Our New Normal

by Colleen Faulkner

  He sucks on the cigarette so hard that his cheeks sink in. He’s a good-looking guy: tall with light-brown hair and pretty, dark eyes. His hair is shaggy, though, and needs to be cut by someone other than his mom. I resist the temptation to reach up and brush his hair out of his eyes. I’m not exactly feeling romantic right now. Considering that’s how I got myself in the situation to begin with.

  “I gotta go.” He takes one last drag on the cigarette, throws it on the ground, and grinds it out with his sneaker. “Want a ride home?” He’s already getting in the truck.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’ll walk.” I want to walk so I can think. I’ve got so many thoughts flying around in my head that I feel overwhelmed. Like I can barely catch my breath. I need to get my thoughts together to sit down and talk to Mom and Dad. Mom is so pissed at me. And Dad is . . . he’s just really sad. And disappointed. I hate that I’ve disappointed my parents.

  “See you in school tomorrow, maybe?”

  “See you tomorrow,” I echo.

  I watch him pull out. He doesn’t look back as he peels out of the driveway, throwing gravel from the tires of the truck. I reach down, pick up his cigarette butt, tuck it into my pocket, and head home.

  7

  Liv

  I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, spacing out, when the Instant Pot sings its little song, letting me know the chicken curry is done. I check the time on the microwave. Oscar texted me twenty minutes ago. He’ll be home any minute. I glance at the electric rice cooker plugged in beside the Instant Pot. Only six minutes left until the rice is done. I pick up my phone and text Sean and Hazel. Group text.

  Dinner in 15

  I get a K from Sean. Nothing from Hazel.

  I set my phone down. Hazel went to meet Tyler somewhere after school. She wasn’t gone very long. My daughter didn’t disclose any information on the exchange that took place, but I have a feeling they finally talked about her pregnancy. She looked as if she’d been crying when she got home. I asked her if she was okay. She didn’t answer, just made a beeline for the stairs.

  I pick up my phone again to text Hazel. A couple of weeks ago she had an argument with a friend and was upset. She wouldn’t talk to me about it, but I discovered, purely by accident, that she was willing to text me about it. As I hold my phone in my hand, a part of me wants to fight the inclination. Kids need to know how to interact verbally, face-to-face, blah, blah, blah. But right now, Hazel’s well-being is more important to me than improving her communication skills.

  I text Did you get my text about dinner? Then I backspace. I know very well she got it. And she maintains you don’t have to answer every single text someone sends you. She has several additional criticisms about my texting skills. I need to cut down on the emoticons, for one.

  I think for a minute and then text:

  Talk to Tyler?

  Then I add about the pregnancy. No sense pussyfooting around here. I hesitate, then hit “send.”

  I set down my phone and get wide, shallow bowls from the overhead cabinet. Two blue, two green. I run my finger along the rim of one of them, feeling the cool smoothness of the pottery. They’re made by a local potter. All handmade and fired locally. My dish cabinet is filled with handmade dishes Oscar and I have collected over the years. A couple actually made by Oscar. He has his own wheel out in the barn that’s connected to the house, which we use as a combination garage, tool shed, and general storage area. As I study the bowls on the black soapstone counter, I try to remember when he last started up his wheel.

  My phone dings and I pick it up.

  talked to him, my daughter has responded. She also says proper punctuation and spelling isn’t required, depending on the message and the intended audience. She has a lot of rules, my daughter. A lot of criticisms, particularly of me. Never Oscar. Just me. But I suppose it’s often that way with mothers and their teenage daughters. Oscar says it’s because the two of us, Hazel and I, are so alike. I don’t see it. I just think she likes him better.

  I stand there for a minute, phone in my hand. Then I text And?

  Backspace.

  Instead, I text You okay?

  I stare at the screen, waiting for her response.

  I smile when the little bubbles appear. She’s texting back. I hear Oscar pull into the driveway and the garage door go up. Willie Nelson, who’s been lying in the kitchen, in any spot I’m trying to get to, jumps up and saunters out of the kitchen in search of his best friend.

  okay. he was pretty upset, Hazel replies.

  I read the text a second time and then hold my phone in both hands trying to think of how to best respond. I want to say, “He’s upset? Probably not as upset as the rest of us because he has no idea how this is going to change your life forever.”

