After Sunday morning masses, my brother and I indulge in rounds of hide and seek. Typically, I'm the hider, always securing the best spots, or so my brother claims.
Oddly, our parents never approve of our game, though I can't fathom why.
In our sprawling home, I spend the week scheming new hiding spots: behind office curtains, amidst dusty swim gear in the shed, or within the confines of our mother's vanity room. Today, however, I opt for the untouched corner of our parents' closet, reserved for travel essentials, only touched when visiting Nana by the coast.
Concealed amidst suitcases and remnants of our last trip still infused with the scent of the ocean and clinging sand I blend seamlessly, like one of Father's beach shirts or Mother's summer dresses.
As voices echo through the hallway, growing louder upon entering the room, I recognize my parents instantly. Mother's gentle tones akin to church hymns, Father's more solemn, reminiscent of a subdued pastor.
"Must they always play after mass?" Mother sighs, collapsing onto the distant bed.
"I suppose so. I don't understand their fascination with the game," Father responds, his voice suddenly closer as he stows his coat above me.
"How long do you think they'll play?" Mother's tone shifts, hinting at something more.
"Probably a while. Josh's quite the hider, according to Frank," Father's voice softens to a whisper, the bed creaking as he joins her.
"And what do you have in mind, my love?" Father's attempt at mimicking her tone is evident.
"Oh, nothing. I just thought... we could, you know..." Mother's voice trails off, barely audible.
"Do what?" Father presses, unfazed by her hesitance.
"Well, I thought we could... make another bundle of joy," Mother's words barely a whisper.
Nausea grips me in the stifling closet, the mingling scents and my parents' intimacy overwhelming.
As if guided by luck or some cosmic force, a knock echoes from the far end of the room. My parents stir, the bed creaking as they rise, while Frank's voice fills the space, disregarding our parents' activities.
"Have you seen Josh?!" he exclaims, clearly stressed. "It's been over an hour, and I still can't find him!"
"Calm down, Frank. He's probably hiding in my office again, like last week. Check under my desk; he's likely there," Father responds calmly but urgently.
"Yes, go check there, dear," Mother echoes, matching Father's tone.
"But he never hides in the same place twice. If he does" Frank's sentence is interrupted as I tumble out of the closet, unable to tolerate its heat and fumes any longer. I crash onto the carpet, face burning, entangled in smelly clothes, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
My parents, one bewildered, the other growing impatient, await an explanation as I realize our parents' room is off-limits. My head clears, and I stagger toward them, one question on my mind: How are babies made?
Frank breathes a sigh of relief at my sudden appearance.
Our parents, now flushed with embarrassment, tower over us.
"Explain yourself, Josh. You know our room is off-limits," Father demands impatiently
With the nausea subsiding, I retort, "No, you explain. How are babies made?!"
Their expressions falter at my boldness. Mother, looking perplex
"I realized that couldn't be the real story of our origins.
"No, no, Frank's got it, Josh. A bird does deliver babies, but not just any bird, a mighty Stork," my mother interjected, her words rushing out with relief.
"Indeed, the mighty Storks select perfect matches for parents like us, bringing you from Heaven. That's how we got Frank and you!" my father chimed in.
Stunned and bewildered, I stood there, unsure of what to believe anymore. Exhausted from all the contemplation, I found solace in their explanation for now. I leaned wearily on Frank as he gently guided me out of the room to our shared bedroom. Falling asleep to the fading sounds of my parents' laughter and Frank's steady breathing, I clung to him for comfort."
