Just 18 Summers

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Much bruising?”

  “Nothing a Sephora trip couldn’t handle.”

  Dr. Reynolds pulled out his notepad. “It seems last time you were here, we left off talking about loving who we are and how God created us. And you mentioned you’re planning a tummy tuck for next year?”

  “I’m actually here on a different matter,” Helen said.

  “Oh? What brings you in?”

  “It concerns my relationship with my children—in particular my middle child, Hannah, and the resentment she feels toward me for providing her with everything a child could possibly want or need. I’ve done a little research on the Internet, and I believe I’m dealing with full-blown narcissism, which, if not handled now, could lead to psychopathy.”

  Dr. Reynolds’s eyes grew round. “Is she burning things down? Harassing small animals?”

  “No, it’s much more subtle than that. She’s casting me looks, Dr. Reynolds, and let me assure you, my children were not raised to cast looks. They’re proper children. I could take them to restaurants when they were young. They test near genius level in their vocabulary. My eldest was valedictorian of her high school and is going to Cornell this fall. Undecided, only because she has so many options.”

  “It sounds like you’re raising perfectly wonderful children, Helen,” he said.

  “But Hannah . . . she resents me to the point that she’s piercing herself.”

  “With knives?”

  “With nose rings. Purely out of resentment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Resentment is not that difficult to spot, is it? Hannah is fourteen. She’s got everything a child could want. What could she possibly be resentful of? I want you to be straight with me, Dr. Reynolds. Is she suffering from a personality disorder?”

  Dr. Reynolds took off his glasses and set down his notepad. Under his mustache, Helen thought she saw a smile. “Helen, before we begin talking about what Hannah might be resentful of, let me ask you a pointed question. What are you resentful of?”

  Helen’s spine snapped straight, and her fingers dug into the kneecap they had so gently rested upon seconds before. “Why would that matter?”

  “Humor me.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I’m resentful of my neighbors. The Andersons. I scrapbook with the wife, Beth, but I’m not fond of the way they’re raising their children or keeping their house. And lately they’ve begun acting very strangely. Whipped cream fights in the front yard. I hear a lot of screaming at night. Loud music. Indecent behaviors for our neighborhood. All the while, they’ve got a weed collection the size of a cornfield growing near their front porch, which incidentally needs a coat of paint. Charles and I work hard to keep our home up. And our family. I’m afraid some of their influence is rubbing off on my children. Nothing I can’t handle, but you asked about resentment, so that is my answer.”

  “You don’t resent Hannah?”

  Helen blinked. “Why would I . . . ?”

  “For not appreciating what you’ve given her? Perhaps a life better than you yourself had?”

  Helen’s spine curved ever so slightly, and for the first time in a decade, she found herself slumping in public. “She has no idea how hard her father works to be able to give her all these astonishing opportunities. But do you know what she wants to do most of the time? Stay at home. I practically have to drag her to dance lessons and pageant events. Do you know what I would’ve given to take dance lessons?”

  “You wanted to be a dancer?”

  Helen nodded, remembering her mother’s reaction when she’d asked. “I can’t feed this family! How can I buy you dance lessons?” she’d screeched, and that was when Helen first realized how very desperate they were.

  One night—a cold night in which she shivered under the covers because they couldn’t afford proper heat—she said a prayer to the God her father had sworn off when he lost his job the first time.

  God, I would like to dance.

  A few days later, she’d been walking home from school. To get home, she had to cross the parking lot of a large dance studio. It was where she’d first seen dancing like that. Ballet dancing. Beautiful dancing. She stood, bundled in a coat three sizes too big for her, and watched them all through the glass, with their tutus floating around them like clouds and their hair in elegant buns, their bodies willowy and graceful, like delicate trees swayed by a warm, comforting wind.

  Finally a stream of dancers piled out the door, eagerly racing to their parents’ very shiny, very nice cars. The parking lot emptied and there, just fifty feet away, Helen saw something pink and small. Looking both ways, she stepped into the parking lot to see what it was.

  A leotard. One of the girls had dropped it.

  She picked it up gently. It was not new. It sort of looked like it might be on its last day. There was a small hole at the shoulder. It was chalky and smelled weird. Helen stood there for a long time, wondering if she should take it. Was that stealing? Or was God answering her prayer?

  After deliberating, she took it. She figured that meant the little girl who lost it would get a new one, so it would all be okay. That night, after her parents retired to bed at seven, she put it on. It was too small. The leg holes cut into her skin, but she didn’t care. She danced that night, using her window as a mirror, and she danced some more, anytime she could get away with it and not be caught.

  Dr. Reynolds waited for her answer.

  “Yes, I suppose I did. Hannah is naturally gifted, as was I. The problem with Hannah is that she’s lazy. She just doesn’t want to use the gifts that were given to her and the resources that were sacrificed for on her behalf.”

  “Helen, I want you to do something for me. I want you to go home tonight and write out all the disappointments in your life. Every one that you can remember, big or small. Nothing fancy, just a simple list.”

  “Why would I do that?” Helen said. “I’m not here about me. I’m here about Hannah, what to do about her, how to fix her.”

