It would be a calm day, I always knew, when Nova didn't fight me on the pair of socks I picked out for her to wear.
Sometimes I hit a home run. Sometimes she happily slid on the brightly colored and printed ankle socks with pure delight, marveling at the rainbows or unicorns or whatever girly and princess-y pattern adorned them. Sometimes she would put on her socks and then slip her shoes over them, give her outfit a quick once-over in the mirror, just like her older sister did, and skip out of her bedroom without a single syllable of resistance.
And sometimes, she would look at the balled up pair of socks laid out neatly on top of her dresser and be repulsed. Her face would scrunch up in that on-the-verge-of-a-complete-meltdown way and the tears would flow before I even knew what was happening. She would insist on a different pair but not want to pick them out herself, the alternatives I gave being wrong, wrong wrong. And it didn't matter that the week before the pair she was protesting against had been a home-run pair, one that she giggled and praised as she counted he number of butterflies cascading over her toes.
The behavioral specialist we hired to decipher the situation said the sock conundrum was Nova's response to feeling like she wasn't getting enough attention. Peter thought it was a phase, part of growing up, nothing to worry about. I thought about how frustrating it was that my day was dictated by my four-year-old's footwear preferences.
That morning, Nova wailed at the neon purple striped pair I had carefully laid out atop floral-printed leggings and an oversized Sofia the First t-shirt. I maintained my poker face as I offered four different pairs from the top drawer in her dresser. She sniffed and accepted a green polka-dotted pair.
Nova's twin brother, Logan, was halfway through with breakfast by the time we managed to make it downstairs. Unlike his sister, Logan couldn't care less what he wore. I didn't bother making an appointment for him with the behavioral specialist.
"Where's Haylee?" I asked Logan, glancing at my wrist. Peter was always trying to get me to switch over to an Apple Watch but I preferred the dainty vintage piece that belonged to my grandmother. He shrugged, and I asked him to go give her a time check.
She appeared a minute later, dropping her backpack with a thud onto thud. She began pouring herself a cup of coffee, wordlessly.
"If you get dress coded today, Haylee, I swear to God," I warned. Her private school didn't have uniforms but were incredibly strict about their apparel policies, and I didn't have to break out the student handbook to know that her maroon sweater dress and black leather riding boots were pushing it. The last thing I needed was to have to drive twenty minutes to bring her a pair of jeans.
"Mom just sent this to me. Figured if my mom sends me a dress it means I could at least wear it to school."
My body stiffened as she stirred creamer into her coffee. I hated that she was fourteen and dependent on caffeine almost as much as I hated how much she hated me. I channeled the yoga-calmness from the sock catastrophe and said, "Don't forget that we leave early tomorrow for Connecticut. Your father needs your packed bags before you go to bed tonight."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
Logan giggled, and when I glanced at him, he had an orange juice ring around his mouth. "Lea sounds like a pirate!" Nova giggled at this, too, and Haylee turned and smiled at them.
"Ahoy, mateys. Time for me to get onto my ship for my adventure. I'll see you young mates for grub later." This made them completely lose it, both shaking so adorably with laughter they had to put down their forks. She took a deep sip from her travel mug, wrapped a waffle into a napkin, and made an exit without a single glance in my direction.
Peter chose that exact moment to stroll right in to join us, leaning down to kiss the tops of the twins' heads and grabbing the newspaper off of the kitchen table in one fluid movement. His salt-and-pepper hair was growing more salt than pepper. Last time we visited my parents, I realized he was even grayer than my father. As if sensing my gaze, he looked up and smiled, and my thoughts melted away.
My mother told everyone she knew that the first time she saw Peter calm my nerves with a single glance, she knew he was the one for me. Carolyn is so tightly wound and God knows she worries about everything. Peter is good for her. So good. There was something about my husband's calm and solid nature that eased my mind. It was what made him a great doctor, I knew. It made him a great parent, and a great man.
It was the calmness and maturity that won over my parents, who were not thrilled when their second eldest brought home a divorced man with a daughter and very-much-alive ex-wife that also happened to be over ten years her senior. I often pictured my father sitting across from us at our favorite corner table of the little Italian bistro Mom loved, his fingers nervously drumming as he stoically nodded along to whatever the three of us were saying. The only piece of conversation I remembered from that night was my father calling me later on and saying Honestly, Lynn, I wasn't expecting to say this, but he's a good man.
Peter was the first one to know about Dad's diagnosis. Peter recommended the doctors and went to the appointments. Peter monitored scans and lab results. Peter then came home and held my hands and told me all about it in the way only he could, the way that wouldn't leave me a bawling mess at the thought of losing my father.
"What are you thinking about?" My husband's voice cut through my memories. I didn't want to tell him, and my brain searched frantically for an excuse. Peter was reading the newspaper. My brain snapped to Jake, who did the New York Times crossword with his wife after dinner every day.
"The holidays in Connecticut," I lied, pivoting my brain to actually think about it. The logistics of the spectacle gave me a headache. "Did you get around to having that talk with Haylee?"
He nodded, and from the look on his face I knew exactly how the talk went. "She will be on her best behavior, my dear. Don't worry about that. Your only thought should be on making the best of your time with your family."
I thought about my mother stocking her pantry with four different kinds of cereal because no one could agree on a favorite. I thought of Jake and Aria doing the crossword puzzle curled up in the den as their perfect children put themselves to bed. I thought of Elly and Jackson camped out in Elly's bedroom, not a care in the world, of Mason taking Maya to the ravine so she could sketch and he could photographs. I thought of my dad watching the news in his ratty college t-shirt, exhausted and pale.
"Of course," I said, squeezing my eyes tight for just a second to feel the anxiety I wanted to feel before my husband melted it away again.
YOU ARE READING
'Tis the Damn Season
General Fiction"This could be Dad's last Christmas," she had noted, as if commenting on the weather or the flavor of ice cream she was craving. She wanted all of her kids together. For the first time in ages, the Blake clan headed to their childhood home for what...
