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“They’re bright-orange polyester fabric with rubber grips at the soles. The height of fashion,” someone says from behind me. I turn to face Noeleen who is smiling from ear to ear.
“Hello, Anastasia.”
Bryce’s mother hugs me. I blink once, twice, as my arms reciprocate her loving hold. The tickle on my nose turns to needles behind my eyes.
For the last dozen years, I’ve allowed myself miniature thought experiments about Noeleen, with whom I became close while I lived in Columbus. Can she forgive me for how that night turned her family’s life upside down? Does she actively hate me or is it a simmering kind of resentment? If I called her, would it remind her of everything Bryce lost? Each thought experiment landed me in a pit of guilt.
It never occurred to me that she would hold me like this, like a long-lost friend. Her trademark sarcasm is more comforting than niceties. Her arms are the softest cradle. When we end the hug to look at each other, both our faces are wet with tears.
“Oh, Ana, I missed you so much,” she utters with a shaky voice. “How is my favorite Russian?” It used to be a running joke to tease my brother, but at the moment the question is loaded with unspoken feelings.
“I missed you too. So much,” I manage to say before a sob pushes up my throat.
She holds me again and pats my hair. When I lived in Columbus, she would cut and style my hair. We’d make a fancy date of it. Noeleen would block an entire afternoon just to hang out with me, grabbing bubble tea and watching prerecorded episodes of The Voice. For a girl like me who endured a childhood of being treated like an ongoing project by her mother, Noeleen’s casual companionship was a lifeline.
“Are you just going to hog all of Ana’s attention or are we going to get a hug too? Get it? Hog. Hug.” Declan’s familiar voice is a welcome sound.
“Yes, Grandpa, we get it,” Bryce says, now with Cale on his shoulders.
I take a few seconds to appreciate how healthy and happy Declan looks before throwing my arms around his neck. He pats my back affectionately. I’m openly sobbing now.
“Hush, hush. You’re home, Ana. No more tears. No one wants to see an old man weep.” His voice is a balm to my heart.
“Don’t cry Aunt Ana Banana,” Alec says, wiggling between me and his grandfather. “I got your trampoline socks!”
“You did?” I say, wiping my tears and smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. “Thank you! Does this mean you’re going to give me a tour of all the best places to jump?”
“I will! I will!” Cale screeches as he wiggles down from Bryce’s shoulders.
“Both of you can do it,” their Uncle Matt says. Matt and Aiden, Maeve’s brothers, also welcome me with hugs.
I peek around me to see if anyone witnessed my total breakdown during this reunion. A few parents and employees glance our way, but I’m in the middle of my family so there isn’t much for strangers to see.
Family. This is my family. I wasted so many years fearing their wrath, resenting the past, hating myself. No more wasting time, no more thought experiments.
After putting on my bright-orange socks, I let my nephews lead me to a pool of multicolored foam.
“You bounce here”—Alec points to a square trampoline angled forward—“two times. Then throw yourself as far as you can. But we have to take turns.”
“Got it. Will you two go ahead of me so I can learn how to do it?”
“Me first!” Cale bursts while Alec rolls his eyes like the indulgent older brother. A whole two minutes older.
Cale goes with an impressive Tarzan chest-pumping and high-hollering. A uniformed safety monitor waves him out of harm’s way before signaling Alec to go next. Alec jumps on the trampoline and, although he doesn’t have the extra Tarzan sound effects, he’s in the air long enough to do windmills with his limbs.
Past the colorful foam squares is Bryce with his phone out, taking a video of me. As if I needed my silly attempt recorded in perpetuity. But also, who cares.
I jump the requisite two times and launch myself in the air. Launch is a generous term for what is basically an unimpressive flop. The twins cheer like I nailed an Olympic event.
The boys go off to play trampoline basketball with some friends. Bryce and his mother are waiting on a platform, her hand out. “Send me the videos you took. I’m creating an album.”
“I didn’t take a good one,” he grumbles, looking guilty. Noeleen shrugs and lets herself get pulled to another section of the zoo around us.
“My jump made for a lame video,” I say.
“On the contrary, it’s too good.”
Intrigued by his sultry tone, I say, “Show me.”
