Be. Grateful.
Being in Ava’s living room makes Elodie nervous. Expensive art on the walls. Crystal figurines on the mantel. Delicate bowls of potpourri on the glass coffee table. Everything screamsbreakable. How the hell Ava maintains a house like this with a two-year-old makes Elodie’s mind melt, and even now she watches Poppy sitting happily on the luxurious carpet surrounded by torn wrapping paper as she plays with her new wooden food set, clean and compliant and happy.
Grandparents and great-aunts perch on different recliners or bustle in and out of the kitchen, everyone chatting and laughing and cooing over Poppy, who seems to be the only January child. Everyone else is at least thirty, if not anciently old.
Jude has ripped open his present of a puzzle and dumped the pieces on the floor, crouching over them and frowning at the mess. A few adults have tried to talk to him, but he ignores them, putting hands over his ears if anyone comes too close.
“I forgot my phone,” Elodie says under her breath. “Can you give me yours for later when Jude needs—”
“Let’s see how he goes.” Bren seems tense, almost agitated, though his focus is on his relatives, not her.
“If he breaks something—”
“I’ve got him. Want to take off your coat?” He flops onto one of the stuffed couches, looking oddly uncomfortable.
She needs her coat to hide the way she is raw meat and muscle underneath, heart pulsing outside her chest, sick and wet and moldering.
Her smile is thin-lipped and ice-cold. “Thank god the experiencedparent has everything under control. What would I know, after all.” The tentative truce with Bren is apparently over.
He shoots her an exasperated look. “Can you chill out?” He keeps his voice low, but their tones have caught the attention of his grandfather.
“Ah, Brendan with his beautiful wife from Down Under!” he booms. “Only turkey in the oven, sweetheart, no kangaroo today.”
“Alas,” Elodie says, deadpan, “whatever shall I eat.”
A muscle twitches in Bren’s jaw and she gives him a too-bright smile that is asking for a fight he’ll never stoop to in front of his family.
“Now, when I was a young man,” his grandfather goes on, “I had my house built and ready long before the wife started on the babies. What you need, Brendan, is some good ol’ grit and fortitude so your son grows up with a father who is aman.”
“Well, I am working…” Bren trails off because his grandfather seems to have lost interest in the conversation and begun talking to someone else.
A fissure of disgust has settled in Elodie at this idea she exists for “the babies,” and she’s pretty sure she’ll be caught leveling scathing looks at the old man, but then one of his aunts bustles in with a family album. She pauses to beam down at Elodie.
“Oh, darling, has Brendan showed you his baby photos yet?” she says. “I’m sure your little one is going to look just like him!”
An extremely doubtful hope, but Elodie fixes her smile to be a little less antagonistic. “I’m dying to see.”
His aunt settles down on the couch beside Elodie with the huge, musty-smelling old album, humming to herself as she starts flicking pages. “He’s such a looker now, you wouldn’t believe the skinny little thing he was as a teen.”
Elodie snorts. “Perfect. I need to see his embarrassing years.”
She hasn’t realized, until then, how stiff Bren has gone beside her. His aunt has barely opened to grainy old photos of a baby with a shock of white-blond hair and smooshed peas all over his face, before Bren reaches over and casually shuts the album and slides it from her grasp. His aunt gives anohof surprise, but Elodie shoots Bren a confused glare.
“C’mon, she doesn’t want to see those.” He stands, his voice casual, but Elodie can read every taut line in his body, agitation in the way he grips the album.
“They’re just baby photos.” She tries to stare him down, but Bren is already moving away, while his aunt gives a laugh and pats Elodie’s knee.
“Such a silly boy you have,” she says. “He’s self-conscious.”
“Clearly.” Elodie watches Bren make a swift exit with the album, curiosity putting black hooks in her gut. It’s hard to imagine him as a dorky, weedy kid, though he’s mentioned that he started working out in college and got laser eye surgery, and she can’t decide if his odd behavior is because he’s embarrassed—or if he doesn’t want to see the earlier baby photos with his bright, happy,aliveparents.
A good wife would be considerate of the latter. Elodie is full of curdled cream with a tongue that feels like meddling.
“We lived for some years in Australia for my husband’s work,” his aunt is saying, her eyes fond with the reminiscing. “Brendan did find it so hard after his parents’ passing, there was so much anxiety. His grandparents had custody of him and Ava, but we all thought it best if Brendan stayed with my husband and I for a little while, just for a change in scenery. Ava was busy with college and he needed a distraction.” Her voice softens. “He loved it over there, so I’m glad he found a beautiful girl like you to remind him of the place.”
Elodie sounds like a souvenir, but she manages to sound serene. “He’s certainly not anxious now.”
His aunt beams as she leans over to squeeze Elodie’s hand. “Oh, he’s so happy. I’ve never seen him this happy.” She starts nattering about old Thanksgiving family stories, so Elodie excuses herself graciously to “see where Bren got to,” though in truth she wants to bite into him about his weirdness.
