Chapter_21_We_Are_Fam

I’m trying to understand why Biz didn’t tell me he was laid off from his job.

After dinner, while everyone splits up to play board games—the kids figure out if Mrs. Peacock did it with a wrench in the billiards room, the sisters draw pictures while their husbands guess what they are—I head to the kitchen for more wine.

“I’m so sorry,” Biz says, finding me midpour. The sound of people laughing, yelling and exclamations in Italian during game playing can be heard down the hall.

I turn around to face him, trying not to get heated. “Yeah, it would’ve been nice not to be the last person to know you got fired.”

“I was laid off. But I’m sorry. I texted Z about it and... you know how she is. She says she can keep a secret and of course she never does.”

“So you’re blaming your sister?” I ask, genuinely hurt that we’re apparently keeping secrets from each other at this point in our relationship.

“What? No. It just slipped out with her in text,” Biz says, trying to cover.

“Then are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask, my eyes trained on the wine I’m about to down.

“Biz and Wyatt! Are you playing or what?!” Marisa shouts from the other room. We all know she’s disturbingly competitive when it comes to board games. She needs to win.

“They told me in a fucking mass email,” Biz says, releasing a pained sigh like he’s been holding this in for a while.

“When?” I probe.

“When we were in P-town,” Biz says, feeling bad. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, not understanding.

“There was never a good moment,” Biz says as he swallows, feeling caught.

“Hours of driving in silence and there wasn’t one good moment?” I’m genuinely confused.

“You were preoccupied with your mom and brother. And then all the stuff with your dad. I didn’t want to dump more on you. Plus, you’re not very good at... opening up about things.”

“Don’t turn this back on me. This is your job. Our livelihood. I’ve been busting my ass with work lately and we’re about to have...” I stop myself, suddenly self-conscious if anyone’s listening. I lower my voice. “We’re about to have a baby, Biz. This isn’t something to take lightly.”

“Obviously I know that,” Biz says.

“How are we going to be good partners and especially co-parents if there isn’t complete honesty and transparency between us?” I ask.

Biz squints. “I honestly can’t believe you’re the one telling me this. And wouldn’t your first thought be, By the way, I’m sorry you got laid off?”

“Guys?!?” Marisa calls out again. “GUYS!!!”

We’re both conflicted. We want to continue hashing this out but we don’t want to ruin the night. I suppress my frustration. “Just go. We can talk later,” I let him off the hook for now.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you, okay?” Biz holds my gaze. “Do you want to play with us?”

I’m terrible at Pictionary. Last Christmas when I played with the Petterellis, I had to draw a butternut squash and his sisters kept laughing at me, saying it looked like a dildo.

“I’ll meet you in there,” I say, wanting to escape but fearful of being talked about in hushed tones if I don’t show.

After gathering myself (and more wine), I walk into the living room where the sisters and their husbands sit. Daniella is the only one not playing, lounging in a comfy chair with her glass of wine, legs thrown to the side, contently flipping through the ads of the Sunday editions of the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times. The oldest sister, Daniella is an extreme couponer and lover of horoscopes. Riffling through the inky pages at family events, she’ll often interject, “You see this?! Two bucks off Dove hand soap!” or “Hey, Antonia, aren’t you a Virgo? Someone older and wiser than you might rain on your parade this autumn.”

Even though this is the Petterellis’ after-dinner ritual every time we visit, I’ll never get used to seeing a group of adults squeezed together on couches, laughing and having fun. They look like actors in a board game commercial.

This is the opposite of what my family did growing up. After dinner, we became islands. My mom would sit in the kitchen, sealing envelopes for her real estate mass mailings. Alex was in his room watching a hockey game. And I was in my bedroom watching a classic movie. The three of us wouldn’t speak to each other until the next morning.

The Petterellis all turn to see me enter. I’m trying not to think about Biz’s news.