  Dr. Reynolds leaned forward in a fatherly way. “Unlike a crooked nose or being a size A, you can’t fix other people. You can only fix how you view them, the lens by which you see them. You can pray for your children, guide them, live a good example in front of them. But you can’t fix them.”

  Helen yanked her purse off the ground as she stood. “You, sir, should stick to counseling botched surgery victims. What you’re saying is absolute nonsense. Of course I’m supposed to fix her! That’s my job. You come out of the womb completely confused, and who is to set you straight if not your parent? Answer me that!”

  And she stormed out of his office. She would’ve slammed the door, but it seemed it was particleboard, not wood, so it only swooshed.

  Helen fumed all the way home. What a complete waste of time. If someone didn’t knock some sense into Hannah, she was going to wander aimlessly in life, failing at everything that was important, including relationships. “It’s called tough love!” Helen shouted to the stoplight as she waited for it to turn green.

  She parked the car in the driveway because there was a scooter blocking the garage. As she opened the door, she spotted Cory watching the neighbors. She sighed heavily as she got out. Larry was in the front yard again. Didn’t these people believe in backyards? He was sitting in the grass with Chip, doing something with a kite and a remote control car.

  She approached Cory, trying not to draw attention to herself while simultaneously eavesdropping.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Chip asked, holding a small engine, presumably from the remote control car, which looked to have met an untimely death.

  Larry punched a finger in the air. “Exactly what they asked Thomas Edison right before he invented the Easy-Bake Oven!”

  Cory snorted a laugh.

  Helen placed her hands gently on Cory’s shoulders and whispered, “Sweetheart, it’s not polite to gawk at people. I know it’s hard because it’s the Andersons and they do a lot of gawk-worthy things, but I’ve tau
ght you better than that.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Move along.”

  Inside, she tried to lighten her mood by arranging flowers. It’s what she did to stay calm. She had vases in every room, and she had to get the arrangement just right or it had the opposite effect of the one intended.

  She was working a group of carnations to death when Charles came through the door. And not in any ordinary way. He hopped over the threshold. Closed the door with a gentleman’s flair.

  And he was carrying flowers.

  “You’re home early,” she said, eyeing the flowers as he thrust them into her arms. She took a polite whiff. She did love flowers. But either Charles had done something wrong or there was cause for celebration. She’d never received flowers under any other circumstance.

  “I’ve got some good news for you.”

  Cory was suddenly in the doorway. He didn’t interrupt—he never did. But he did tend to linger, like he was doing now.

  “Good news?”

  “I’m telling you, this is our time in the sun, Helen. This is our time in the sun.”

  Helen felt her heart flutter with excitement. When was the last time her heart fluttered? “What is it?” she breathed.

  “We’ve been invited to Franklin Hollingsworth’s house for dinner tomorrow night!”

  Helen touched his arm, looked into the air. “I know that name.”

  “Of course you do. Hollingsworth Homes.”

  “No! Him?” She was gasping, each word he spoke like a shiny gold coin.

  “He’s a billionaire. And we’re going to his house.”

  Now she’d fully grabbed his arm. “Why?”

  “All I know is that he heard about my promotion and now he wants to have me over. Maybe to share his wisdom . . . all Warren Buffett–like.”

  “That’s remarkable,” Helen whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “So he must think you’re important.”

  “Franklin Hollingsworth thinks I’m important.” Charles’s hand glided through the air as if he were reading a large newspaper headline.

  She touched his clean-shaven face. “Well, who are we to argue with that.”

  “We are no one.” He grinned. “Well, we were no one. But then we had dinner with Franklin and Kristyn Hollingsworth!”

  “I wonder what kind of china Kristyn owns.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, taking her hands. “They definitely own China. And I’m talking about the country.” Suddenly Charles’s attention dropped. Cory was still standing there, waiting on them, quiet as a mouse but with an eager expression on his face. “Cory. Is there something you need?”

  “Can we make a kite together?”

  “Sure,” Charles said but turned his attention back to Helen.

  “Great!” And Cory whizzed past them toward the craft room.

  “Wait! Wait!” Charles said. Shouted, really. Helen hated shouting. It caused her ears to ring. “Not right now, okay? Maybe after dinner.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Cory smiled and bounded upstairs.

  Charles led Helen to the kitchen, where he opened the cabinet for a glass. “I wonder if it would be tacky for me to take notes. Or bring my mini recorder?”

  “Maybe I’ll wear the diamond necklace,” Helen said, filling his water for him. “She can’t be the only person impressing at this dinner.”

  “I should get a picture with him. For my online profile.”

  “I should take a gift. What’s something they wouldn’t have?”

  “Unpaid bills.”

  They both smiled at the idea. Then some horrible racket came through the back window. Outside, Larry Anderson was running around looking at the sky and making airplane noises.

  CHAPTER 18

  DAPHNE

  “YOU’RE HOME LATE,” Daphne said as Tippy took his work boots off at the door. “Outside, honey. We can’t afford for even the smallest amount of dirt to come in. Just last night I read that tests are under way to determine if dust inhaled between three and six months of age contributes to early-onset asthma in children.”

