Page 80 of Big & Lily

“Duh, morning sickness,” she says loudly enough for the passenger in the window seat next to her to look concerned and a little queasy, as even thinking about vomiting can do to some people. Lily might need to share her bags.

After I maneuver myself into my own seat, a feat that includes hopping, grunting, and grabbing the seat back in front of me, which is mercifully still empty, I dig out a few of my ginger candies and pass them over to Lily. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well. These will help.”

“Oh, I feel fine. But I ampregnant, you know,” she says, pleased as punch. Morning sickness is a delight to her right now, a badge of honor. I hope she feels the same way after the swollen feet, the heartburn, and the back pain. After what she’s been through, I’m sure she’ll love every minute of it. “Just want to be prepared,” she adds.

Being prepared was never my sister’s strong suit—look at this trip—but if she’s going to start, now is the perfect time. I lay my hand over hers. “Good thinking, Lil.”

I’m about to launch into a story about my own first pregnancy, how I avoided spicy foods because of an old wives’ tale about it causing early labor—a story, by the way, that Lily lived through with me, but that feels funny and finally appropriate to bring up again now—when the next person down the aisle hits my ankle with his carry-on. A hot pain shoots up my leg, bringing me right back to the bottom of the ravine. I wince and catch my breath.

“Hey,” snarls my sister, springing to my defense. “Watch whereyou’re going. Broken lady here,” she adds, pointing at me. The oblivious traveler doesn’t even look back. “Shithead,” Lily grumbles.

“Thanks for having my back, or my leg, actually.”

Lily unwraps a ginger candy and pops it in her mouth. “I got you.”

The full emotion of that statement catches in my chest. It’s both incredibly gratifying—after all, isn’t that what I learned this week, that I need to let someone do for me, that I can’t keep carrying everyone’s load, not if I’m going to find out what Bridget wants to be when she grows up?—but also somewhat unsettling, a shift in this long-held balance. I don’t know quite what to make of it right now. We both knew our roles, stayed in our lanes, Lily and me. And change, even good change, can gum up the works. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, maybe even relish it someday. Wouldn’t that be something?

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Having a broken leg turns out to have its advantages.

Not the pain. Not the hot, sweaty boot. Not the sore armpits from the crutches. Not the woozy feeling every time I get off the couch. Not getting up and down the stairs like a crab. But it is a nice tension-free segue to setting my family up to do more for themselves, help me in my invalid state, and to free me up for Bridget 2.0. In my condition, they have no choice. After all, like Lily said on the plane, this lady is broken.

So far, they are doing great. Annie has been helping with the food shopping, and I think she likes the job—deciding what everyone can and cannot eat in this house. There is less junk food, much to Cameron’s disappointment, but his sister is quick to tell him how bad that “crap” is for him and that she is just looking out for his health and well-being. The jury is out on whether she is taking her big sister role too seriously. I make a note to keep an eye on that.

Cam, having saved himself from the punishment of dishwashing by finding his kitchen clogs—which were by the front door, as I knew they would be—is back in his boss’s good graces and has been moved up to sous-chef, occasionally bringing home doggie bags so no one has to cook dinner.

Tim tried his hand at laundry, something admittedly I never let him do after I witnessed him dumping the colors and the whites into the same load decades ago. Now that he’s agreed to follow myspecific, time-proven instructions, he isn’t half bad at it. And I turn a blind eye to his lack of origami-esque folding skills. See, progress!

Every day I remember to thank Alaska for theses added gifts as well.

Ruth, on the other hand, was a slightly harder sell.

In the three weeks since we’ve been home, although my mother was initially concerned with our injuries, hovering over us, telling us not to do this or that (but not actually doing the this or that for us), and in shock and then happy tears over Lily’s news, wrapping her arms around my sister until Lily cried out, “You’re squishing the baby,” it didn’t take her long to ask about who was going to get her to her “appointments.” Lily and I had cooked up a plan on the plane that should have been implemented ages ago. We introduced Ruth to the wonderful world of Uber. Lily downloaded the app to her phone, and after an unsurprising clash of short tempers (Mom’s and Lily’s), Mom was all set to come and go as she pleased. Why I hadn’t thought of a ride service earlier speaks volumes about how entrenched I was in my Eldest Daughter to the Rescue persona.

This morning, as I sit at the kitchen table, my leg propped up on an empty chair, my hands wrapped tightly around my mug of hot coffee, the Ackerman-Petty routine feels more like a choreographed ballet than a frantic break dance. Tim is at the stove making eggs, humming under his breath. Tiger and Marigold have formed an unlikely alliance at his feet as they wait in hope that he’s cooking for them. Annie, in powder blue scrubs and Crocs, is packing a breakfast smoothie to go—more early morning spaying on today’s schedule. Cameron’s still asleep on the couch, his bed since we’ve been home after he graciously gave up his room to Lily. It’s only temporary, she insists. Eric is still staying with friends, but these weeks have been tough for my sister, harder than scrambling up anymountain, scarier than facing the moose, more anxiety producing than running from a bear, and we both thought she’d be better off here, just for the time being.

Annie grabs her backpack and her Stanley cup filled with banana protein shake and rushes out to get to the hospital. Before the door can close, my mother storms in. She’s ready to go, her hair in a fuchsia floral swim cap, her neon orange tracksuit clashing with her T.J.Maxx deal-of-the-century silver-and-black bathing suit, the skin over her bare breastbone lined and speckled like a sparrow’s egg.

“Move your tuchus, toots,” she says to me. “Mr. Uber isn’t going to wait all day.”

“Give me a minute, Mom,” I say. “And you know his name is not Mr. Uber. That’s the company.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles and turns back to the door, letting it slam behind her, presumably on her way to complain to Mr. Uber that it’s not her fault he’s waiting in the driveway when time is ticking. I walk gingerly to the sink, still in my boot but finally able to put some weight on my leg and pour what’s left of my precious coffee down the drain. I hang a bag containing a much less flashy bathing suit, a towel, and pool shoes over my shoulder and count my breaths.

“I can’t believe she’s got you going to water aerobics. You’ll fit right in with the biddies,” says Lily, pouring herself a big glass of orange juice—no caffeine for her these days—and chuckling at my misfortunate as she does it.

“It was the physical therapist’s idea. Part of the rehab. But honestly, having Mom in her little swim cap, bobbing up and down and shouting at me over the music that I’m doing everything wrong, is almost more painful than falling into the ravine and breaking my leg in the first place.”

“At least you didn’t get pushed down there. And while pregnant!”

“Lily. We agreed you would stop saying that. I feel bad enough. Not for you, of course. But for Denali.”

From the moment we found out Lily was pregnant, my astonishment, joy, and relief were weighed down by a wet blanket of dread. What if the fall had harmed the baby? I’d never have been able to forgive myself; it would have been the car accident all over again, only much, much worse. Fortunately, Dr. Embree did an ultrasound at Lily’s first visit. Not only was the baby normal and healthy, but my sister was almost out of the first trimester. As the designated “significant other,” I had a front-row seat for all the appointments. That morning, watching the black-and-white image of my niece—yes, niece—the relief was palpable. Still, I don’t need Lily teasing me about it.

“Still too soon?” she says. “Jeez, you are so sensitive.”

Today, Lily is back in her nap dress, roomy and flowing enough to last her through the pregnancy. She went back to work after giving her ribs and wrist some time to heal, but only after I retooled the schedule—so she and Eric are never there at the same time—and fired Willa, who, frankly, I was surprised to find out was still there. Had she no shame?