Just 18 Summers

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Hannah?”

  Tears fell down her daughter’s face.

  “Mom . . .” She wiped each eye with a hand. “I don’t like life very much.”

  Helen gripped the steering wheel while trying to stay in the lines on the highway and look at her daughter. “Hannah, how can you say that? You have—”

  “I know, I know,” she said, nodding, her chest hiccuping with one sob after another. “I have a lot. I know that. I really do know that.”

  Helen patted her shoulder. “Sweetheart, I think what we’re dealing with here are hormones. It happens at your age. Sometimes you start crying and you don’t know why.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “I know it seems that it’s not, but it is.”

  “No. I’m sad.”

  “Why on earth are you sad?”

  “Because, Mom, I don’t fit in anywhere. But I especially don’t fit in with this family.”

  Helen’s foot slipped off the accelerator, and the car slowed. Semis zoomed by her, shaking the car. She quickly accelerated, trying to stay with traffic.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I see it. I mean, I have to go to pageant classes so I can fit in better with us.”

  Helen drew a deep breath. “I enrolled you in pageant classes because you’re beautiful. When you were little, people would stop and gawk and tell me how pretty you were. It happened all the time. Every time we went out in public. You had this snow-white hair and those big eyes.”

  Hannah was staring at her kneecaps. “Yeah, well, that was then. Nobody thinks I’m pretty anymore.”

  Helen could hardly keep her eyes on the road. “Hannah, what are you talking about?”

  “Guys don’t even look at me. It’s like I’m invisible. Like I’m not even standing there.”

  “Sweetie, you’re just being self-conscious.”

  “When you and I go to the mall, guys my age are . . . looking at you.”

  Helen couldn’t help the gasp that escaped. She was now in a full-blown stare at her daughter. Hannah wiped her eyes over and over. Helen couldn’t get a single word to come out of her mouth.

  “And even with these pageant classes and stuff, I just can’t . . . I can’t be like you. I don’t look that good. I never will. I mean, I’m not pretty like you and like Madison. I’m just sort of plain, you know? And Sasha says that’s okay, that it’s more about who I am, not what I look like.”

  Helen couldn’t even process what she was hearing. How could Hannah think that about herself? Of all her children, she’d always thought Hannah was the most naturally beautiful.

  Without warning, Helen jerked the car to the right and flew down an exit ramp.

  Hannah held on, glancing at her mom. “What are you doing? This isn’t our exit.”

  The tires squealed as Helen turned in at the parking lot of a closed bank. Hers was the only car there, but she pulled fully into a parking space and shut off the car. Hannah’s eyes were wide, and her back was pressed against the passenger-side door.

  “Hannah Lauraine, you listen to me right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. That’s just how I feel.”

  “You are the most beautiful, most amazing person.”

  Hannah paused. “Huh?”

  “I mean that. You’re stunning. In every way. In your heart. In your mind, the way you think. Your ideas are creative. Your eyes are mesmerizing.”

  “They are?” Hannah said as tears streamed from them.

  “Yes! Yes. You belong in those pageants. I think you could win Miss America someday.”

  Hannah looked down. “I hate that stuff. I hate wearing dresses and tiaras and, like, making little speeches.”

  “But you’re so good at it. . . .”

  “Not really.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “But I’m glad you think I am. I thought you were trying to . . . I just thought I . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been feeling bad because I realized that no matter what, I would never be . . .” She looked at Helen. “As good as you.”

  Helen stared out the front window. “As good as me?”

  “You and Dad, you guys are like really important. I mean, look at you . . .” Hannah gestured toward Helen.

  A thousand things tumbled through Helen’s mind, a thousand things she wanted to say, but she realized at this very moment she had to make whatever words came out of her mouth count. She might not have this time again. It was now that mattered. In the leather bucket seat next to her, Helen saw herself, many years ago. And she wondered, what would she say to herself then, to help her now? What had Helen needed to hear that her mother never said? What did Hannah need to hear that would change the course of her life?

  “Hannah,” she said carefully, slowly. “I dress this way because . . . because I’m not important.” She felt physical pain just saying it, but it was the truth.

  “What?”

  “I’m not. I’m nothing special, and so I dress very nicely to make people think that I am important. I dress like this because I’m insecure. I don’t go out without makeup because I’m afraid people will . . . well, they’ll see the real me.”

  “The real you?” Hannah asked.

  Helen let go of the steering wheel and glanced away from her daughter, hardly believing she was about to speak of days long ago that she’d sworn she wouldn’t mention again. “When I was your age, a little younger, I guess, I sometimes had to wear the same outfit three times in a week. Sometimes I didn’t take baths because we couldn’t afford to heat the water in our home and it was too cold. My hair was always—” she touched it, remembering the feel of grease—“very oily. It sort of shined, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “I . . . I knew you didn’t have much money when you were growing up, but I didn’t, like, realize . . .”