  Tippy sighed like he always did when she tried to keep him informed.

  “I sent you the link so you can read it.”

  “I’ll just trust you on that.” He shut the front door and came into the living room, where she had all her journals and books spread out. One was open on her lap, and she was immersed in it. Usually she would offer to tell him what she was reading. But she didn’t this time.

  Now he sounded curious. “What’s that?”

  She didn’t look up. “It’s a book Jenny gave me. I just found it. I forgot that she . . .” Daphne trailed off, back to reading.

  “It must be good.”

  “It’s about praying.”

  “Praying?”

  “For your child. It’s got all these prayers in here, for everything. I mean everything, babe. She gave this to me when I found out I was pregnant. It’s kind of . . . beautiful. Jenny’s got dates written beside each prayer. I’m assuming they’re the dates when she prayed each of these prayers for Ava. Some of the prayers have like ten dates beside them.” He was about to sit down on the couch, but she put her hands out. “Don’t even think about it!”

  “Think about what?” Tippy asked, frozen midsit.

  “Sitting down on our furniture, Tippy. Look at you. You’re covered from head to toe in who knows what. Asbestos?”

  “Sawdust, Daphne. We’re building a brand-new house.”

  “I don’t care. We can’t have the filth in here.”

  Tippy stood there for a moment, his eyes narrowing with thoughts she couldn’t read. “This filth is going to feed and diaper that baby.”

  Daphne sighed. These days it was like he was hormonal. “Tippy, please. You know what I mean. If you would read all the articles I give you, you’d understand.”

  “I understand that a baby who cannot even hold its head up is not going to be licking the couch.”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck.”

  “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Wait. I want to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “I’m worried.”

  Tippy slowly turned around. “Daphne, it’s because you read too much. That’s the problem. And you talked to the doctor, remember? She said not to worry about that strep B thingy.”

  It was all she thought about most days. But she tried to stay on point. “I’m preparing, Tippy. We have to be prepared. Which is why what I saw today really disturbed me.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Beth.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was standing in her kitchen and bawling. Talking about time and whisks, and it was hard to follow, but I think her point was that we’re teaching our children too late. I’d planned on beginning cooking lessons with our child at five, but apparently Robin doesn’t know how to cook and it’s going to spell disaster in her life. Maybe I should replace our baby’s Chinese lessons with cooking. What do you think?”

  Daphne looked up just in time to see Tippy going pale. “Honey.”

  “I need to sit down.”

  “Wait . . . no . . . wait . . .”

  “I need to sit down.”

  “Not on the couch! Go sit in the bathroom.”

  “I’m sitting.”

  “Don’t sit!”

  “I’m sitting!” Now Tippy’s face was red and his eyes bulged with a dare to stop him. He looked like a lobster. An angry lobster. “I’m sitting! See? Contact! Now I’m leaning back. Leaning!”

  “Stop it!” Daphne cried.

  “I can sit on this couch if I want to sit on this couch!”

  “You’re being an idiot.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m tired. Tired and hungry. But oh, that’s right—there’s no dinner tonight. Just like the night before. And the night before that. Why? Because you’ve decided to stop cooking. Because you’re reading about nothing that concerns us!”

  “Nothi
ng that concerns us? We have a baby coming, Tippy!”

  “I realize that. That’s why I’ve been asking Butch for more overtime. And then you’re mad at me for being late!”

  Daphne was about to retort when suddenly, inexplicably, she burst into tears. Tippy, normally the kind of guy who rushed to her side when she cried, threw his hands up, stood from the couch, and walked out of the room, leaving a dusty shadow behind.

  Daphne continued to cry, even as she heard the shower turn on in the bathroom. She didn’t know why she was crying. But she’d felt anxious all day. She’d read a whole chapter about babies born with their spinal cords outside their bodies. That freaked her out. But then again, so did the online article about the deadly contaminants found in tap water. She’d already stopped dyeing her hair. Every time she looked in the mirror, she saw a crown of dishwater blonde growing into the Honey Harvest she’d paid over a hundred dollars for.

  But that’s what you did as a parent. You sacrificed. You prepared. You realized that love had costs, like water retention and cankles.

  And all Tippy could think about was dinner? What was wrong with that man?

  The bedroom door opened and Tippy returned to the living room, smelling of Dial and resentment. He’d changed into his favorite old jeans and a T-shirt he’d had since college. It had sweat stains under the armpits. He’d dug it out of the trash all four times she’d tried to sneak it out of his closet and bid it farewell.

  He stood for a moment staring at the ground. Daphne stayed quiet. Sometimes it took him a while to find his words, especially when he was trying to apologize. She gently closed the book on her lap so it wouldn’t be a distraction for either of them.

  “Daphne?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to get dinner. By myself.”

  “What?”

  “I’m leaving the house, and I’m going to get three hot dogs.”

  Daphne’s nostrils flared, a spontaneous reaction her body had when she tried to control her anger. She dropped the book to the coffee table and crossed her arms. “I can’t have hot dogs. We’ve discussed this. They use preservatives in their—”