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Nicole bursts with another round of roll-on-the-floor laughter. “Grandpa Jokey, you’re so funny.”
Tillie is right, her little sister finds anything my father says amusing, even when she has no idea what he’s talking about.
I chuckle as I head toward the voices. Sidney Lehr may be known around these parts as an exceptional veterinarian, but I’ve never seen anyone prouder to wear the title of “Grandpa Jokey.”
The smell of pot roast, potatoes, and roasted root vegetables—a typical Sunday meal in the Lehr household for as long as I can recall—hits me as I stroll into the kitchen.
“… maybe she’s changed her mind about having kids. She’s always on the go with work.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. We all know she wants a baby. She’s almost thirty-eight. Does she realize how hard it can be to get pregnant in your forties?” Liz’s back is to the door, her lengthy golden-blonde hair worn down today rather than in a ponytail. She’s perfectly positioned to block my mother’s view of me behind her. “And all because she had to spend years chasing after that bush pilot who wasn’t interested in her. Now she’s alone, with no prospects.”
My ears burn as I listen to my sister critique my life choices and check the ticking clock on my womb between sips of chardonnay. Also a typical Sunday event in the Lehr household, it feels sometimes.
“Well, I don’t know what to say—Marie!” Mom pulls a pan of sizzling vegetables from the oven, offering me an exaggerated smile and then Liz a scolding glare as she hip-checks the door closed. At five foot one, it’s a struggle. “You’re later than usual.”
“Yeah, busy day.”
“Hey, Mare.” Liz doesn’t have the decency to look sheepish at getting caught gossiping about me, but she’s never done ashamed well. “How was your weekend?”
“Oh, you know.” I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, twist off the cap, and take a big swig. “Just out there, somehow surviving life without a husband.”
Liz’s eyes narrow. It’s my subtle dig at her, and we both know it, but she deserves it after what I just walked in on. Liz doesn’t know how to be single. She’s had a boyfriend since she turned sixteen and was allowed to date. When one relationship ended, it wasn’t more than a week before she was locked into a new one. She met Jim when she was twenty-four, married him at twenty-six, and was pregnant immediately after. Now they live in a beautiful modern house near Eagle River, close enough for an easy commute to Anchorage where Jim is a partner in his father’s accounting firm.
“Where is everybody else?” The pot roast is already plated and wrapped in foil.
“Jim’s working late tonight.”
“Oh yeah? How’s his football team doing?” Another subtle dig because I can’t help myself. No doubt he’s skipped family dinner to stay home and “work” in front of the television. Not that I’m complaining. Conversations with my brother-in-law always lead to talk of money—namely, how much I should be making at the clinic. He’s my accountant, an arrangement my father made and I abhor but have honored thus far to avoid family strife.
“Vicki and Oliver will be here any minute.” Mom wipes her palms across her apron and slips off her glasses to clean them against her shirt. “They were putting together the crib this weekend. Well, Vicki was putting together the crib.”
I chuckle. We all love my little sister’s husband, but instruction manuals and Allen keys have never been Oliver’s forte. He’ll be the first to admit it. “They must be getting excited.” The baby is due in two weeks.
Liz sniffs. “Are you kidding? More like anxious. Swollen ankles, eight pounds sitting on your bladder, seventy-two pillows just to try to get comfortable? That last month is hell.”
Not that you would know, I hear tacked on to the end. But that’s just my sensitivity talking. Liz isn’t outright cruel, she just speaks without thinking. Often. And ever since she had Tillie, she is the self-proclaimed expert on all things pregnancy and baby related.
“Could be any day now. The baby’s dropped.” Mom pauses to look around the kitchen as if to take stock of what still needs to be done for dinner. Her teal-blue eyes—a perfect match to mine—land on the harvest table. “Would you mind setting that for me, Marie? For eight tonight.”
I collect a stack of plates from the cupboard and set to task, happy to have something to do.
Liz, who has never been the first to volunteer when I’m around, remains where she is, leaning across the counter. “So, I ran into Jonathan at Target yesterday.”
That explains the conversation I walked in on.
“He looks really good.”
“Yeah. I heard he’s taken up running.” Though Jonathan always looked good.
“And he’s engaged. Her name’s Carrie. She seems nice. Pretty.”
“They’ve been together for a while.” Almost two years, I think. I saw them once, as I was pulling up to the grocery store and they were walking out. She’s petite and dark-haired and, I’ve heard from mutual friends, allergic to dogs. It’s like Jonathan was following an “opposite of Marie” checklist when he started dating again.