  “I managed my way into the world, got a job, got some college education, and met your dad, and well, the rest is history, I guess.” Helen felt heavy tears sitting at the edges of her eyes. “I was embarrassed a lot when I was a kid. I never knew manners or poise or social skills, so I was always doing the wrong thing and being corrected. Being told over and over to sit up straight and not smack and those sorts of things. It was humiliating, and I never wanted any of my kids to be . . . humiliated.”

  “Mom . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t know. How could you? I never told you. And now, with all my good intentions, I’ve hurt you.” Helen reached for Hannah’s hand, and for once Hannah let her grab it. “I think sometimes parents hurt their kids the most when they’re trying to keep them from getting hurt. We make a lot of decisions, say a lot of things, because we remember a hurt in our own life and we don’t want to . . .” Helen shook her head, engulfed in her regrets. She held Hannah’s hand against her heart. “And we end up hurting you more.”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “No. No, it’s not okay.” Helen put a hand over her mouth because sobs were about to escape. But then she decided to let them. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Hannah.”

  Hannah reached over the console between them and pulled her mom into a hug. “I thought I wouldn’t ever, like, be able to live up to you. But now I hope that someday I do.”

  Helen let go of her a little, pushing the hair out of Hannah’s eyes and wiping the tears from her cheeks. “What a brave thing you’ve done today.”

  “Brave?” Hannah asked.

  “I am not the easiest woman to talk to, am I?”

  Hannah shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “But you did it anyway. You have many qualities, but above all you are courageous.”

  Hannah pulled her back into a hug. “Maybe sometime you can tell me about your life when you were a kid.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  Helen pulled her tighter. Children, she suddenly understood, had an enormous capacity for forgiveness and mercy.

&nb
sp; “I love you too,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 44

  CHARLES

  AT THE DENVER AIRPORT, Charles Buckley sat by a cold window, though it was warm outside. The dark night, inky and void of much more than man-made lights glowing along distant runways, swallowed the gloss of all its reflections. Voices crackled over the intercoms, but he hardly heard them. What he needed to know he already knew.

  He thought he’d planned it so well, to come to the meeting and fly home early. He could get there in time for the party if Helen waited until seven.

  Charles had not counted on this thunderstorm. It wasn’t in any weather report he saw.

  He watched for a moment, but not the business travelers or the pilots walking by, pulling their luggage and trying to make it to their destinations. No, he watched the families. A mother sat nearby, holding an infant while helping a toddler draw with crayons. Across from her a dad sat talking with his son, both of them looking at an iPad and laughing.

  Near them was an old man, hunched over a cane and wearing a cardigan with as many holes as buttons. He stood with great effort, wobbly in every way imaginable.

  Soon, sliding up beside him was a woman, lovely and gentle, taking his elbow and steadying him. “Dad, what are you doing? I told you I would bring you a coffee.”

  “Did you? I’m sorry. I thought I was supposed to go get it.”

  “You—” she grinned, helping him back to his seat—“are supposed to sit and relax.”

  “You’re too kind,” he said, smiling at her. “Thank you.”

  “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?”

  “Those cinnamon rolls smell good.”

  “Your doctor says no sugar.”

  “What do doctors know? Please?”

  She laughed. “Well, you are ninety-one. I guess you’ve done pretty well, haven’t you?”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Okay, I’ll go get it.”

  “I love you, Denise.”

  “Love you too, Daddy.”

  Charles watched her walk away and then checked his watch. He loathed this watch now, the one he’d checked impatiently over the years, certain that it would give him all the time he wanted, eager and greedy for it, not realizing that it was a taker, too.

  Slowly he slid his cell phone out of the front pocket of his blazer. He pushed speed dial, and Helen answered. “Where are you, honey? I’ve put off the candle lighting as long as possible.”

  “Let me talk to Madison.”

  “Well, hurry up, okay?” Helen said, and he could hear her call Madison’s name.

  Then she was on the phone. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dad.”

  “Hi. Where are you? We’re starving for this cake!”

  The words were harder than he’d imagined. “I’m not going to make it.”

  “But . . . but you said you would.” And he had. He’d arranged to leave the meeting early so he could get home in time for cake.

  “There was this storm that came into Denver, and I’m stuck at the . . .” The words didn’t matter. They both knew it. Words, Charles realized, mattered not at all. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I gotta go.”

  “Madison, wait.”

  “What?”

  “Tell Mom I said to give you a hundred—no, two hundred bucks. That’s for missing your birthday, okay? I’ll take you shopping when I get home, and we’ll spend it on whatever you want.”

  “Okay. Bye, Dad.”

  “Bye, Madison. And happy eighteenth birthday.”

  But she was already gone.

  CHAPTER 45

  DAPHNE

  DAPHNE REACHED OUT for Tippy’s hand. Sweat streamed down her temples and puddled in the hollow of her neck. In a few seconds, the pain would return with a vengeance.

  “I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Tippy sat on a stool right by her bed, brushing the hair out of her face, unconcerned with the sweaty mess she’d become in the last twelve hours. “What can I get you?”

  “A baby out of my body.” She smiled weakly at him, but her heart was filled with love, even through the pain. Here he was, right by her side. He hadn’t left for even a second since they arrived.

