Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  Addie scratched her chin and looked at Walsh. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Betsy picked up a limp Walsh and carried her into the bathroom with Addie close on her heels. Addie showed Betsy where she’d lined up their toothbrushes on the bathroom counter, then reminded her that they both had to use the potty before bed. Betsy brushed Walsh’s teeth as well as she could, then helped her sit on the toilet. The child barely woke up, her head drooping to one side, her thumb lodged in her mouth.

  Back in the bedroom, Betsy folded down the blanket and laid Walsh on one side of the bed. Addie climbed up into the other. She nestled down in the bed and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, her stuffed elephant under her chin.

  “Are you going to be okay in here?” Betsy asked. At this point, she was fairly certain a hurricane wouldn’t wake Walsh, but Addie seemed almost too calm. “It must feel strange not to be in your own bed. If you need me, I’ll be right downstairs.”

  “Where do you sleep?” Addie asked.

  “In that room right across the hall.” She pointed to her closed bedroom door.

  Addie nodded and turned onto her side, facing Walsh. When she closed her eyes, Betsy stood, not sure of the right thing to do. She turned off the lamp next to the bed.

  “Don’t worry,” Addie said in the dark. “I’ll take care of Walsh.”

  Betsy stood in the doorway a moment before she pulled the door closed behind her. Then she opened it back up a couple of inches. Wouldn’t hurt to let in a little light.

  Betsy and Ty waited until they were in bed before they talked about the day. It was always like that—they might spend two hours together downstairs, looking for something to watch on TV or sitting on the back porch, but if they had something important to discuss, their unwritten rule was to wait until they were in bed before bringing it up. It was as if the darkness softened the hard edges, blurring any anger, frustration, or annoyance until it was easier to manage, easier to pull out into the open.

  Betsy slipped between the cool sheets while Ty was still in the bathroom. The lights were off, but the moon was bright, and it filtered through the windows, the curtains casting thin shadows across the floor and bed.

  “So, we’re parents for the next two weeks,” Ty said as he climbed into bed. “I always thought we’d be here, but not like this.” He stretched and yawned. “How are we supposed to know what to do? What if one of them gets sick? Or baths—how does that work?”

  “We’ll figure it out. I do know a little bit about kids.” She smiled. “And you probably know more than you think.”

  “I doubt that. My only experience with kids was the one time I babysat a neighbor’s nephew while she went to work. The kid jumped out his bedroom window and ran to a friend’s house four streets away while he was supposed to be napping.”

  “You never told me that story.”

  “Why would I? Doesn’t sound too good, having a kid escape on my watch.”

  Shadows darted and danced across the ceiling as the fan swirled. Ty shifted his leg so it pressed against Betsy’s. She could feel his gaze on her cheek, but she didn’t turn her head.

  “Maybe this is our chance to see if we have what it takes to be parents.” She gave a little laugh, but her throat felt funny. Too tight.

  Ty rolled up onto his elbow, his face above hers. “I have no doubt—not even a hint of a doubt—that we have what it takes to be parents. We have buckets of it. Acres of it.” He kissed her, then lay back again. “Anyway, the thing about having kids is that they usually start out as babies. It’ll be a different ball game practicing with two kids raised by a single mother who works all the time. No telling what life is like for those three.”

  Betsy rolled to her side and punched her pillow into shape beneath her cheek. She thought of Addie and her fierce protection of her little sister. “The girls are fine.”

  Sometime during the night, Betsy awoke to an unfamiliar sniffling, then a small moan. It was quiet, muffled, but it was enough to bring her out of a dead sleep. She sat up in bed, flung the sheets away, and patted the bed until she found Ty’s arm.

  “Ty? Ty! Someone’s—”

  Then she remembered. They weren’t alone in the house.

  “Which one is it?” he mumbled.

  “Go back to sleep. I’ll check.”

  She tiptoed across the hall, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Walsh’s side of the bed was still and quiet, but as Betsy stood watching, unsure of what to do, another sniffle came from Addie’s side. She knelt next to the bed and patted the small lump under the covers until she reached Addie’s face, her damp cheeks. “Addie? What’s wrong, honey?”

