All Adults Here(61)

Olympia came back with an extra-tall stack of pancakes. This was something a mother was supposed to know how to do—Porter’s were never that good, not half as good as Astrid’s. Not enough baking soda, maybe? She’d never tried to figure it out.

“I know. He’s really worried about it.” Wendy spooned a tiny amount of cottage cheese into her mouth.

“Why doesn’t he just build something himself? Or move his office there, I don’t know.” Porter sometimes thought about her brother like an alien creature who had crash-landed into the Big House during puberty. He looked the same, but he didn’t act the same. Everyone Porter knew would have benefited from whole-family therapy for their entire lives, but who did that? Sibling relationships were as complicated as any marriage, without the possibility of divorce. What would estrangement do, when your parents died, and you were sitting across from each other, sorting through decades of photographs and mismatched cutlery?

“I mentioned the idea of him asking your mom what she thought,” Wendy said, and then turned to look out the window. “And he kind of freaked out. I don’t know if it’s Birdie, you know, and your mom’s whole new thing, but it was really weird. I think she would have good input—no one cares about Clapham more than she does. Do you know that she knows every UPS guy’s name?”

“You don’t know your UPS guy’s name?” Porter asked. “Elliot’s a grown man. He should build what he wants. What’s the big deal?”

“I know our UPS guy’s name. Astrid knows them all.” Wendy shook her head. “I’m not sure Elliot knows what he wants.”

Porter looked at her sister-in-law. “Huh,” she said.

“What?” Wendy said.

“It’s just funny. You know him. I mean, of course you know him, you’re married to him, but it’s funny that you know the same person I know. That sounds strange. Do you know what I mean?” Porter felt the baby do a flip. It felt like the split second without gravity on a roller coaster, the moment before the drop.

“Yes,” Wendy said. “I do. Would you talk to him about it? He wouldn’t ever ask me to ask you, but I think Elliot likes being told things, don’t you? He likes having permission.”

“Listen, my brother does not give an F what I think,” Porter said. “I’m the mess, haven’t you heard? At least El and Nicky gave mom weddings and babies. I’m just giving her a solo geriatric pregnancy. I don’t think he’d want my advice.” She folded an enormous piece of pancake into her mouth, leaving a trail of maple syrup drops across the table, her napkin, and then, yes, her T-shirt.

Wendy leaned her elbows on the table. “I hope you know that’s not true. I don’t want to be disloyal, Porter, but I’ll just tell you right now, that’s not true.”

It was hard to respond to sincerity, and so Porter just chewed. When she had swallowed, she took a long sip of water. “Well. I suppose I could try.”

“Thank you,” Wendy said. She scooted out of the booth and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “It’s on me.”



* * *



—

    When Porter left Spiro’s, she could see Jeremy and his kids still taking pictures in the gazebo. She wouldn’t have said hello otherwise, but now that they were all outside, and it was more or less on her path to her car, it seemed silly to avoid them. Jeremy was crouched down in the grass, his camera lens pointed skyward.

Jeremy’s daughter was in her Clapham Junior High School sweatshirt, and the expression on her face said something between drop dead and go away, both possibilities that made Porter immediately appreciate Cecelia even more than she had before.

“Hi,” Porter said, tapping Jeremy on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Jeremy said. He turned awkwardly, then dropped to his knees and pushed himself back upright. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, nothing more or less than anyone would give an old friend. “Sweetie, want to say hi?” His daughter offered an eye roll to end all eye rolls, but then slumped toward them as if being pulled by an invisible chain. Porter stood still, a polite smile plastered on her face.

“Sidney, this is my friend Porter, the one who makes the cheese you like.”

“Nice to meet you,” Porter said. She stuck out her hand, but Sidney crossed her arms. “Do you go to CJH? My niece, Cecelia, just started there, in the eighth grade. Cecelia Raskin-Strick, do you know her?”

“Um, yeah,” Sidney said. “We have homeroom and English and math together.”

“Oh wow! Are you friends? That is so awesome!”

“Um, no,” Sidney said, and then ran back to the gazebo, where her younger brother was waiting. Porter wondered what kind of siblings they were, if they held hands when they were frightened, if Jeremy yelled, if they punched each other when their parents weren’t looking.

“Sorry,” Jeremy said, his voice low. “She’s pretty much a total asshole right now.”

“That’s okay,” Porter said. It had somehow never occurred to her that her child might also be an asshole. That seemed like a stage of parenthood she hadn’t imagined yet—being far enough in to think they were being a dick. There were always more levels, like the Super Mario Bros. ascending to higher and higher clouds.