(AN: This is the last actual chap for the day I hope you enjoy and look out for the poll coming soon after bye guys.)(This is a short chap)
February 27 – March 1993 · UT Austin
The dorm phone rang at 11 p.m. I'd been expecting it; Mom had called earlier to say Mandy was in labor. I picked up after three rings.
"Stephen!" Mom's voice was breathless and bright, like she'd just run a mile.
"I'm here."
"She's here." The sentence landed in my ear like a small meteor, hot, undeniable, altering the terrain. "Your brother and Mandy, everyone's fine. Seven pounds, something ounces. Ten fingers, ten toes. Dark hair already."
I leaned back against the wall. "What's her name?"
"Constance," Mom said, and the word softened as it left her. "Constance Cooper. After your Meemaw. We, we're calling her CeeCee."
I pressed my palm over my eyes, and the hallway went warmer. "How's Meemaw?"
"Ruined," Mom said, laughing a little. "Cried right through the nurse reading the forms. She's still crying. Happy, mind you. She keeps saying, 'The world finally did something sensible.'"
"Dad?"
"He said, 'She's perfect,' and then pretended his allergies started in February." She sniffed. I could hear clinking mugs and the shuffle of a kitchen with too much feeling for the space available. "Your brother's trying to be brave. He's scared to hold her and won't put her down. Mandy's tired and radiant and telling everyone what to do. The nurses like her."
"Of course they do."
"Your Meemaw keeps telling anyone who'll listen that Constance is a good luck name."
"The name's meaning is steadfastness, firmness of mind and purpose."
There was a shuffle as someone took the receiver. Meemaw's voice came through, smoke and sugar.
"Well, little Eli, you're an uncle now. She's already got us wrapped round her tiny finger, and I ain't fighting it. She looks like a person who's gonna make decisions."
"I'll take notes," I said.
"You do that," she said, softer. "Your brother's got himself a mountain to climb. We'll keep him roped in. You keep your head right and call your mama tomorrow. She's pretending she ain't crying."
"I will."
Back to Mom. "I know you're busy at school, and don't let this distract you too much. You'll meet your niece during summer break. We love you, baby."
I heard Missy yell in the background, "Love you!"
The line clicked, the dial tone returned. I set the phone back on its stand and sat at my desk, notebook open.
February 27 1993. I became an uncle today. This is one of the things I don't remember from the past. The world once fiction, now my life. I wonder if I was an uncle before.
I closed the notebook and decided to sleep.
The next day was Sunday. I found Paige in the usual spot on the third floor of the library, last table by the window, headphones around her neck instead of on. Her pencil was tucked behind her ear, and two notebooks were open like parallel tracks.
She looked up as I approached. "Good morning, Stephen. You're here early. No run this morning?"
"I wanted to tell you that Georgie and Mandy had their baby last night. Her name's Constance 'CeeCee' Cooper."
The smile started in her eyes before it reached her mouth. "That's" She stopped, searched, settled. "That's perfect. Meemaw must be unbearable right now."
I chuckled. "Is everyone okay?"
"They are. Mandy too. Mom said Georgie's trying not to look terrified, Dad's pretending he's not emotional, and Meemaw is crying on strangers."
Paige exhaled, long and content. "Good." She slid her notebook aside, creating space for the news. "How do you feel, Uncle Stephen?"
"I'm happy for Georgie and worried about him at the same time. I'm glad Mom and Dad are there for him."
"You'll be the kind of uncle who knows exactly which batteries the toy needs and also brings the right ones."
"And reads the manual."
"And ignores it when it's stupid," she added. "Important skill."
We sat with it. The library's HVAC kicked on overhead, and the window caught a faint reflection of us, two kids pretending to be adults, two adults pretending we're still kids, a new person joining the set while we study for tests that won't remember us.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, because she's good at asking the question that's already in the room.
"That she's going to grow up in a house that's too small and somehow fits everyone. That she'll learn to sleep through noise and recognize love when it sounds like fixing something that was almost fine. That I'm going to be far away sometimes, and I don't like that part."
"You'll be there when it matters," Paige said. "And when you can't, you'll call. That counts."
"I'll call," I echoed. "Mom said it like an instruction."
"It was," she said, smiling. "You follow instructions well enough."
"Sometimes."
"Enough," she said.
We walked back to the dorm later, books under our arms, the February air doing its best impression of spring but not committing. A couple of students tossed a Frisbee under the streetlights and missed more than they caught. Someone's window was open, radio low. The world felt tilted in a way that made balance easier, not harder.
"Do you want to go home this weekend?" she asked.
"No. I'll see her this summer. Mom told me to focus on my studies."
"Hmm. Well, I want photos when you go, at least three of them."
"Of course. I'll bring you five."
Later that night, I sat at my desk going through equations and thinking about my family back home. I turned off the lamp and went to bed. Tomorrow was a new day, and I looked forward to summer break, to seeing my niece.
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