“Have a seat, Wyatt,” Nicole says, taking me out of my misery as I hover in the doorway. Nicole’s husband, Gabe, is sitting next to her at the end of the sofa. He’s gym-hunky with overpronounced deltoids and looks like he auditioned but didn’t cast on Jersey Shore. Gabe scooches closer to his wife and slaps the empty spot on the sofa, inviting me to sit.

“You guys know I’m bad at Pictionary,” I say, taking a seat.

Biz sits across the coffee table from me on the opposing team. We share a guarded look. He smiles with red wine-stained teeth, appreciative I’m trying to be a team player while attempting to get on my good side.

I’m pushing down any mixed emotions for the sake of keeping up family appearances.

“We’re not playing Pictionary,” Nicole informs us. She folds up the game as the sisters clear the giant coffee table and bring out various baby accessories.

A worried look appears on Biz’s face. “What are we playing instead?” he asks.

“Tonight...” Marisa dramatically announces. “We play baby shower games!”

“Toldja we were doing this,” Zia says to Biz with an apologetic smile.

I feel warmed that Biz’s nurturing sisters want to celebrate us almost-dads. But I look up and see Biz go rigid, filling with dread.

It pains me to see Biz not sharing the same level of enthusiasm for the baby at this stage as he had a few months ago.

First, everyone competes to see who can drink an entire baby bottle filled with red wine. I chug mine and look over at Biz, who’s barely trying. The competitive Marisa wins.

Then we play “feed the baby,” where we partner off and feed our spouses tiramisu while we’re both blindfolded. I clumsily feed Biz, feeling even less connected with a blindfold on. Marisa and her husband win. They double high-five with a fierceness that frightens me.

Next, we “deliver the baby” where we each put a balloon under our shirts and deliver it in the most creative way possible; an act that feels especially weird for two guys having a baby via surrogacy. Biz excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Marisa does some overdramatic acting that she’s seen in every movie of a woman giving birth and declares herself the winner.

“And now,” Marisa continues, as Biz returns. “This one’s just for Biz and Wyatt. A diaper relay race!”

Two sisters bring out their old Cabbage Patch Dolls and hand one to each of us.

“Put these blindfolds on and whoever can change their doll’s diaper first wins!” Marisa states.

Biz tosses the doll on the coffee table.

“This is so stupid,” Biz says, averting his eyes as everyone looks at him.

I cradle mine like an actual baby. “Why? It’s good practice,” I say.

“See! Wyatt’s a good sport. C’mon, Biz!” Marisa shouts.

“I’m not putting a diaper on your old dumb doll,” Biz insists. “And who takes care of a baby while blindfolded?” Biz asks. I’m not sure why he’s trying to get out of playing.

“It’s called fun,” I say as I ready my blindfold. “Isn’t that what this babymoon is about?” I glimpse Biz scowl at me after I say this.

“Put the diaper on the damn doll, Biz,” Gabe demands.

“You have thirty seconds,” Marisa says. “Ready?”

“No,” Biz says emphatically. He slumps down in the corner of the couch where I imagine Biz would pout as a kid.

“It’ll be fun, just do it,” says another husband, egging Biz on.

I tie on my blindfold and I can’t see if Biz is even participating.

“Ready. Set. C’mon, Biz,” Marisa cajoles him one more time. “Go!”

I lift the legs of the doll and seal the tabs of the diaper securely, somehow knowing instinctively what to do. Maybe babysitting my little brother all those years while our mom worked late turned me into a parent before I knew it.

Everyone cheers as I slip off my blindfold. The diaper fits on the doll perfectly.

“That wasn’t even fifteen seconds!” Marisa says as she fist-bumps me. “You rule!”

I see Biz’s baby is diaper-less. Biz is still glued to the corner of the couch, hiding his misery in a sip of wine. He didn’t even play the game.

“Guess we know who’s changing the diapers,” Gabe says as everyone cracks up at the expense of their baby brother.

?Later, inside Biz’s childhood bedroom, Biz snaps the door shut.

“You okay?” I ask, seeing he hasn’t shaken the night off yet.

Biz nods.

“Why didn’t you want to play any of those games?” I ask.

