Death Takes a Holiday by Jennifer Harlow Page B

months.
    “And I’m sorry I called you all those horrible names.”
    I want to say “what about the wedding and all those years of acting like a jerk,” but restrain myself.
    “Okay, then,” Nana says. “Brian, I’m going to hand Mark to your sister. Is that alright?”
    The flash of panic I feel from him doesn’t show. “It’s fine.”
    “Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ve held more babies than you.”
    Nana passes the tiny infant into my cradling arms. God, I love babies. He smells like baby powder with a hint of flowers. He’s so light and fragile in my arms. His eyes open and I see my own staring up at me. His face hasn’t unsmooched from his journey into life, but he’s still cute. A lightness fills me as I run my finger down his soft cheek. I smile. “Hello, Mark. I’m your Aunt Bea.”
    “He really likes you,” Nana says with pride.
    “Good taste in women already, huh?” I say to him. “What’s his full name?”
    “Marcus Stellan Alexander,” Brian says.
    “I like it. A strong name, like a Roman emperor or something.”
    “He looks so much like your mother as a baby,” Nana says.
    “Yeah,” Brian says quietly. He runs his hand over Mark’s hair.
    The baby opens his balled fist and grips my index finger like a champ. I lean down and kiss his forehead. “You are really lucky, Brian.”
    “I know.”
    “No. You don’t,” I say sadly. I look over at my brother. “You really don’t.”
    And for an instant, one instant, my brother’s eyes brim with sympathy and even a little love for me. But only an instant. Renata walks back out with a bottle in hand. “Sorry about that. I had to pump.”
    “TMI, sister-in-law,” I say. “TMI.”
    Renata stops beside me, gazing down at us. “Oh! He likes you!”
    “No accounting for taste, huh?” I ask with a smile.
    She grins and takes her seat next to her husband. “So what about you, Bea? Caught the baby bug yet?”
    What a loaded question. Ever since I was a kid I knew only one thing: I wanted a family. I’d pretend my dolls were my children: feeding them, changing them, telling them stories as I put them in their cradles. I drove April nuts. She wanted to play space warrior princess, and I just wanted to play house. She and I got married about a hundred times with me acting as the mother as she went out to punch aliens and save the world. Odd how real life turns out.
    “My biological clock was wound up in my teens,” I tell Renata. “I want babies more than anything.”
    “Any potential fathers in your orbit?” she asks with a huge grin.
    I hate the blissful. It’s like they’re in a cult or something and want you to join no matter what. They won’t leave you alone until you’re the same as them. As if it’s so easy. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”
    “No possibles even?” she asks.
    “Maybe one or two.”
    I have on more than several occasions imagined the life of Mr. and Mrs. Will and Beatrice Price, complete with children. They’d have his eyes, hair, and strength but my sense of humor and patience. Two boys and a girl I think. We’d live near here, maybe Chula Vista, so I can be close to April and Nana. The kids would play together in our back yard as April and I gossiped. Will would call from work every day just to tell us how much he loves us all. Then he’d return home and help with the kid’s homework while I made dinner and watched my family. He’d never get frustrated with them no matter how many times they asked the same question. We’d go to their events like baseball and ballet, watching proudly in the audience as we held hands. At night we’d take turns singing and reading them to sleep, then retire to our bedroom exhausted but blissful. I’d fall asleep in his strong arms with a smile on my face. A simple life. Not too much to ask for, right?
    And when he’s not being an annoying jerk, I have found myself wondering what Oliver would be like as a father and husband. Fun for sure. But also loving and