  “I had a bad dream. A scary one.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” she said, cringing as the words left her mouth. She had terrible night terrors as a child—much later than most kids had them. She still had them at nine, ten years old, old enough to remember the sheer terror and fear that accompanied those awful nights. Her parents always told her there was nothing to be scared of and that she should just go back to sleep, the worst words they could have said.

  She tried again. “Tell me what scared you.”

  “It was Mommy. She was leaving. She was driving away in a big school bus.”

  “That must have been sad. But you know what? Your mommy isn’t in a big school bus, and she’s coming back very soon.”

  “And she’ll bring me a treat?”

  “That’s what she said, isn’t it? I bet she’ll find you something wonderful.”

  Addie nodded, sniffled again. “Could you sleep with me? Just for a little bit?”

  “I don’t know if I—”

  “Please? I’ll be quiet and I won’t move a muscle.”

  Betsy smiled in spite of herself. “Okay. But just for a little bit.”

  Addie scooted toward Walsh, leaving a space of about eight inches for Betsy to squeeze into. Betsy scooped the parade of My Little Ponys onto the floor, then stretched her legs out and pulled her grandmother’s blanket up over herself. When she settled, the girls’ scents filled her senses. Was it possible to get light-headed over the smell of sleeping children? She inhaled. It was sleep, a little sweat, lingering cinnamon from the snickerdoodles she’d given the girls after dinner, and something else she couldn’t quite name.

  Addie had been still a couple of minutes, not moving a muscle, just like she said, when Walsh grunted in her sleep and flopped over, one arm flinging against Addie. Addie giggled, then stopped. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Betsy whispered. “Did that hurt?”

  “No. She does it all the time,” Addie whispered back.

  “Do you and Walsh sleep together at home?” Betsy remembered the girls being in separate bedrooms last summer.

  “Sometimes. When Mommy has to work late, Walsh usually comes into my room after the babysitter puts her to bed.”

  “You take good care of Walsh, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She couldn’t see Addie’s face, but she could almost hear the smile.

  Betsy woke to Ty standing over her next to the bed. “Are you okay in here?” he whispered.

  She tried to sit up, but Addie’s arm had pinned her in place. In her sleep Addie had curled up next to Betsy’s side. Walsh lay partially on top of Addie, her plump arm draped across her sister and onto Betsy’s right shoulder. All three of them filled half of the double bed; the other half was empty.

  “You’re like a magnet,” Ty whispered, grinning. “Look at them. They can’t get close enough to you.”

  In the midst of that tangle of warm skin and sleepy breaths, dreams she’d packed away into a tiny space in her heart flooded back. She lifted Addie’s arm and slithered out from underneath it inch by inch.

  “You don’t have to get up,” Ty whispered as Betsy tried to free herself without disturbing the girls’ sleep. “I just got up to go to the bathroom and saw you weren’t in bed.”

  “It’s okay. I can’t . . .”
<
br />   Addie whimpered as Betsy pulled herself free. “Aunt Betsy, please don’t go.”

  “It’s okay,” Betsy whispered. “Uncle Ty is going to lie down with you for a few minutes.” She turned to Ty. “Please stay with her.”

  She was already out in the hallway when Ty caught up to her. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “Addie had a bad dream and needs someone to lie with her. Just please do it for me.”

  She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, relishing the stillness of the air, the empty bed, the familiar, unchildlike scents of her space. She stretched out in bed—her side cool, Ty’s side still warm—and put a hand over her thumping heart.

  It’s just two weeks.

  Then guilt, like a heavy tide of truth, washed over her, soaking her spirit and her soul. It didn’t tell her anything original. It just confirmed what she already knew: she’d make a terrible mother. Her own mother had been distant and distracted—how could Betsy possibly hope to make a good one?