“I’m just tired and want to sleep,” he grumbles. Biz strips to his boxer briefs and crawls into his double bed, like he’s willing this night to be over. I undress and join him.

“It’s always strange being naked in your childhood bed,” I can’t help but say. I pull the blue and tan striped comforter, Bed Bath Beyond circa 2002, up to my chest.

“I know. Tell my mom,” Biz says. “She refuses to touch anything in here. It’s like she thinks I went missing as a teenager and never came back. It’s exactly how I left it.”

Biz takes off his underwear and throws them onto his chair shaped like a baseball glove.

The weight of the evening settles over us.

“I’m honestly sorry for not telling you I was laid off.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I needed to process it and there hasn’t exactly been an ideal time to tell you,” Biz rationalizes.

“But you told your sisters,” I say, the hurt and anger rising in me again. “I just can’t believe this. It’s the worst timing ever,” I accidentally say this a little loud for both of our tastes. The entire family is staying in all the rooms surrounding us and can probably hear everything. I look down at Matilda, who flops onto her back in her bed. Not a care in the world.

Biz speaks in a loud whisper. “Can we keep it down, please? But I mean, Jesus, Wyatt. Don’t you think I know this isn’t good timing? I’m hurt too. This sucks. But it doesn’t matter now. It wasn’t meant to be. If I really think about it, I was slowly dying at that job anyway.”

My cheeks go hot. Panic overwhelms me. “Don’t you understand how all those ridiculous directing jobs have been killing me?” I unleash again. “And now I’ll have to take even more gigs to cover the baby expenses.”

“I know. I’m not suggesting you have it easy,” Biz says.

I release a frustrated sigh. Then I calmly inhale, revising my tone. “Okay,” I say, trying to meet Biz halfway. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll write for other places,” Biz says.

We both stare at the opposite wall where there’s a giant poster of Biz and his cast from Back in the Saddle, five smiling teenagers wearing western shirts, cowboy hats and cowboy boots, standing in the entrance of a horse stable.

“Maybe I’ll get back into acting. Start auditioning again,” Biz continues. “I miss it.”

“I’m sure you do. You were good,” I say, staring at the teenage Biz I never knew. “But freelance writing and auditions aren’t going to pay for raising a kid in New York City.”

“Then maybe we move out of Brooklyn. We can go somewhere cheaper. I don’t know.”

“Now you want to move out of New York?” I ask. This is something new.

“It’s not out of the question. I wouldn’t mind... this.” Biz waves his hands around the room. “My parents have it made in a house like this. It’s nice. Roomy. I mean, do we really want to raise our baby without a backyard and a barbecue?”

I let a long pause sit between us. In a robotically calm way, with my nerves shot, I peel off the covers, climb out of bed and walk across the room. I carefully step over Matilda’s squeaky toys so I won’t wake her, the floor covered in plushy roadkill.

I start pulling clothes out of my bag.

“What are you doing?” Biz asks, alarmed.

“I’m trying to have a logistical conversation with you about our finances and you’re talking about a frickin’ barbecue,” I say.

“Fine, forget the barbecue, okay? It was a dumb metaph— Seriously, where are you going?” Biz asks. “Can you please talk to me?”

I’m trying to remain calm. “Biz. I’m just frustrated that somehow you got fired weeks before our baby is due. I know you’re close with your sisters but I can’t believe I wasn’t the first person you told. And I’m sad that you’re not showing any enthusiasm for raising our baby. Not participating in any of those baby shower games is very telling. I don’t know, it’s like you just want to escape what’s about to happen to us.”

After putting on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, I look up at a silenced Biz. He has tears in his eyes. “I’m not going out. I just need to be alone for a minute,” I say.

Biz sits there, watching me quietly leave and shut the door.

Walking through Biz’s house, I have so many memories. That first Christmas we spent here when we had sex on Biz’s double bed. That one Thanksgiving where we karaoked in our underwear in the basement while everyone was asleep. That time we flew here to meet Biz’s latest baby niece and cuddled with her all night.

