My niece eyed me warily, glancing over my shoulder at Elijah, then back at me with the same expression that people made when they couldn't tell us apart. He nudged me gently, "Guess I should have worn my glasses."
"Grace is my little sister too," he explained. "That's why we look so much alike."
Leah said, "Just like the new baby?"
"Exactly," he said, "Except you'll be five years older than them, and I'm only three minutes older than Grace."
"A fact that he'll never let me live down," I said with an eye roll, and Leah grinned shyly. When I held out my palm for a handshake, she leaned fearlessly away from Isaac towards me, and I extended my arms to hold her against my hip.
Both my brothers took a minute to compose themselves, so I turned back to Isaac’s wife. “We haven’t officially met, I’m Grace Alvarez.”
“Grace Alvarez? You took Mama’s maiden name?” Isaac said in surprise.
“Grace Alvarez who teaches mindfulness?” Rachel asked at the same time.
Their eyes met for a moment in confusion. Leah wiggled on my hip until Elijah held out his hands and she leaned into her favorite uncle, dragging him over to a nearby dollhouse.
“Yes, I took Mama’s name, and yes, I teach mindfulness. How do you — ?”
“I’m Rachel Cohen, we’ve been emailing about your spring workshop at the domestic violence shelter,” she said in stunned surprise as I felt my mouth go dry. “Mariana told me it was incredible and I should book it after my maternity leave so I could be there.”
We stared at each other, letting the reality of our small world collapse around us. Maybe, even without my trip to visit my family, I still would have ended up here. Maybe Rachel would have seen me at that workshop and …
“You look just like Elijah,” she said, her hands resting on her belly, and Isaac took her elbow and guided her to the couch, “I would have recognized you right away. These two have told me so much about you over the years, and we've all been keeping an eye out for you, but I expected it to happen in line at Starbucks, not …" She shook her head in disbelief.
Isaac carried snack bowls to the coffee table, then lifted her pregnant cankles into his lap before asking, "How do you know Mariana?”
“She’s my case worker, I’ve …” I coughed, hoping Elijah had already told them so they’d had time to prepare, “I’ve applied to be a foster mom.”
Rachel's face lit up, so I sat down in a chair and told her about my job at the hospital, about being there for Ruby’s surgery, about how her mom Sarah died and she needed a home.
"How old is Ruby?" Isaac asked. "When you're ready, maybe she can have a play date with Leah."
My heart stuttered as I looked over at Elijah perched on the floor playing house with his niece — our niece — and imagined Ruby there with them. Probably bossing both of them around.
“Ooof,” Rachel groaned, running a palm along her bump. Isaac placed a hand over hers, brow furrowed. “They either don't want to miss out on the play date, or they want more sour cream and onion chips. Maybe both?” She wiggled the empty bowl to her husband.
"Sure, now you don't want to get up …" Isaac teased, taking the bowl begrudgingly. From across the room, Elijah dropped his voice to mock him, “Bed rest, woman!”
Rachel winced again, her hand sliding towards her pelvis. She must have read the mix of curiosity and jealousy on my face, because she waved me over to where Isaac had been, asking gently, “Want to feel?”
Nodding cautiously, I moved to the nearby cushion and carefully placed my hand on her stomach. She rested hers over mine, and we waited in anticipation. Isaac returned from the kitchen with potato chips and sandwiches, pausing in the door frame to watch the moment unfold. Rachel shifted our hands closer to her waist …
“Whoa,” I said, feeling a powerful kick right into my hand as she released small grunt. “Did it hurt?”
“Not really, but it’s uncomfortable,” she arched her back, and Isaac came over to shift her pillows. "It's worse when their foot hits a rib."
“Do you know …?” I’d worked in a hospital long enough to hear pregnant people complain about being asking the same questions: ‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl? Have you chosen a name?’
So I didn’t want to be trite, but I was curious.
“We’re not finding out the sex,” Isaac answered. “We didn’t with Leah either, just went into the the hospital with a few names.”
“Which reminds me,” Rachel said, exchanging a glance with Isaac, who nodded. “When it comes to naming children, Jews have a tradition that we use the first initial of somebody in our family that we lost.”
“So Leah is named for Rachel's grandpa Leon,” Isaac explained, sitting behind Rachel so she could lean on him, and reaching to rub her shoulders. “And we … well, until about a week ago, we were thinking about names that started with J.”
I stilled. I hadn’t lifted my hand from Rachel’s belly and underneath my palm, I felt the baby shift, almost like they were adjusting awkwardly.
They were going to name this baby after someone they lost: me. Because I’d been lost to them, and they wanted to honor my memory.
“But now …” Isaac said with hope in his voice, “we’re relieved to have you back, but it means we’re fighting about names again.”
“We wouldn’t be fighting if you would just agree that I’m right,” she said.
“So Grace,” he said, pretending to ignore her complaints while squeezing her shoulder, “we wondered if you would help us name the baby, at least the first initial. Maybe after somebody important that you've lost.”
Under my palm, my little niece or nephew rolled again, like they were leaning into that uterine wall to hold me up.
“S,” I barely heard my own voice whisper, “for Ruby’s mom, Sarah.”
Rachel's eyes softened, and after a quick glance at Isaac, they nodded in agreement. "Do you have pictures of Ruby?"
I pulled up the picture with Santa and Mrs. Claus on my phone and handed it over. She must have expected a gallery, because she flicked to the next photo of Alex and me under the mistletoe.
“Whoa, who’s that kissing you?” Rachel’s eyes widened as Isaac frowned. “Is this the man that your mom called gorgeous?”
“From what I can piece together,” Elijah interjected from the floor to share the intel he’d obviously gleaned from Mallory, “their story has your favorite tropes: grumpy-sunshine, best friend’s brother, holiday romance. But she won’t spill the tea and I’m dying, Rach.”