  The truth that had come to her inch by inch over the last two years now blazed with certainty. If Betsy had kids, she’d mess them up in a million small ways, and if God had a hand in it, and she figured He probably did, then He was doing the only natural thing a father would do—protect those kids. Protect them from her. It was the only thing that made sense.

  twelve

  Ty

  Ty’s internal alarm clock buzzed at four thirty as usual, even though he was still in Addie and Walsh’s bed, nudged to the very edge by Addie’s poky backbone. He pushed himself up on his elbow. Walsh was curled up next to her sister, both their faces relaxed in easy slumber.

  He was used to sharing a bed, but not like this. Betsy and Ty often lay in bed together, legs and arms entwined, but when the light went out, they pulled apart, no skin touching. It had always been like that—no offense meant or taken, just two people who wanted to sleep free and undisturbed. These two girls knew nothing about that. For hours, they’d either slept on top of him, hung arms over his head, kneed him in the stomach, or dug toes into his legs. They were completely and blissfully unaware.

  He crept into his bedroom, brushed his teeth in the dark, and pulled on blue jeans and a clean shirt. He grabbed socks and his belt and tiptoed to the door, the taste of coffee already on his tongue.

  “Babe?” Betsy’s whisper floated to him from the bed.

  He turned and crept back to the bed. “Sorry. I tried to be quiet.” She shifted and he sat on the edge of the mattress. Her sleepy warmth curled around him, poured into his bones. “You okay?”

  “I’m good.” She yawned. “Have you heard anything from the girls yet?”

  “Not a peep. I just left their room and they didn’t even move when I got up.”

  “You stayed the rest of the night?”

  He nodded. “They had me in a vise grip.”

  She smiled and let out a small laugh, just a puff of air, really. But it was something.

  “Were you okay last night? With the girls?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “I was fine. Why?”

  “You just seemed a little edgy.”

  “It was nothing,” she said, as he knew she would. But then she inhaled and paused, as if thinking of the right words. She bit her bottom lip.

  “What is it?” Steady, Ty.

  She shook her head. “I think I’ll make pancakes for breakfast. Think they’d like that?”

  He hesitated, watched her face for . . . for what? It wasn’t like she was depressed. Or angry. Or volatile. She was his Betsy. His sensitive, funny, private, and beautiful wife. What would he even be looking for?

  He smiled. “They’ll love it.”

  When Ty pulled open the barn gate, he was sixteen minutes late to the morning milking. The first round of forty were already in place in line, their udders plugged into the machines, the soft whoosh of milk filling the pumps and flowing into metal tanks. Such a beautiful sound, the sound of milk and money.

  He walked through the line, checking tubes and attachments, pleased to find Walker had done a better job than usual. Maybe he was finally learning something.

  “Wild night, Mr. Franklin?” Walker pushed the wide broom near Ty’s feet.

  “Watch yourself, kid.” Carlos straightened up from underneath number 039. “That’s your boss you’re talking to.”

  “Right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Walker sputtered, his cheeks pink and awkward. He backed away and took the broom to the other side of the barn.

  “But seriously,” Carlos said. “You’re never late. How wild was it?”

  “As if I’d tell you anyway.”

  “Come on, man! Throw a boy a bone here.”

  Ty shook his head. “You need to take that up with Gloria.” He reached over and adjusted a milk line, then ran his hand down the bristly back of lucky number 040.

  “I’m in the doghouse.” Carlos sat on a stool and pulled off his boot. Dumped it upside down and two pebbles fell out. He kicked them to the door of the barn. “I missed our anniversary a few days ago. She let me get all the way until ten o’clock that night before saying anything about it. Just kept her anger pent up all day. It’s a wonder that woman doesn’t implode with all the things she doesn’t tell me.”

  Ty patted 040 once more, then strode to the back office to make a note to call the vet about a possible bruise on her hoof. He kicked at Carlos’s foot as he passed by. “You need to take care of that, my friend. I heard Ollie’s Meat-and-Three is having a buy-one-get-one-free night. Maybe you should take Gloria out for an apology dinner.”

