Authors: Christine Hurley Deriso
Tags: #teen, #teenlit, #teen lit, #teen novel, #teen fiction, #YA, #ya novel, #YA fiction, #Young Adult, #Young Adult Fiction, #young adult novel, #eating disorder
Thirty Sunsets (22 page)
I lock eyes with Mom:
This is for you too.
Then I turn back toward Ms. Pickett. “I’m ready.”
thirty-four
“Mimosas for everybody!”
Olivia Senior is considerably more perky than the last time she tornadoed through our lives.
She’s breezed back into town for our last weekend at the beach. We’re sitting on the deck as Dad grills chicken for dinner, and out she prances in a skimpy purple sundress with a pitcher full of yellow-orange beverage, ice cubes tinkling with every flouncy step she takes.
“I bought champagne at the grocery store, and Maureen had orange juice,” she prattles. “And I thought,
Hey, we need to celebrate
!”
Dad smiles gamely while Brian and Olivia Junior exchange nervous glances.
“Celebrate
what
?” I ask, wondering if she has any other deep dark family secrets up her sleeve.
“My
grandchild
, of course!” Olivia Senior coos at me. “Oh, I know I was a little agitated last time I was here, but now that everything’s straightened out … well, we have a baby to celebrate!”
She begins plucking red Solo cups off a stack on the table and pouring mimosas from the pitcher.
“Mom,” Olivia says nervously, “you’ve already had a couple of cocktails … ”
Brian, standing behind her but out of Olivia Senior’s line of sight, holds up four fingers and mouths the word for emphasis.
Oh. That explains her good cheer. She’s drunk.
“If it’s a girl, I want Olivia the Third!” she gushes, handing me a cup only to have it intercepted by Dad.
“Oh, she’s a big girl!” Olivia Senior scolds Dad, presumably referring to me. “We’re celebrating!”
“She’s sixteen,” Dad says, trying to sound friendly.
“Well, who the hell is
counting
?”
But Olivia Senior has lost interest in me and is now handing a cup to her daughter.
“I’m pregnant,” Olivia tells her in a clipped voice.
“Oh my
god
, you people are uptight,” her mother responds, swooping toward Dad and handing him the cup instead. “
You’ll
help me celebrate, won’t you?” she asks, batting her lashes.
“Sure.” He takes a swig and seems to be grateful to have it.
“Will you name her Olivia?” Olivia Senior asks her daughter. “I love our name. I want us to have, like, our own cheerleading squad: the Olivias.”
Olivia doesn’t even bother to respond as her mother falls into a chair, sloshing a bit of her drink en route.
“Careful,” Dad says genially.
“Hey, you are an excellent grill guy,” Olivia Senior tells him. “That chicken smells
mmmmm
, it just smells
omigod
, it smells so … ”
“Good?” Dad ventures.
“Yes!
Good!
And you are so sweet to have me, especially considering what a
loon
I was last time I was here. I mean, no big surprise, right, considering my daughter was bawling her eyes out telling me your wife was about to steal her baby, but still, I’m sure I was a little intense when I—”
“Mom,” Olivia says softly.
“Hey, it’s all good now, baby!” her mother responds, now slurring her words. She gulps the last of her mimosa, then reaches for the pitcher and pours herself another drink.
“
Mom
,” Olivia repeats, but Olivia Senior ignores her.
“Now that we’ve got all the nasty stuff behind us, we can all be one big happy family, right, Grill Guy? What was your name again? Fred?”
Dad flashes a reluctant smile. “Michael.”
“
Michael
,” Olivia Senior repeats, as if it’s the most fascinating word that’s ever spilled from her gooey-pink lips. “You are a
very nice guy
, Michael. And, you know what, three cheers for you, because from what I can tell, you have been, like, an
excellent
father figure to Brian.”
Dad bristles. “I’m Brian’s father.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll go with that.”
“
Mother!
”
Olivia’s voice is so shrill now that her mother can’t ignore her. “What, baby?” she asks thickly.
“
Shut up
,” Olivia tells her in a clipped voice.
“Hey, the chicken’s almost ready,” Dad says. “And those Braves … did anyone else catch the last inning of that game?
Unbeliev
—”
“Michael, can I see you and Forrest for a moment?”
We glance at the door leading to the family room. Mom’s face looks ashen.
“Sure … ” Dad says, signaling Brian to man the grill.
Dad and I walk inside and he closes the door behind us. Mom works her fingers together nervously.
“Diane Pickett just called,” she says, staring at her hands.
“Who?” I ask.
“The assistant district attorney,” she reminds me.
“Oh.” I take a deep breath. “News about Scott?”
Mom looks at me, then stares back down at her hands.
“Yes,” she says.
Dad and I exchange glances.
“What is it, Maureen?” he asks.
Mom swallows hard. “Scott was killed in a motorcycle accident last night.”
I gasp. “What?”