  I do not write that. Instead, I say, Did you talk about any kind of plan? Proper punctuation included.

  I wait.

  Plan? I’m going 2 have the baby that’s the plan

  No, plan as in how he’s going to financially support his child. Who’s going to watch the baby so you can both finish school.

  Again, I delete the whole thing. Instead, I text, There’s plenty of time. We can talk about it when you’re ready.

  I wait for the bubbles. Then for the text to come through. I hear Oscar enter the mudroom from the garage. He’ll reach our big country-style kitchen in a second.

  K is all I get from Hazel this time.

  Willie Nelson chuffs as Oscar comes through the door.

  The rice cooker sings its song.

  “Good timing,” I say to Oscar. I go to him, lay my hand on his chest, and give him a kiss on the lips. He seems surprised. I get a half-pucker. “Hey,” I murmur, smiling up at him.

  “Hey,” he responds, trying to make his way around me and the dog to set his lunch bag on the counter. “He been out?”

  “Yes.” I walk back to the counter to take the lid off the Instant Pot and stir the curry. “Hazel told Tyler. She says he’s pretty upset.”

  Oscar goes to the refrigerator and removes a bottle of beer. He uses an opener from a drawer and pops it open. “I have time for a shower?”

  “Dinner’s ready. Kids will be down in a couple of minutes.”

  “That a yes or a no?”

  I turn around to face him, a wooden spoon in my hand. “Are you picking a fight with me, thirty seconds into the house?”

  He sips his beer. His face is expressionless. “I had a bad day at work. I’d like to get a shower. Can you hold dinner a few minutes?”

  “I can.” I turn back to the curry. “Can we talk with Hazel about the pregnancy at dinner?”

  “You think that’s a good idea? In front of Sean?”

  “I don’t know, Oscar.” My voice raises a note. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  He takes another sip of beer. “I think we should talk to her privately. Sean doesn’t need to be involved.”

  “He already knows.”

  Oscar exhales. He’s wearing dark-green scrubs. The new ED colors. He looks good in the green. Green has always been his color, with his red hair. He’s still handsome, my Oscar, even with his hair thinning and the extra weight around his middle. If we were strangers, if I met him somewhere, I’d think he was good-looking. I’d be physically attracted to him.

  “That’s not the point, Liv. The point is . . .” He groans, raises his free hand, and lets it fall. He takes another sip of beer and then gestures with the bottle. “I don’t know what the point is.”

  I put the wooden spoon down and walk over to him, put one arm on his shoulder, and rest my cheek against his chest. He smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and the body wash he uses. He kisses the top of my head, but doesn’t hug me. Again, I feel that distance between us. Even resting my head against him.

  “I’ll be down in ten,” he tells me.

  I let him go. He walks out of the kitchen as Hazel walks in.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey, Daisy.”

  He’s ca
lled her Daisy since she was a baby. I have no idea why. He has no idea. Or we’ve forgotten, he’s been doing it so long.

  He turns around, backing out of the kitchen, beer still in hand. “How was your day at school? Anything exciting happen?”

  “Katy broke up with Luke again. I think they’re done this time.” She chews on her lower lip, thinking. “Oh, and Mr. Mercer got called into the principal’s office for something. We think it’s because he was flirting with Mrs. Cortez. Her room’s across the hall.”

  “Oh, dear,” Oscar says. “They’re married, I take it. To other people?”

  “No.” Our daughter wrinkles her freckled nose. “Divorced. But it doesn’t matter, Dad. No fraternization at work. Eww.”

  He smirks, clearly amused by his daughter, turns, and heads out of the room.

  “Want me to set the table?” Hazel asks me.

  I’m surprised by her offer. She’s at that age right now where she always does what I ask, but rarely volunteers. “Sure. Thanks. We just need napkins and spoons. I folded a fresh batch.” I indicate the pile of clean cotton napkins on the edge of the counter. “You can put the rest of them away while you’re at it.” I hear a car and look through the window over the sink to see my sister flying up the driveway in her new car. She gets a new one every two years. One of the advantages of not having children, she once told me.