  Carlos was still laughing when Ty reached the privacy of his office. He grabbed a notebook and pencil off the desk and sat on the couch, but he didn’t open the notebook. Carlos’s words had cut a little close. “Woman troubles,” is what Carlos would call it, which was why Ty rarely confided anything real to him. His marriage, his life with Betsy, seemed too private, too covered in nerve endings to even talk about. But the idea of imploding under the pressure of things left unsaid—that touched something raw in him.

  He’d had a girlfriend named Summer his first year at Auburn. It was the perfect name for her. She was perky and pink, with a light splatter of freckles across her nose. Always happy. If he did something nice for her—brought her a bunch of daisies he’d bought at Toomer’s Drugs or waited for her after one of her classes in the Haley Center—she’d grin bigger than the moon, wrap her arms around him, and kiss him, front and center, unafraid of anything or anyone watching. If something got under her skin, she’d talk to him about it, work out the issue, then leave it behind. She wasn’t the type to say, “Fine,” when she meant anything but.

  In the end they broke up but remained friendly, because things with her could never be anything but friendly, and he’d breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he wanted someone dark or angry or hard to read, but something about Summer’s open-faced honesty and the easy way she talked about her feelings and desires made him feel less like a man than he was comfortable with.

  Ty heard the clang of number 026 kicking at the machine. She always got antsy at the end of her milking, ready to be released to the field.

  “Time’s up, Boss,” Carlos called. Ty scratched out the note to call the vet and tossed the notebook back on his desk.

  Out in the barn Carlos was halfway through unhooking the cows from the machines. Ty started at the far end of the line, releasing udders and dabbing on a thin coat of Bag Balm to prevent irritation.

  When they finished the line, the cows shuffled into the field to graze for their breakfast. Walker opened the gate to allow the next forty into the milking parlor, then he, Carlos, and Ty went through the line, dipping the udders into antiseptic, hooking them into the milking machines, and checking each cow for potential problems.

  While they waited the few minutes it took to milk the group, Carlos poured a cup from the Mr. Coffee sitting on top of a plastic barrel and leaned against the wall next to Ty. “So, Ollie’
s. Think that’d work?”

  Ty glanced sideways at Carlos, judging his seriousness. “Man, no. Don’t take her there. I was kidding.”

  “Why? They have a great catfish plate.”

  “Sure they do. But do you really want to take Gloria to a backwoods diner for an anniversary dinner? When you’re already trying to climb out of a hole?” Ty shook his head.

  “Well, what do you suggest, Mr. Romance? There’s not much else around here.”

  “We’re twenty miles from beachside dining at sunset. Start there.”

  Carlos gulped his coffee and grunted. “This stuff is terrible.” He tossed the half-empty cup into the trash barrel, but it bounced and sent coffee up the wall. He muttered a string of obscenities under his breath and grabbed a rag to wipe down the wall. “You been married, what, ten years?”

  “Eight.” Ty leaned over and felt number 080’s udder. Just another minute or so to go.

  “I’ve been married fif—sixteen years. How’d you get so smart about women?”

  “Good luck, I guess.”

  “Nah. You probably just give Betsy whatever she wants.” When Ty didn’t correct him, Carlos chuckled. “So, what Betsy wants, she gets. I see who wears the pants around here.”

  Ty looked at his friend. “You’re an idiot.” He grabbed the damp rag and wiped some coffee Carlos had missed.

  When the second group of forty was done, they began the process over again and Ty took a knee next to number 096. Smack in the middle of the line. He knew it’d get Carlos all messed up—he liked to go through the line in order—but Ty didn’t care. Number 096 was Rosie, and Rosie was special.

  As he cleaned her and hooked her up, he thought back to his junior year at Auburn when he first saw Betsy. She jogged by the ag field every day in her little running shorts and tank tops, her hair bouncing. Even from the barn, he could hear her friend’s constant chatter, but Betsy was usually quiet, her eyes glued to him. He could feel her gaze without even turning his head. It sank into his shoulders, the back of his neck.