Page 6 of The Surrogate Omega, Part Two

Logan growls low in his throat. Not going to lie, I kind of wish I developed that ability too. I haven’t thought too much about the fact I don’t have either of these awakening genes, but now I’m a little jealous of Logan’s newfound growl. I feel like it could be useful. Like now, when I’m annoyed as fuck at Lake’s job.

I also know there’s not much we can do about it. Secret agencies don’t give a fuck about things like this, and neither does national security. Still, it doesn’t make me want to wrap up Lake and protect him any less.

Since I don’t have anything good to say about the situation, I just kiss Lake’s head and stand up to go down into the kitchen. Logan adjusts himself and slips one hand under Lake’s legs to pick him up. I leave the room as Logan takes Lake back to bed.

FOUR

Lake

“Ican’t believe Dad saved all of this. I thought for sure he would’ve thrown away some of it,” River says as he opens yet another box of decorations.

It’s the following Saturday after that miserable morning and I’m sitting on Dad’s closed-in, heated porch by the fire, going through boxes and boxes of Christmas stuff. Apparently, some of these have been sitting in the attic for years and only saw the light of day when River and Cooper took them all down earlier. I’m banned from the attic, which is why Cooper came to help earlier. Cooper left about an hour ago for a work emergency, and Dad took Miri with him to run a few errands and pick up lunch for us.

Luckily, I didn’t end up in the ER last Monday. The sickness eased up by late morning, and I managed to even sneak in a few hours of work. The rest of the week has been much of the same: intense sickness early in the morning, but it eases up as the day goes on. I can’t keep down much, even later in the day, so I’ve been living off red bell peppers, this decaffeinated ginger tea that Evander found at some artisan shop, and crackers. I realize I can’t sustain this forever, but I’m hoping my body adjusts soon.

Even Zoe assures me it’s fairly normal. I worry about making sure the baby has the right amount of nutrients to thrive, but my doctor and all the research I’ve done comforts me a little. I’ve been religious with taking my prenatal vitamins, and I’ve been drinking water constantly. Hopefully, that will be enough.

I shrug as I pull out a frame made from popsicle sticks that has a picture of a very young-looking Essie standing in front of a bunch of handmade paper candy canes taped up to a wall of a classroom. On the back in black Sharpie is says,Essie Simmons Christmas 2005.

“Dad has always been pretty sentimental, hasn’t he?” I ask while I put that in the “Essie” pile. After we realized exactly what kind of project we signed ourselves up for, I came up with a system to help organize all of this. Because Dad doesn’t seem to have any type of system at all. There are outdoor decorations mixed with ornaments, lights, homemade ornaments, and breakables all thrown together haphazardly. It’s amazing more things haven’t been broken.

There are five piles: River, Lake, Essie, Dad, and toss/go through. Mine is the smallest so far. I’m honestly not even sure what we’re doing as far as decorating. Right now, the three of us are jumping from house to house, and it’s very rare to sleep in the same place more than one night in a row. There’s no way I can do this long-term. It’s already making me itchy, not to mention the more pregnant I become, the harder that will be.

I’ve been looking up real estate ads to look for a more practical apartment we can all share. I don’t like the idea of giving up my townhouse or moving farther from River and Miri, but I understand compromises must be made in a committed relationship. And since Logan needs a New York address, moving will have to be one of my compromises. I’m not sure why I haven’t mentioned it to them yet, but I will once I have a list of acceptable apartments we can look at.

“Yeah, I guess,” River says, answering my earlier question. “At least we know where Essie got her pack rat habits from.”

I snort. “That’s true. It definitely wasn’t from Mom.”

River laughs. “No, not at all. Mom was the opposite of a hoarder. Remember how she made us go through all our things every single season and donate or get rid of anything we hadn’t used or didn’t want?”

“Yes. It used to drive you crazy.”

River shrugs. “I just couldn’t be bothered. But I find myself doing the same thing.”

“Me too.”

River pulls out a faded photo album. He starts flipping through it, a soft smile on his face. “Check this out,” he says quietly. His eyes look sad despite the smile.

I slide on over and look at the picture River is staring at. It’s us at eleven wearing matching green-velvet sweaters. We’re sitting on an oversized chair with a baby Essie in our arms. She’s wearing a red-velvet dress with a massive, oversized headband. There’s a very artificial Christmas tree behind us, with staged-looking stockings hanging on a mantle.

I look over and River has tears in his eyes. I understand. Despite how generic the picture is, this was from the last Christmas before Mom died. She knew it would probably be her last and wanted professional pictures taken. The next page is a family portrait of all five of us.

This time, it’s Dad holding Essie. He’s wearing the same ugly green sweater River and I have on. Mom is standing next to him in a red sweater and black pants. She had already lost all her hair by this point and is wearing a matching red scarf over her head. She never liked wigs and tended not to wear them. You can see in the picture how much weight she already lost and how tired she was, but Mom is smiling, and Dad is looking at all of us with so much love.

River and I stand in front of them. Mom has a hand on each of our shoulders. It looks like just an affectionate gesture, but I remember her needing to hold us just so she could stand up for the picture. After that one, Dad insisted she was sitting for the rest of the shots.

River and I keep flipping through the album. It’s not just that photo shoot, but actual Christmas too. There’s a picture of us with Grandma Amy and Luke’s siblings and nieces and nephews. There’s one of Dad teaching River how to bake cookies. I skipped that lesson. There’s some on Christmas morning while we opened presents. Mom is sitting in her chair wrapped in blankets, but still, that smile is present.

River wipes his eyes again as the tears continue to fall. This is always when I feel awkward. I miss my mom, of course I do, but I just don’t have the same emotional reaction that most people get when looking at these things or remembering her. It sometimes makes me feel dysfunctional, though River never makes me feel like that.

I also don’t know how to react to people who are crying around me. I pat River’s leg, which makes him laugh out loud. “It’s ok, Lake. I’m fine. I promise.”

“I’m sorry.”

River gives me that disappointed look. “Lake, you know damn well you have nothing to apologize for. We’re not the same person. I get that. Just because you don’t cry while looking at pictures doesn’t mean you loved Mom any less.”

“I know. But I still feel uncomfortable.”

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