. You’ll play chess together and geek out about ectoplasm or whatever it’s called.”

“I’m studying cytoplasm and—”

“Hunter, I’ve gotta finish Ed Hasting’s quarterly taxes or he’s going to put me through the wringer, ok? I need to concentrate.”

He nods. He looks a little sad puppy as he heads out, so I yell, “We’ll play poker soon, ok? We’ll grab Asa and you can bring Moorely.”

“Next week?”

“Count me in. Now get out!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Opal

MAY

I can never sleep after a birth, even if I’m weary to my bones. An hour into my tea and biscotti chat, I got called out to catch a baby from a third-time mom. It wasn’t even like her labor was particularly long or difficult—the baby practically shot out into my arms. But this entire process—coaching a parent as they bring forth life—it fills me with adrenaline. I don’t ever know what to do with it all.

I wish I had someone to call and debrief, like a mom. How would it be to at least talk to someone until my temples stop throbbing? I think about the tea I’ve been drinking with Indigo and Sara. They invited me to come over anytime and to call or text whenever I wanted. I’ve gone once or twice this past week. But now it’s late and they’ve got a tiny baby and jobs to juggle.

As I drive home, my adrenaline turns to worry. An old habit that won’t quit. I worry about my lack of friends, my lack of family. What does it mean that I don’t have a single person I can call right now to talk about my day at work?

A few blocks later, and I’ve become convinced I will someday die alone and eventually be found, half-eaten by my cat.

I don’t think Oscar would wait long to dig in…

I got him on a whim about a year ago. I had a patient birthing all through the night and as I headed home that morning, I took a wrong turn. I wound up in the parking lot of the animal shelter while I checked my gps and for some reason, I just felt compelled to go inside and check it out.

And there he was. Oscar Whittaker, my long-haired tabby cat. At the shelter, he looked so scrawny and his hair was so matted. But he still seemed so regal. Like he had his shit together.

A staff member saw me staring at him and told me his back story. He’d been hit by a car, had broken bones. He’s a fighter, for sure. I know it sounds ridiculous, but at the time, I thought if I took home this cat, maybe he could help me organize my thoughts. Teach me to get my own act together.

As I ponder Oscar, I realize downing whiskey and screwing Archer wasn’t actually my first impulsive decision. The cat turned out to be a good move in the end.

I had nothing at home for him when I decided to bring him home. I laugh a bit as I drive, remembering how I stopped at the mall and bought him the only cat bed the store had at the time: one of those ridiculous white sofas that cats famously refuse to sit on.

Except Oscar made himself immediately at home. As soon as he was off his antibiotics and preened up his fur a bit, he morphed into total prince mode.

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