Chapter 26 The Baby Shower

Autumn arrived in Seattle like a slow exhale, the leaves turning gold and rust along the streets, the mornings crisp and the evenings early, and Maya found herself at seven months pregnant with a calendar that refused to slow down. The studio was thriving, the exhibition had closed to sold prints and waiting lists, and her phone rang so often with new inquiries that her assistant, Dana, had begun answering with a cheerful, Chen Photography, how can we help? before Maya could reach for it. She loved it. She had spent so many years praying for this kind of busy, this kind of full, that she had forgotten to teach herself how to be full without being overwhelmed. Her mother called every Sunday with the same three questions: Are you eating? Are you resting? Have you told Julian that the nursery should be a soft yellow, not the gray he keeps suggesting? Maya fielded all three with patience and love and the growing suspicion that her mother and Beatrice, who had somehow become best friends over the course of the pregnancy, were running a coordinated campaign to redecorate her house. The campaign reached its peak in mid-October, when Beatrice announced, with the air of a general declaring war, that the baby shower would be held at the Thornes' estate on the second Saturday of November, rain or shine, snow or earthquake, and that Maya was not to lift a single finger. Maya protested. Julian laughed. Richard, who had recovered enough to walk without his cane and had developed a strange and touching habit of asking Maya about her photography at every family dinner, volunteered to be the doorman. You will greet people, he told her gravely. I will not let anyone past me without a gift and a compliment. That is the Thorne way. Julian kissed Maya's forehead. This is what love looks like, he said. It looks like my father guarding a door against unarmed grandmothers. It does, Maya said. It really does. It is terrifying. The day of the shower arrived cold and bright, the sky a clear November blue, and the Thornes' house looked like a photograph from one of the wedding magazines Maya had spent her career studying. White flowers everywhere. Tables draped in ivory linen. A cake in the shape of a camera, which Julian had insisted on ordering and Beatrice had pretended to hate and then photographed from seventeen angles. Priya had flown in from Chicago, and she met Maya at the door with a glass of water, a plate of crackers, and a look of genuine alarm. You are enormous, she said. In a beautiful way. An enormous and beautiful and absolutely glowing way. I am nine months pregnant, Maya said. I am exactly the right size. You are seven months pregnant. Maya waved a hand. The baby is eager. She is ambitious. She takes after her mother. Priya laughed and pulled her inside, and for the next three hours, Maya was passed from hand to hand like a very important piece of luggage, greeted by cousins and aunts and family friends whose names she had learned at the wedding and somehow retained through sheer force of will. Beatrice presided over the afternoon like a queen, herding guests toward the gift table with a whistle she had apparently brought for the occasion. Richard stood at the door in a suit that had probably cost more than Maya's first car, greeting each guest with a handshake and the same two words: Welcome. She is perfect. Do not tire her out. Julian appeared at Maya's elbow at regular intervals with water, crackers, and the kind of panicked expression a man wears when he realizes he is about to become responsible for another human being. How are you doing? he whispered. I have met four cousins I did not know existed. That is good. That is family. Maya ate a cracker. Julian. That is not good. That is a census. The gifts were overwhelming. There were onesies in every color, blankets in every texture, and a collection of stuffed animals that would have required its own wing in a museum. Beatrice had coordinated the whole affair with military precision, and there was a spreadsheet, which Maya was not allowed to see, and a schedule, which Maya was not allowed to follow, and a seating chart, which Maya was not allowed to sit anywhere near because she was the guest of honor and therefore, in Beatrice's words, allowed to do absolutely nothing but smile and look radiant. Maya smiled. She looked radiant. She also, at one point, slipped away to the kitchen and stood alone by the window for a long moment, her hand resting on the swell of her belly, and watched the guests laugh and eat and celebrate a child who had not yet arrived and was already so deeply loved. She thought about the Maya who had stood in her tiny apartment three years ago, broke and afraid and certain that happiness was something that happened to other people. She thought about the Hendersons and the cancellations and the years of doubt. And she felt a gratitude so large it pressed against her ribs. Julian found her there, as he always did, appearing quietly at her side. Are you hiding? I am regrouping. There is a difference. Julian smiled. Is there? Maya leaned into him. I was just thinking. About how different everything is. About how I used to watch other people's families from the outside and think I would never have one of my own. And now. She looked down at her belly, where a small kick had just landed against her palm. Now this. Julian placed his hand over hers, and Lily kicked again, hard and insistent, and they both laughed. She knows, Julian said softly. She knows we are talking about her. She is a Thorne. She knows everything. Later, when the guests had gone and the house had grown quiet and Beatrice had pressed leftovers into their hands and Richard had shaken Julian's hand with a solemn, Take care of them both, and Priya had hugged Maya until she could not breathe, Julian drove them home through the cold November night, Maya's hand resting on his arm, the car smelling of flowers and cake and the particular warmth of an afternoon spent surrounded by love. Thank you, Maya said. For what? For this. For us. For the family we are building. Julian squeezed her hand and kept his eyes on the road. I would do it all again, he said. The fake girlfriend. The pretend weekend. The worst origin story in the history of origin stories. All of it. Because it led me here. Maya smiled and closed her eyes, her hand still on her belly, feeling the small, steady flutter of the life they had made together, and thought that this, right here, was the happiest she had ever been. It was not the end of anything. It was simply the beginning of everything. ---