  The baby had not come as they had expected—quickly, easily. At midnight Daphne’s blood pressure had dropped. Doctors and nurses buzzed around her as she passed in and out of consciousness. Once they got her pressure back up, the doctor said a C-section might be in order, but Daphne begged to do it only if absolutely necessary.

  She rolled her head to the side and looked at Tippy. “Why didn’t I do the epidural?”

  “Because you read that book.”

  “Yeah . . .” She sighed, then took a deep breath and exhaled, ready for the next round of contractions. A nurse was by her side, and then the doctor came in to check her. Dr. Petree had been in and out of the room no less than ten times, and it was always the same—not yet.

  He checked her once again, but this time he beckoned the nurse over, leaned into her and said something, then looked at Daphne. “It’s time.”

  “Push?” she asked, her voice frail and reedy.

  “Yes.”

  Daphne gripped Tippy’s hand and pulled herself up. She’d been to three different classes and had read all the books, but she couldn’t have imagined all of this in her wildest dreams. It was so painful, yet she felt a strength in her that she couldn’t explain.

  “Push!” the doctor urged.

  She thought she was. “I’m trying,” she said, looking tearfully at Tippy.

  “You’re doing great. Keep going,” he said.

  “Push harder,” the doctor said.

  Daphne clenched her teeth, and that long groan that had been waiting to be released finally made its way out.

  “Harder, Daphne.”

  “I’m pushing! I’m pushing!” Tears or sweat—she couldn’t tell which—rolled down her face. Every limb on her body shook, almost to the point of a convulsion.

  And then a cry. The tiniest, weakest of cries, otherworldly and vulnerable. Daphne couldn’t see anything, but Tippy’s face said it all. The baby was here. He wiped rare tears off his face, the only time he let go of her hand.

  “It’s a boy!” the doctor said.

  Tippy broke down, covering his face, and Daphne was so moved she couldn’t speak. She watched as the umbilical cord was cut. She was just getting quick glimpses of the baby as he was cleaned and wrapped. Then the nurse brought the little bundle to Daphne and placed him in her arms. Tippy leaned in and hovered over them, and it was the most comforting of moments—their family together in one small space.

  “He’s so pretty,” Tippy said, his voice cracking. “Can I say that about a boy?”

  “Look, he has your nose!” Daphne touched the baby’s cheek and he stopped crying, his wide eyes searching like he recognized them, their voices, their touch. “He knows us, Tippy. I can’t believe . . . I have a son.”

  “That’s your mama holding you.” Tippy’s voice was so soft, so sweet. She had never heard him speak with such kindness and gentleness. “I’m your daddy. We’re going to take care of you. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Daphne pulled her son closer, stroking the top of his head. Worry. It was all she’d done over the past nine months—worried about everything that might go wrong, planned for all the scenarios that she might encounter. Yet with his—his—arrival, there also came a sense of peace, and it wasn’t from the books or the classes or the advice she’d sought from every source she could find.

  Oddly, the peace came with the sense that the task before her—motherhood—was too big and daunting to do alone. Or even with Tippy—they weren’t fully equipped to do all that was before them.

  Daphne reached up and touched Tippy’s face.

  He smiled and took her hand. “We should name him.”

  Daphne nodded. “But first, we have to give him away.”

  Tippy frowned. “Not following.”

  “To God. We
have to give him back to God. Our baby is His, after all, when it comes down to it. He knows him top to bottom, inside and out, and already . . .” Her voice cracked. “He knows the number of his days and the journey that is set out for him. We have to trust Him because we can’t do this by ourselves.”

  Tippy stood upright and looked at the ceiling for a brief moment. Then he placed his strong hand over his son’s little head, and before he even had a name, he had a purpose and an identity and an everlasting hope that only came from above.

  CHAPTER 46

  CHARLES

  IT WAS 4:49 A.M. and Charles sat alone in his office without a single lamp on. Sometimes when he was a child, he’d sat in the darkness after he’d done something wrong, as if he could hide from himself. But even now, as he attempted to do the same thing, he knew the soul could fool itself but it couldn’t hide.

  He thought of Franklin Hollingsworth and wondered now if he, too, had sat alone in his office and realized what time had stolen. How could he not have seen what a thief time was? How, as a grown man, had he not understood that he was now reaping what he’d sown?

  Just outside his office on the kitchen table sat a single piece of birthday cake, saved, he presumed, for him. Around it lay eighteen candles, their wicks burned to ashes, their lights blown out, never to be lit again. What did the birthday cake mean if he was not part of the celebration?

  He slid his phone out of his pocket and easily found the contact he needed. It was at the top of his list of “important” people. As it rang in his ear, he slumped at his desk, weary from travel and life and regret.

  A groggy voice answered the phone. “What is it?”

  “Randall, it’s Charles.”

  “Did something happen?” Covers rustled in the background. His voice became more alert. “You said everything went as planned.”

  “Listen, Randall, what I’m about to tell you is going to make no sense to you, but . . .” He turned toward the window of his office, though it was black outside and he could only see the faintest reflection of himself from a small night-light on the wall. “I’m resigning.”