One thing we’ve never done in Biz’s childhood home is have an argument.

I sit at the darkened kitchen counter, spotlit only by a single overhead light, pouring myself one last glass of red wine. The house has so many little noises. The ice maker. The wind rattling the patio screen door. The last flicker of the fireplace in the living room.

I sip my wine and cringe at the spearmint taste mixed with cabernet, remembering I just brushed my teeth. I’ll power through it, I think and sip again.

I hear the floorboards creak and see Daniella walking into the kitchen, startling me.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Daniella says. “I had no idea you were here. You scared me too.” She’s wearing a cozy, tie-dyed University of Illinois sweatshirt.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

She collects her piles of coupons off the kitchen table. “No, I’m sorry. I wanted to grab these before someone stole them,” she says with a little laugh. Even I know that no one in this family except Daniella wants anything to do with that pile of coupons.

“Good idea,” I reassure her.

She smiles and spots my wine. “That looks so good right now for some reason.” She thinks before deciding. “Want company?”

“Please,” I say. I rarely get one-on-one time with anyone in the family, let alone the coveted oldest sister.

Daniella pours herself a sizable glass of wine, making me suspect she didn’t really come into the kitchen for her coupons. “You must think our family is so wacky.”

“All families that aren’t yours are wacky,” I say.

Daniella thinks. “You know, when we speak Italian, we’re not talking about you. Just so you know.”

“Oh, yeah. No. I know that.” I try to sound like I don’t care, swallowing my white lie in another sip.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” she says, breaking into a smile. We laugh together as a trail of four silhouettes wearing various sweatshirts walk in. Antonia in a Chicago Bears sweatshirt. Zia in her Ohio State matching sweats. Nicole in a Grateful Dead hoodie. A fleece Patagonia for Marissa.

“Midnight snackage?” Zia asks.

“Where’s lil Bizzy boy?” Nicole wonders.

“You know, we call him Biz because of all the biscotti he ate as a kid,” Marisa tells me.

“I thought it was because he was an annoying little busybody,” Daniella says.

“Wrong. It’s because he was in show biz,” Nicole argues.

Their debate is interrupted by Daniella taking out the large tinfoil tray of leftover tiramisu. Zia takes out six forks and hands them out to her sisters and me.

“Here ya go. You’re an official sistah now,” Zia says to me.

“To the sistahs!” they all say in unison as we clink forks. One by one, we dig into the chocolaty, velvety dessert, mmming and yuming. We analyze the conversation at dinner, steer clear of the job stuff and discuss all things babies.

“I thought I heard chocolate,” Biz says, appearing out from the shadows.

Zia hands him a fresh fork and he goes to town along with us. “I missed my handsome boyfriend,” Biz says, trying to smooth us over in front of his family.

“When are you two going to get married already?” Zia asks.

“Exactly. You’re having a baby but no wedding?” Antonia, the traditional one, adds.

I take another bite of tiramisu, stress-chewing with my mouth shut, eyes tilted down at the fast-disappearing dessert, avoiding yet another conversation grenade.

“We’ll see what happens,” Biz speaks for both of us. The girls all steal glances at one another. Another point of contention, they probably think.

Which it is. Biz, coming from such a large family, with his stable parents, and me with my single mom and estranged dad. We see the world differently. I don’t need the traditional family setup. I just want to focus on the baby. We’re together. Who needs marriage? It certainly didn’t work for my parents.

But this is nice for me, the sisters I’ve never had. I’m realizing that having this big of a family gives you so many different perspectives. A large family also lets you share a midnight snack while you get a serious case of the giggles.

But I know that the outstanding issues Biz and I have won’t resolve while we’re in Chicago. Not in front of Biz’s entire family.

Biz caps off their wedding questions with, “Whatever happens, all I know is I love this man with all my heart.”

I pause for a good ten seconds before letting out, “Me too.” Each sister swoons.

And while I appreciate Biz’s cute gesture, I smile through my red wine, tiramisu and toothpaste mouth, thinking to myself, he’s not getting off the hook this easily.