Page 91 of Caught Up

Her tone was harsh, but I tried not to take it personally. I’d be pissy, too, if I was constantly upchucking. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

At this, she perked up. “Peppermint tea?”

I nodded and went to the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible. I pulled their tea kettle out of a cupboard and set about boiling water. Our conversation about her behavior could wait. Clearly, she wasn’t in any state to have it. Instead, I’d leave it at asking if she’d heard anything new about our allegedly missing father. And then I’d offer to help clean up a little and play with the boys when they woke from their naps so she could have more time to herself.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting up to take her tea when I reentered the living room.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

She nodded, bringing it close to her face and breathing deeply. “I know, but the smell alone can help with the nausea.”

“Do you have that thing Kate Middleton did?”

She shook her head. “It’s called hyperemesis gravidarum, and no. Some women just randomly puke for all nine months.”

“That sounds...”

“Horrible?” she asked, looking up. “Unfair? Like complete fucking bullshit since we’re already dealing with stretch marks and incontinence and nonstop farting and insomnia and mental fog and about nine million other discomforts?”

“Yes. That.”

Every time I got around pregnant women and they started talking about what they were going through, it made me question whether or not I wanted to have kids, or at least whether or not I wanted to bear them myself. Surrogacy or adoption were looking real tempting right now.

“You’ve had help with the boys, right?” I asked.

She set her tea on the side table. “Yeah. Thank god for Hugo’s family. I’d be losing my mind without them. Between his sisters swinging by and his parents offering to have the boys over for sleepovers so I can actually rest, we’ve had a decent amount of help.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around more,” I said, feeling guilty.

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I know you have a whole life downtown, and kids don’t belong in it.”

Ouch.

That was the trouble with Kristen, just when I started to feel like maybe we’d finally go an entire conversation without her bringing up what I did, she’d slip in a subtle insult or cutting remark. I’d learned to bite my tongue because fighting had never made it better, but it sucked to always have to be the bigger person.

“I’m just so mad at Mom and Dad, you know?” she continued. “Between Mom taking off when we were little and Dad being absent all our lives, I feel like we were robbed of the kind of childhood Hugo had, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive them for that. I would kill to have two loving, supportive parents who are still around to help out with their grandkids.”

“Yeah, but we had Nonna and Nonno,” I said.

Kristen shook her head. “It’s not the same. You’re not a parent, so you don’t understand how fucked it is that ours just up and abandoned us.”

Annoyance flared through me again, and it was on the tip of my tongue to argue with her, to say that I didn’t need to be a parent to understand that, but I held my response back, reminding myself that she was six months pregnant and exhausted. I loved my sister, I really did, but sometimes, I didn’t like her all that much.

“Have you heard anything else about our father?” I asked, switching gears.

“No, but Hugo thinks someone got rid of him.”

A shiver slid down my spine. She said it with almost no tone to her voice, like the news of his potential death meant nothing to her. Like it was just an offhand comment to be made. To me. His other daughter. And look, I liked him a hell of a lot less than I did her, but Jesus Christ, she could be coldhearted sometimes.

I inspected her face, looking for any trace of worry or empathy, but she only looked tired and bored with this conversation, her eyes drifting toward her discarded book like she couldn’t wait for me to leave so she could go back to reading.

“And you didn’t think to tell me before now?” I said, unable to help myself this time.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, don’t start this shit again.”

“What shit?” I asked.

“Being so dramatic,” she said. “Like everything I do or don’t say is some sort of personal attack against you.”

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