The Language of Sisters by Amy Hatvany

stepped up to the front desk. I still hadn’t seen her face, but her voice was warm, tinged with fatigue. It sounded oddly familiar.
    “No sitter today?” Annoyance shadowed the receptionist’s tone.
    The blond woman ignored the stab. “God, I wish. Ryan left for Alaska yesterday and my mother’s at a jewelry show in Vegas.”
    At the mention of her husband and mother, I suddenly realized why I recognized the woman’s voice. I stood up quickly, almost tripping over Jenny’s outstretched footrests. “Nova?”
    The woman whipped her head around to face me. She was heavier than I remembered, but there was no mistaking those sandy blond waves, that glowing smile. “It’s Nicole,” I offered. We’d kept in contact after I moved to San Francisco, writing and calling each other on a pretty regular basis, but when she got married and had her first two children we had gradually drifted apart. As a full-time graduate student, I remembered feeling detached from the life Nova was living: marriage, children, being a stay-at-home mom. I simply couldn’t relate. But now, as I stepped over to her and she pulled me into a deep hug, somehow managing tokeep her sling-covered belly free from impact, her embrace felt like an old, familiar blanket wrapped around me.
    “Nicole!” she exclaimed as she pulled back to look at me, strong hands still gripping my shoulders. “I don’t believe it. What’s it been? Four years?”
    “Three, I think. The last time we talked you were pregnant for the third time.”
    She dropped her hands to her sides, remembering. “That’s right. You moved and never let me know your new address or phone number.”
    I ducked my head sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
    The nurse called the two other women in the waiting room back for their appointments and Nova waited until they were gone before continuing. “So, what are you doing here ?”
    I gestured toward Jenny. “It’s a long story.”
    Nova moved over to kneel in front of my sister, carefully adjusting the sling against her substantial chest. She grabbed Jenny’s hand. “Jenny! It’s so good to see you.” It was heartening to see that time had not changed her comfort level with Jenny.
    My sister’s eyes brightened at the sight of Nova’s smiling face; she kicked a foot in excitement and let out a small, happy yelp. Rebecca, who had been standing quietly next to Nova during our conversation, clung to her mother’s arm, unsure. “Mama, what’s wrong with that lady? Why is her face all wet?”
    “Because she’s drooling a little, honey.” Nova used the sleeve of her dress to wipe Jenny’s chin. “See? All better.”
    I smiled at this, feeling a hint of the same easy connection we had always shared. The two boys, suddenly interested in their mother, stepped over to stand next to Jenny, who smiled broadly at them both, her round cheeks pushing her eyes into thin slits. She patted her hands together and cooed loudly, a lilting, happy sound.
    “Why is she clapping like that?” the taller boy asked Nova.
    “I think it’s because she hears music no one else can,” Nova answered, smiling at me. She squatted down to her children’s level and spoke to them. “Jenny’s brain has a hard time telling her body what to do. It makes her look a little different and do things differently than we do. That’s why she drools a little and makes different sounds than us.” I was impressed with this succinct but accurate explanation.
    Satisfied with this response, the boys went back to the table in the corner, and Rebecca joined them. I tentatively touched the now-wiggling bulge in Nova’s sling.
    “ Four kids? Wow.”
    Nova grinned. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a breeder.”
    I laughed. “Nice!” She definitely seemed to be the friend I remembered.
    She laughed, too, cradling her child as she adjusted the sling and a hidden slit in her dress to allow the baby discreet access to her breast. My gaze lingered on them for a moment, oddly