She glances away and shrugs. “I don’t care, really. Just don’t make it weird.”
I smile and knock on the door. I immediately hear tiny footsteps and squealing and things falling and shit, I forget how crazy it is over here. I probably should have warned her.
The door swings open and my nephew, Brody, jumps up and down. “Uncle Warren!” he yells, clapping his hands. I open the screen door, set the package my mother sent for my sister on the floor and immediately swoop Brody up. “Where’s your mom?”
He points across the living room. “In the kitchen,” he says. His hand meets my cheek and he makes me face him. “Wanna play dead?”
I nod and set him down on the carpet. I motion for Bridgette to follow me inside, and then I fake stab Brody in the chest. He falls to the floor in a dramatic display of defeat.
Bridgette and I both stand over him as he writhes in pain. His body convulses a few times and then his head falls limp to the carpet.
“He dies better than any four-year-old I’ve ever seen,” I say to Bridgette.
She nods, still staring down at him. “I’m in awe,” she says.
“Brody!” my sister yells from the kitchen. “Is that Warren?”
I begin walking in the direction of the kitchen and Bridgette follows me. When I round the corner, Whitney has Conner on her hip and she’s stirring something on the stove with her other arm.
“Brody’s dead, but yeah, it’s me,” I say to her.
As soon as Whitney glances at me, cries come from the baby monitor next to the stove. She sighs, exasperated, and motions for me to come to the stove. I walk over to her and take the spoon from her hands. “It has to be stirred for at least another minute, then remove the burner from the pan.”
“You mean remove the pan from the burner?”
“Whatever,” she says. She pulls Conner off her hip and walks toward Bridgette. “Here, hold Conner. I’ll be right back.”
Bridgette instinctively holds out her hands and my sister shoves Conner at her. Bridgette’s arms are outstretched, as far from her body as she can get them. She’s holding Conner under his armpits, staring at me wide-eyed.
“What do I do with it?” she whispers. Her eyes are filled with terror.
“Have you never held a kid before?” I ask in disbelief. Bridgette immediately shakes her head.
“I don’t know any kids.”
“Me a kid,” Conner says.
Bridgette gasps and looks at Conner, who is staring right back at her with just as much terror and fascination. “It talked!” she exclaims. “Oh, my God, you talked!”
Conner grins.
“Say cat,” Bridgette says.
“Cat,” Conner repeats.
She laughs nervously, but is still holding him like he’s a dirty towel. I remove the pot from the burner and turn it off, then walk over to her. “Conner’s the easy one,” I tell her. “Here, hold him like this.” I pull him around to her hip and wrap her arm behind him, securing him against her waist. She’s trading nervous glances between Conner and me.
“He won’t shit on me will he?”
I laugh and Conner giggles. He slaps her chest twice and kicks his legs. “Shit on me,” he says, still laughing.
Bridgette’s hand clamps over her mouth. “Oh, my God, he’s just like a parrot,” she says.
“Warren!” Whitney yells from the top of the stairs.
“I’ll be right back.”
Bridgette shakes her head and points to Conner. “But . . . but . . . this . . .” she stutters.
I pat her on top of her head. “You’ll be fine. Just keep him alive for two minutes.” I scale the steps and Whitney is standing in the doorway to the nursery. She’s wiping her neck with a rag.
“He pissed in my face,” she says. She looks so frazzled. I want to hug her, and I would if she weren’t covered in infant piss. She hands me the baby. “Take him downstairs while I jump in the shower, please.”
I lift him out of her hands. “No problem.”
She begins to head to her room, but pauses right before I make it back to the stairs. “Hey,” she says. I turn and face her. “Who’s the girl?” she signs.
I love that she signs this, so Bridgette has no chance of hearing her ask. Having a family that is all fluent in sign language definitely comes in handy.
“Just my roommate,” I sign back to her, shrugging it off. She smiles and walks into her room. I walk down the stairs holding the baby against my chest. I step over Brody, who is still playing dead on the floor. When I make it to the doorway in the kitchen, I pause. Bridgette has sat Conner on the kitchen island. She’s standing right in front of him so that he doesn’t fall and she’s holding up her fingers, counting with him.