“Why’m I trying to make you maximum cute, anyway?” Angel asks as she buttons him in. “I should make you less cute, so they leave us alone. I should leave you in your stinky diaper so they run away. No way, they’ll say, get that baby away from me!” Connor’s eyes are huge and dark and sparkling. “I’m not going to let no one take you. If they come after you, we’ll hit the road, baby. You can support us with your modeling.” She smooths a black curl and he laughs at her, showing off his teeth.
Her dad leans over Angel’s shoulder, peering at Connor, frowning, and gently touches a thin scratch on his cheek from when he swiped at himself with a stick. “I hope they don’t think that’s child abuse.”
Angel whips around. “Are you for serious?”
“Nah, course not.”
“She’s raised a baby, Amadeo,” says Marissa. “Plus she’s a nurse. She’ll know babies scratch themselves all the time.”
But her dad’s expression remains troubled. They’re all thinking of the accident, thinking of the horrible thing they can’t bear to think about.
The second Amadeo lets them in, Ryan’s mother hugs Angel. “Angel? You’re Angel. Oh my god, the baby! Oh, what a beauty! I can’t believe you’ve been doing this all alone. I’ve never been so mad at Ryan in my whole life.”
Ryan stands behind her, pulling at his sideburn, his forehead splotched red. “It’s true. She was so mad she cried.”
Ryan’s mother laughs and sticks her hand out to Angel. “I’m Mary Ann, Ryan’s mom.” She turns to Marissa. “Your daughter is lovely,” she says, then flushes.
Marissa hugs Angel to her awkwardly. “Inside and out.”
Mary Ann wears jeans and a baggy black sweater. Her hair is pulled back in a gray-blond bun stabbed through with a painted wooden stick. Ryan looms over his mother.
She’s brought a gift bag full of toys and outfits sized for a much smaller baby, as if she can’t believe it’s possible that Connor, this grandchild of hers, has been around for nearly eleven months without her knowing. “Oh god,” she says, realizing her mistake as soon as Angel pulls the first miniature blue sweater from the gift bag. “I can exchange it all.”
Angel holds the sweater against Connor’s round belly. “Hard to believe he ever fit into stuff this tiny. But you did, baby. You did, before you grew so big.”
“He’s beautiful! He looks just like Ryan.” She swats her son. “You idiot. How could you be such an idiot? Oh, what a little darling!”
Angel examines Connor’s face skeptically. How odd that this is the face she knows best in the world, and yet she has so little perspective on it. She doesn’t see Ryan in him, and she doesn’t see herself, either. From the first moment she laid eyes on Connor, he’s only ever been himself.
“I’m just so sorry,” Mary Ann tells Marissa. “I mean, he knows about protection. He’s a smart kid—who knew he could be such an idiot? Oh, please can I hold him?”
Ryan sits pinching his big red knuckles, but it’s a pleased embarrassment.
Angel hands Connor over. He grabs a hank of Mary Ann’s hair, which has come loose from the bun, and delivers it to his mouth.
“He likes you, Mom,” says Ryan.
Mary Ann feels around Connor’s chest, her brows canted in concern. “Have you been taking him for regular checkups? Did they say if he’s inherited Ryan’s sternum thing?”
“He’s fine.”
“Whew. I wouldn’t wish that on any mother. Imagine if your baby had nothing but skin between the world and his heart! Do you like your pediatrician? I know someone I can recommend.”