“That’s a little too soon,” I say. “I’ve got some work stuff going on. But . . . before the summer is over. I promise.” I immediately regret this because there are few places on earth more miserable than Florida in the summer. But I see Mom is already jotting something down in the little planner she keeps on the coffee table, so I know I’m doomed to be bound to what I said.

I ask after some of their friends down there and they bring me up to date on who has gout, who has dropped out of the mah-jongg club, and whose kids are getting married/divorced/ having babies.

“It’s going to be a granddaughter for Julia,” Mom says, maybe not even wistfully but in my current state of mind that’s what it sounds like to me.

I glance over at the tiny sock on the floor and feel compelled to ask her, “Mom, how do children appear?”

Mom blinks. “Didn’t we already have this talk?” She turns to Baba. “I mean, I mostly left it up to you but I thought it was taken care of.”

“So did I,” Baba responds. “Of course, I taught physics, not biology, so maybe something got a little lost in translation?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t mean where do they come from . . .”

“Thank heavens,” Mom says. “I’m not sure I have enough blood pressure medication to explain this to you now. Plus my consolation that you were a boy instead of a girl was that I didn’t have to.” She playfully glares at Baba.

“Let me double-check my notes,” he says. “I’m positive we had this talk.”

“Yes, Baba. We did. I was just thinking how come they morph from tiny babies into overgrown ones so suddenly. Like there’s no in-between . . . you know what? Never mind.”

“I think this is a lack of food talking,” Mom says. “Come here immediately and I’ll make you my chili, okay? And mandel bread.”

“Yes, Mom,” I respond dutifully.

“You never make me mandel bread,” Baba says.

“You can make it yourself,” she responds.

“So can he! He’s a thirty-one-year-old man.”

“That’s true,” Mom responds. “But he’ll also always be my baby. Aren’t you, my little oogle-boogle.”

I shake my head, grinning despite myself, as my mom makes kissy faces at me. They’re punchy today.

But they’ve also made me feel better. Because at least there are some parts of my future that are crystal clear.

Like me, a month from now, sweating my balls off at their community pool as I swim laps, much to the delight of my mom’s lounging, loungewear-clad girlfriends.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

ZOEY