  “Aunt Beth is here,” I say. I want to be annoyed with her because the visit is unannounced. But they’re always unannounced. And no matter how crazy Beth makes me, I’m always happy to see her. She’s all the things I’ll never be and I adore her for that, even in the times when I almost hate her for it.

  “Oh, good.” Hazel grabs some napkins. “She can stay for dinner. I’ll set a place for her.”

  I take another bowl from the cabinet. With Beth here, that means talking about the baby over dinner won’t be happening. I dig through a drawer, looking for a ladle. Maybe it’s just as well. Maybe Oscar’s right. Sean shouldn’t be included in these conversations. I doubt he wants to be.

  Willie Nelson chuffs a warning that someone is coming through the barn and the door flies open. My sister does everything at time and a half. “Bonjour!” she greets us.

  “Aunt Beth.” Hazel leans in for a kiss on the cheek and gets a big hug.

  “What’s for dinner?” Beth walks through the dining area and into the kitchen, plopping her handbag and a box wine on the counter.

  “Chicken curry.”

  “Mm, I brought the wine. It’s red. Does red go with curry?” She brushes her lips across my cheek. She smells terrific, of expensive perfume. She has a new boyfriend who took her to London for a long weekend a few weeks ago. To say I was jealous would be an understatement.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t have wine on a Monday night. I usually reserve my alcohol consumption for the weekends. Mostly because of the calories. Tonight, I could use a glass of wine. I could probably drink the whole box. “Of course red wine goes with curry,” I say, having no idea if that’s true or not.

  “You want a glass, yeah?”

  “A big one,” I say, wondering if I should pull a bread boule out of the freezer. I wasn’t planning on having a fifth for dinner. It doesn’t do any good to invite her because she’s just as likely to not show up as to show up. Beth goes where the wind blows her. But she drops in all the time, here and at the cottage. And when she does, she lights up the room. She’s totally undependable, but the life of every party. She gives good gifts, too.

  “Bad day?” Beth takes two stemless wineglasses from a glass-front cupboard I reglazed myself. “Think O wants some?” She calls Oscar O.

  “He’s got a beer.” I hold out my hand, waiting for her to pour wine in one of the glasses from the black plastic spigot.

  “You guys fighting?” She pushes the glass into my hand. Beth is a beauty: tall, athletic body, though she never works out, with my dad’s blue eyes and my mother’s killer cheekbones. She drinks like a fish, or an alcoholic, and never gains an ounce. She’s thirty-four and could pass at a frat party for twenty.

  I take a sip of the wine. It’s not bad for box wine. A cabernet.

  “Big fight?” Beth asks, pouring herself a glass, filling it nearly to the rim. “Like throwing stuff at each other big?”

  I hesitate. Beth’s obviously not talked to Mom and heard our news.

  “She’s upset about the pregnancy,” Hazel says, taking five spoons from a drawer and sliding it shut with her hip.

  Beth’s head snaps around to look at me. “Christ on a crutch, you’re pregnant, Liv? At your age?” She shakes her head, taking a gulp of wine. “I didn’t even know that was possible. Have you lost your f—”

  “Not Mom. Me. I’m pregnant,” Hazel interrupts. She carries the spoons to the table on the other side of the counter. “Mom pregnant? Why would you even say that?” She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

  “You’re pregnant? ” Beth demands, setting her glass down so hard that wine sloshes over the rim of the glass and onto the soapstone. She walks into the dining area. “You have got to be kidding me. How could someone as smart as you are be that stupid?” She’s practically shouting. “Damn it, Hazel. We talked about this. I told you if you needed condoms, just to tell me.”

  The fact that Beth talked to my daughter about condoms is news to me. And it smarts a little. And makes me feel guilty because obviously I should have been the one talking to her about condoms. Not that I have never talked to her about sex and birth control. I’ve talked to her about my feelings on teenage sex and given her the “Don’t do it, but if you do, be sure you’re doing it safely.” But clearly I wasn’t paying attention to her relationship with Tyler. Clearly I didn’t do my job as Hazel’s mother. I didn’t protect her. But it still galls me that Beth talked to Hazel. That she apparently knew Hazel was having sex with Tyler and I didn’t. And she talked to Hazel about it and didn’t tell me.

