Freya started to cry—her poor sensitive ears—and Angeni held her tight, one of her tiny ears pressed to Angeni’s chest, the other cupped by Angeni’s hand.
They repeated their song as Aurora went to place the cake on the island. It was a beautiful cake—slathered in white icing that acted like glue for the wildflowers. Scrawled across the top in pink icing was the wordcongratulations!
“Oh my goodness,” Angeni said. She was truly surprised.
Aurora started taking photos with her phone. Angeni turned Freya’s body so she was facing outward for the photos. She was already thinking up the Instagram post, how she would write about her gratitude for the community they’d created on The Land. This would be the perfect way to announce the book deal too—I am so thankful for the kind souls who will make me capable of embarking on this journey.
Freya was not pleased in Angeni’s arms, kept looking back at Sitka, who had retreated to stand against the back wall of the kitchen, out of the photos.
“We are all so excited for you, babe,” Erik said over Freya’s cries.
Angeni bounced the baby, shushed her gently. “It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s smile for the camera.”
She whispered these words, ashamed at how naturally they came from her mouth. She didn’t believe in parents demanding certaindisplays of emotions from their children. But she couldn’t exactly post a photo on Instagram with her child noticeably distressed.
Aurora kept taking photos, seemingly oblivious to Freya’s meltdown.
“Do you want me to take her?” Erik asked.
Angeni shook her head. “She’ll settle. It’s all the excitement.”
“Ang, we are seriously proud of you,” Jer said.
“Seriously. A book deal!” Matt echoed.
Angeni smiled despite the discomfort rising within her. Freya was not settling. Angeni could feel Freya’s body getting more and more dysregulated, her little legs kicking against Angeni’s belly, her face turning red, her little mouth widening so big to scream that Angeni could see the back of her throat.
“Shhhh,” Angeni kept whispering without effect.
“Should I cut the cake?” Aurora asked. “It’s from that little bakery you love.”
The bakery with the all-natural ingredients, the bakery that used whole wheat and spelt flours, flaxseed paste instead of eggs, applesauce instead of butter, maple syrup and honey instead of sugar.
“I can get some plates,” Sitka said from behind her.
Freya kept shrieking, but everyone else seemed able to treat it like white noise.
“So how does it work? They pay you now, and then you write the book?” Matt asked, his voice loud enough to rise above Freya’s cries.
Angeni was starting to feel hot and nauseated, Freya’s body like a ball of fire against her chest.
“Um, yeah. It’s called an advance, and I use that to live on so I can write the book.”
“So awesome,” Matt said.
“This book is going to change lives,” Aurora added.
Sitka put plates and forks on the island while Aurora cut the cake, carving out thin slivers and putting them on plates for Jer to pass around. Erik handed a plate to Angeni as Freya continued to cry andsquirm. Angeni was appalled that he thought she could take her hands off their child at this moment.
He must have read her facial expression, one of complete annoyance. He set her plate on the island.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take her?” he asked. He looked sheepish and guilty.
She felt a wave of heat roll through her and knew this to be rage. She was someone who went to great lengths to avoid feeling rage in her body. She had become so adept with her somatic work, easing herself into a calm state with deep breathing and compassionate self-talk. This rage, it was the rage of her youth, the rage of a past her followers could never know. It was one thing to share the broad strokes of Erik’s story—a soft-focus Monet of his trials, tribulations, and triumphs on the way to sobriety. Angeni’s image was completely different. Society was always harder on women anyway. Men could be forgiven nearly anything. Women, no.
“I can take her,” Aurora said upon noticing the tension between Erik and Angeni.
“Nobody needs to take her!” Angeni shouted.
