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I hung back, watching Cameron run up to Rakell, raising his arms in the air for her to pick him up. “What’s up, big boy?” she said, hoisting him on her hip.
“Me issed you,” he blurted in his high-pitched, three-year-old voice. “Eitty, eitty,” he said, genuinely looking at her like she was a Disney princess. I deciphered he was trying to say “pretty.”
“Whoa,” I said, placing my hand on my nephew’s back, half massaging, half tickling. “Watch it there, Romeo, that’s my birthday present.”
Cameron repeatedly pecked her cheek gruffly. I’d told her that he was spending hours a week in intensive speech and behavioral therapy after being diagnosed with autism, so she smiled at him even if his eyes didn’t meet hers and said, “I missed you, too.” Then her gaze landed on me. “Mmm… mmm, you may have a little competition here.”
I threw both hands in the air. “Hold up! I can’t be replaced that easily!” Sheepishly, I added, “Can I?” Pathetic Jake, always eking out reassurance from this girl.
Cameron threw his head back and laughed manically at my overexaggerated gesture; I had the fleeting thought, he’s trying to connect.
“Well…” She squinted her eyes as if contemplating the answer to that question, then turned in a circle, holding Cameron. “This one is pretty cute, probably talks less, too.”
I pulled my eyebrows in, purposely darkening my expression. “Hey…I thought you liked my narration skills.”
My uncle Joe walked into the kitchen and said, “Hi, Rakell. It’s great seeing you here.”
She offered him a full-faced smile, her eyes lighting up. “Ah, good to see you, too, my favorite bartender.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. I’ll pour your drink first, then I need to steal Jake. Put him to work.” He moved his gaze toward me. “Come help me set up these tables. Your mom’s getting testy.”
I pecked Rakell on the cheek while giving Cameron a light poke in the ribs. “Hey, little man, watch yourself…don’t forget this is Uncle J’s birthday present.”
“Jaaaaay!” he yelled, throwing himself backward. Rakell strained to hold on to him.
Melissa came around the corner, shaking her head. “I swear that boy always finds you. Sorry, come here, Cameron, Aunt K. can’t hold you all night,” she said, reaching for Cameron and putting him down, pointing to the back door. “Gammy has snacks out there.”
“Ga-meee,” he yelled, running for the door. We all followed him outside.
I overheard Rakell saying to Melissa, “He’s talking so much. He’s really trying.”
I saw Melissa’s hand go to her chest, her eyes rolling toward the sky, and overheard her saying, “Thank you for noticing and saying something.” Looking at Rakell, she continued, “I don’t expound on this much, but when you have a child whose behavior is considered out of control, it seems like people either want to give me advice on how to do things better or scold me. Sorry, I'm not sure why I’m saying all that except to say, thank you.”
Hearing Melissa say that to Rakell gripped my chest. She was dealing with so much. Rakell didn’t answer immediately; I could tell she was trying to figure out how to respond to my sister. “Well, I don’t have any experience with children, so I can’t imagine other people thinking they have the authority or right to offer advice to a mom, lest it be words of encouragement.”
“Again, thank you. He still gets incredibly frustrated when he can’t express his thoughts and just screams, which is always so much fun in public, but I see my little boy working really hard, especially with family. They’re still not seeing it at preschool, but I’m starting to feel optimistic just knowing he’s there. When he registers that someone genuinely likes him, he seems more comfortable…I can see the difference. Like with you, he knows you like him, and…he musters everything to communicate.” I heard genuine gratitude override the strain in Melissa’s voice.
“It feels nice to be one of those people he trusts,” Rakell said, touching Melissa’s arm. Shit, the emotions were ping-ponging around in me. Hearing that conversation, my sister seeming so guarded and unsure, Rakell saying all the right things…they both seemed to latch on to each other, as if Rakell were part of my family and damn if I didn’t start seeing our future, seeing these family dinners with her as a regular part of my life. And yet, I couldn’t help wondering, what about her family? She steered every conversation that veered too close to them away. I knew there was a strain between her and her mom, but what about her dad? When she spoke about him, it was always in short acknowledgments, as if she were being pulled between melancholy and good memories.
Once the meat was ready, Melissa and my mom started bringing out dishes from the kitchen, arranging them on the buffet table. Everyone lined up, grabbing plates. I moved into the line behind Rakell, leaning down to softly growl into her ear, “I can’t stop thinking about that zipper, the key to my happy birthday.”
Shaking her head, she admonished me, “Hey, stop it,” looking around to ensure no one could hear us.
I smiled, kissing her cheek. “Seriously, I’m a little distracted.”
“What’s new?” she said in tandem with an overexaggerated batting of her eyelashes. That reflexive retort that she so readily came at me with made it feel like we were already an entrenched couple, that we’d spent years loving, laughing, and getting on each other’s nerves, yet wanting more of the same. I wished we could just skip to that part, knowing we were locked in and settled, not the back and forth figuring out part laden with insecurity.
She broke me out of my dream drift. “Hey Jake,” she hushed, “this is a huge spread of food. Did your mom make all your favorites?”
“Yep,” I said, using tongs to put some tri-tip on her plate, but when I reached for another slice, she pulled her plate back. “This is not the night to demonstrate self-control in anything,” I whispered, gently bumping her hip. “You’re in Austin, not L.A.…time to enjoy.” Damn, that just fell right out of my mouth, and with a judgy tone, but hell, I was already seeing the L.A. life creeping in, and I can’t say it didn’t make me uneasy.
Ignoring my statement, she pointed to two bowls of macaroni and cheese. One looked sort of limp with watery orangish liquid, and the other looked creamy, something you would find in a high-end restaurant. "Is one of those meant for the kids?” she asked, pointing to my comfort food, her nose scrunching up in disgust.
“Um,” I stalled.
“Hell no, the kids are smart enough not to touch that stuff,” my cousin Will blurted out.
She turned toward him, and, of course, Will continued on: “Even kids know that there’s no comparison. Aunt Annette’s French gourmet mac and cheese is far superior to that crap. She uses gruyere cheese and adds lobster to it, but my cousin likes that shit out of a box with powdered cheese, all runny—just look at it, but since Jake loves that slop, Aunt Annette obliges her baby boy.” He sniggered, making an over-exaggerated grimace.