  “You get an appointment?” Beth demands, practically getting in Hazel’s face. “She get an appointment?” She looks over her shoulder at me, then back at Hazel. “How many weeks are you? Still inside the window?”

  Hazel looks like she’s going to burst into tears.

  “You may have to go to Boston. I know a clinic—”

  “Beth,” I interrupt, knowing where this is going. I inhale because this is hard for me to say. “Hazel’s decision is to keep the baby.”

  Beth looks as if she’s just taken a big bite of persimmon. “She’s not keeping the baby,” she says to me. Then she looks at Hazel. “You’re not keeping this baby. You’re not ruining your life over that poor excuse for a boyfriend Ty—”

  “I’m keeping the baby,” Hazel interrupts. Her eyes tear up, but her jaw has a defiant set to it now. I know that look. Sean was always so easygoing, malleable, as a child. But not Hazel. She had her own way of doing things, even as a baby, and when I crossed her, anyone crossed her, she got that look on her face. As if daring anyone to challenge her.

  Beth just stands there staring at Hazel. Then she comes back into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the twelve-inch barn-plank flooring Oscar and I put in ourselves. We bought the wood at a yard sale in New Hampshire. As I watch my sister’s bare, tanned feet coming toward me, I remember the weekend Oscar and I bought the wood. It’s funny how random memories like that can be. Mom and Dad had the kids; Hazel was probably only three at the time. Oscar and I stayed in a little B&B. It had two single beds and we slept together in one. Made love in the iron bed that Oscar’s feet hung over and then slept in each other’s arms. I can’t decide if the memory brings me joy or sadness. Life was so easy then. I didn’t think so at the time. I struggled being the mother of two small children. But I realize now how foolish I was not to have appreciated those years as much as I should have.

  “You cannot let her have a baby,” Beth retorts, half under her breath, at me.

  I take another big gulp of wine. It’s already going to my head. I haven’t eaten anything since eleven whe
n I had an apple with some almond butter Hazel made last week. I take another drink. “She’s decided.”

  “It’s not up to her,” Beth argues, grabbing her wineglass. It sloshes up one side, then dribbles over again. “You’re her parent. Tell her she’s getting an abortion.”

  Now I’m tearing up. “She’s sixteen years old,” I say, looking into my sister’s gorgeous eyes. “I can’t make that kind of decision for her.”

  “The hell you can’t.” She reaches into her bag. “I need a cigarette. Hazel. Outside.”

  Hazel meets my gaze. She’s asking me to rescue her.

  I should, but I don’t. What was that saying my mother always used to say to me when I screwed up? You made this bed, now lie in it?

  “You better not throw that cigarette butt into my herb garden,” I warn my sister as the two of them head toward the back of the house.

  Then I take another sip of wine.

  8

  Hazel

  I lean against the metal table on the deck where we eat sometimes and watch Aunt Beth attempting, unsuccessfully, to light her cigarette. I’m trying not to cry. I totally expected Mom to scream and holler at me when she found out I was pregnant, and she didn’t. And I never expected Aunt Beth to lose her shit with me. Not in a million years.

  I look away. I can’t believe Mom didn’t come out here with us. That she threw me to my aunt wolf.

  “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to get pregnant,” Aunt Beth says angrily, flicking her disposable lighter over and over again. “I thought you wanted to be a doctor. I thought you were going to volunteer for Doctors Without Borders and fix cleft palates or some bullshit.” She flicks it again; still no flame, just a spark. “Damn it!” She slams the lighter down on the table. As if that’s going to make it work.

  I just stare at her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this angry. Well, maybe once with Mom. She blamed Mom when she hit Mom’s car in our driveway. But Aunt Beth was pretty drunk that night. Mom was telling her she couldn’t leave, and she got in her car anyway. They’d been fighting because Aunt Beth was supposed to take Granddad to the hospital for some kind of outpatient surgery and she hadn’t shown up; that was what started it all. The bottle and a half of wine she drank just added to the whole evening. She didn’t get too far that night. She didn’t even make it out of the driveway before she plowed into Mom’s car. Dad made her a bed on the couch in the living room. Nobody ever said anything about it again. Mom just got her car fixed and Aunt Beth paid the bill. So Aunt Beth’s car insurance wouldn’t skyrocket. That’s what Dad said. I guess she’d already had some accidents.