Page 6 of Switched At Birth

The waiter has brought my mom another glass of wine.

“Do you mean a date or a booty call? I need to couch my expectations.”

My mother will never marry again. Every once in a while she dates, but she claims she will never meet a man she’ll love like my father, so why try? It makes me sad. She has so much love to give. She’s only forty-four, having me early in her life. She’s slender, and tall at almost five feet, ten inches, with long blonde locks that are a sharp contrast to my dark hair. Men eye her all the time, and it gets my hackles up. But then again, I hate seeing her so lonely.

“Mom.” It’s not me who admonishes our mother, but my sister.

“Tiana, my dear, it’s the truth. Why are you so shocked I said it? You have the same filter I do.”

“Which means none,” I return, exchanging a look with my sister. We both shake our heads. Mom has always been a loose cannon, saying what’s on her mind, plus she’s been honest with us from the beginning. She bought me condoms when I had my first serious boyfriend at sixteen. Caitlyn Brooks is a rare woman, and a rare mother. And we’d not have it any other way.

“Okay, let’s talk about you today. I remember you had that scare when they thought your sugar was so low. I worried for years you were diabetic. Fuck, that was terrifying. It happened the one time, but then you started having breathing problems and was diagnosed with asthma. Raising kids is terrifying. One day, I hope you have a kid that scares you as much as you scared me—and someone you love as much as I love you—baby.”

Tia shakes her head, our mother’s words making us laugh, and as we celebrate our Saturday, and my twenty-fifth birthday, I thank my lucky stars for my mother and sister.

5

Noah

It’sa story my mother has told my twin brother and me to exhaustion, but as we celebrate another three-hundred-and-sixty-five days on this earth, for the twenty-fifth time, I think about how I almost lost Liam before we started our lives.

My twin brother is my other half, the man who looks nothing like me. My dark features are in contrast to his red hair, freckles, and skin so sensitive that SPF one million wouldn’t stop him from burning.

“When they whisked Liam from the room, I hadn’t even seen him. Didn’t even know if he was a girl or a boy. Then I started bleeding, too.” The residual fear is still present in my mother’s voice from the day of our birth.

Our father sits at the other end of the table, not saying a word, his line of sight on the television—the game, to be exact. We’re on the West Coast, and the pre-game coverage is still going strong. Mom went into labor on the night of the Super Bowl. And just like twenty-five years ago, the game is on tonight. He’d asked if we wanted to celebrate last night, but for the past nine years, my twin and I have had a tradition. We go out by ourselves, the eve before our birth. And this year had been no different.

“I can’t get the doctor’s panicked look out of my mind. I’ll never forget it,” our mother continues.

Mom is dramatic, but about this, she’s not. We almost lost her, too, but she never brings it up. In her mind, her kids are the only ones that matter.

“And we never found out what was wrong with you, my sweet boy,” she adds, kissing him where all the freckles line his forehead.

“Okay, Mom, enough of your sappiness,” Liam jests. The story makes him uncomfortable, because he’s not accustomed to being the center of attention, not in this way.

“Yeah, Evvy. What he said,” my father echoes, turning up the volume of the game. Our home team isn’t playing, but football is football, and in my father’s opinion, it’s life in the most Ted Lasso way possible, even if we’re talking about American football. Carl James is a football coach, after all, and played as an offensive lineman until he blew out his knee at the age of thirty-two. Two years later, we came into his life.

He’s a good father. We know his limits—and on Sundays from August to February, these are his limits. He coached at the college level but never traveled too far, because he didn’t want to lose out on precious moments with us. His words, but likely scripted by our mother.

“So, tell me, boys, where did you go out last night? To your own celebration I never get invited to?” Our mother excels in passive-aggressiveness, but back in the day we never said anything and won’t start now.

“It’s a place not far from here, calledHowtoCookaWolf.”

“You ate wolf?” Mom asks, appalled.

Liam and I exchange a knowing look. “No, Mom,” Liam begins to explain. “It’s just an eclectic restaurant with mostly Mediterranean options.”

Every year we try a new place, mainly so Mom doesn’t show up. She has been our biggest fan, and after all the drama during the birth, our life became hers. She’s having a hard time being an empty nester, even after all these years.

“You don’t like eating out anyway, Mom,” I counter.

“But it would be nice to be invited from time to time.”

She drops the subject and takes the takeout containers of our favorite Korean place, moving it to the dining room table. We never ate out, or had delivery. And I mean never. My mother was a stickler for home-cooked meals. With my dad’s early investments, and their family wealth, they never worried about money. It wasn’t a budget thing with Mom. It was all about health. She swore, still to this day, that home cooked and organic is always better. I think it had something to do with Liam almost dying at birth.

Our grandmother, my dad’s mom, took us out twice a year. She was the one who introduced us to a little Korean dive bar up the road. Mom finally gave in when we were twelve. It was one of our gifts. But, Liam and I would’ve traded in our presents every year for this meal.

“So, tell me. What’s going on with your significant others?” This is code for “amI any closer to grandbabies?”

---