Mom purses her lips. “He crashed into a pole … no helmet, smelled of liquor … ”
“Wow.” I lean numbly against the wall.
“That’s … it,” Mom says after a long pause. “That’s it.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I don’t know how to feel. Relieved that I don’t have to face him in court? Ecstatic that he’ll never hurt another girl? Sad for a family that just lost a son? I’m … speechless.
Dad puts an arm around me and squeezes me against his side. “That’s it,” he repeats softly.
We stand there for a few long moments, the wind chimes tinkling on the deck. The sun is just starting to set, an almost crimson sunset tonight. A still, cloudless sunset.
Without even forming the words in my head, I find myself echoing Mom’s and Dad’s words.
“That’s it.”
Yes.
That’s it.
six months later
“His
head
, his
head
, watch his
head
!”
Olivia winks at me from her hospital bed.
“
Whew
,” I say. “I’d have been tempted to roll his head on the floor like a bowling ball if Mom hadn’t been here to set me straight.”
Mom
tsk
s as I settle into a rocking chair with my beautiful nephew, Michael Brian Shepherd III (whose head, just for the record, is still intact), tightening the blanket around his teeny little toes.
He wraps his teeny fingers around my pinkie and stares into my eyes. “He looks just like me,” I say dreamily as I examine his exquisitely perfect face.
“He looks like his father,” Mom says, and Brian beams from across the room.
“Noooo, you look just like your Aunt Forrest,” I say, falling into Michael Brian’s gaze as if his eyes were warm ponds. “Lucky little man.”
“I should probably take him … ” Mom murmurs, but I swat her away with my free hand.
Oh my god, this baby loves me so much. “He’s smiling at me!” I say, and truly, he’s either smiling or wincing, or he was for a second there until he scrunched up his perfect little face to try on a new expression.
I make an O with my mouth, and Michael Brian studies me with the intensity of an astronomer discovering a new planet. “Yes, I’m the coolest aunt ever,” I coo to him.
Did I mention how alert he is? I know that’s, like, the most clichéd thing anybody can say about a newborn, but, OMG, he is off-the-charts alert. I get it now, that whole “he’s so alert” observation. And as I hold him, I know one thing for sure: if there is anything on earth I can do to make the world a safer place for him, anything at all, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.
“Where’s your crazy mom?” I ask Olivia, still soaking in the ponds of perfection that are my nephew’s eyes.
“She was actually here for the delivery,” Olivia responds.
“Oh. Bummer.”
Olivia giggles. “She’s on a shopping spree for him now. Brian and I are thinking the guilt card might be just the ticket to avoid having to ever spend a cent on him.”
“Yeah, well, tell her to pick up a few things for me unless she wants Michael Brian’s favorite aunt schlepping him all over town looking like a homeless person.”
“Oh, hush now,” Mom scolds us. “That’s my grandbaby’s grandmother you’re talking about. His
other
grandmother.”
“The one who doesn’t really count,” I clarify, and Mom laughs into her fingertips in spite of herself.
“Your mom says he looks like a pianist with his long fingers,” Olivia tells me.
“Hmmmm,” I muse. “Sounds like you’ll have to take him to Mrs. Autry’s house soon to try out the piano she’s been trying to sell for the past fifteen years.”
We all laugh as Mom waves her hand through the air in protest. “Olivia will learn,” she says amiably. “She’ll learn there’s nothing a mother won’t do for her baby.”
“I learned that nine months ago,” Olivia says. “If I was willing to lunge to a toilet twenty times a day for him back then, I’m thinking everything from this point on will be gravy.”
“Yeah, good luck with
that
theory,” Dad says, and we all laugh, even teeny Michael Brian, and yes, he really
does
seem like he’s laughing! Oh … he’s spitting up.
“Puke rag, puke rag,” I say, and Mom rushes over with a cloth diaper. She dabs at his teeny, perfect little mouth, then scoops him into her arms despite the fact that he’s obviously never been happier in his life than he was in my arms.
“No fair snatching him!” I whine.
“He needs his grandma,” Mom says, gazing into the same ponds that just bathed me in warm, velvety wonderfulness.
“It’ll be feeding time soon,” Brian says, glancing at his watch.
“Ouch, Grandma,” Dad teases Mom. “That’s one area where you won’t come in very handy.”
Michael Brian suddenly sneezes, and we all lean in to soak up the moment in appropriate awe.
“Isn’t he the most amazing baby ever?” Olivia says, and we gush in agreement.
Yes, we’re definitely unanimous: he is the most amazing baby ever.
Glad we got that cleared up.
Nicole Renee Photography
About the Author
Christine Hurley Deriso is an award-winning author of the young adult novel
Then I Met My Sister
and three middle grade novels. She has also contributed to
Ladies’ Home Journal
,
Parents
, and other national magazines. Visit her at christinehurleyderiso.com.
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