Our New Normal (ARC)

by Colleen Faulkner

  “I know, Dad. That’s what I keep trying to tell her.” I take a step toward him. Suddenly he seems like the father I knew before the plaque in his brain began to damage his blood vessels and cause the cognitive changes. He even sounds more like himself. “But Oscar agrees with Hazel.” I give a little laugh that’s utterly devoid of humor. “Dad, Oscar thinks he and I can raise the baby if Hazel can’t.”

  I hold his gaze, suddenly hopeful because I’m not alone in this. I should have known Dad would be on my side. He and I have always thought so much alike. I don’t know why I didn’t come to him sooner. Why I didn’t try to bring him into the discussion two weeks ago when we found out. “Maybe you could talk to Hazel?” I ask. “About how adoption might be the best thing she can do for her baby and herself? Maybe tell her some of the things you told me when I was growing up? When I was sad because I thought my birth mother didn’t want me?”

  He nods ever so slowly.

  I wait for his words of wisdom. Maybe a plan we can formulate together.

  Then he says, “She’s doing the right thing.”

  I’m taken aback by his words. “I’m sorry?”

  “Keeping the baby. It’ll be hard, but Hazel’s smart. She’ll manage.” He turns away from me.

  She’ll manage? I want to say. But instead, I say, “Daddy . . . she’s going into the eleventh grade. She just got her braces off in June. She works as a clerk in a drugstore, part-time.” I gesture with the kitchen towel, pointing in the general direction of the backyard. “The baby’s father works weekends for his uncle in an auto repair shop. How are they going to manage?”

  “We don’t give away our babies. Not in this family,” he says, his back to me now as he makes his retreat. “You want a brownie? Bethy brought brownies from the bakery. The kind with the nuts and the coffee icing. She knows they’re my favorite.”

  I watch him shuffle toward the French doors that lead out to the deck. When he opens the door, I hear Oscar and Beth laughing. I hear Hazel talking, to my mom, likely. The backyard is practically a Norman Rockwell painting. The sun is shining, my son is headed off on what will be one of the greatest adventures of his life, and Mom is having a good day, a practically pain-free day. My family is out there together having a good time, enjoying one another’s company.

  And here I am alone in the kitchen, feeling as if I could fall into a puddle of tears on the floor.

  And I know it’s ridiculous. I’m a logical person. I shouldn’t be this devastated. My daughter is pregnant. She doesn’t have terminal cancer. None of us do. I’ve been happily married for twenty years. I have a home that’s more than half paid for and a family that loves me. And even though my parents’ illnesses are difficult, they’ve both led amazingly happy, productive lives. And yes, my sixteen-year-old is going to have a baby out of wedlock, but that’s pretty much been happening since the beginning of time. And young women do figure it out. I keep trying to remind myself of that fact.

  I have a cousin, Theresa, who’s my age, who got pregnant when she was sixteen. She went to college, though it took her a few years longer than me. She met a nice guy and married and they had three children together. Every year we get a Christmas card with a photo of them from Seattle. They look happy.

  But I know Theresa’s life wasn’t easy for a long time. And I wanted more for Hazel. Want more for her. For our first grandchild.

  I take a shuddering breath, fighting the urge to break down in tears. I think I want to cry, not just for my daughter, but because I wanted more than this for myself. And I feel so guilty for that.

  I don’t cry because I’m not a crier. Or at least I try not to be. Instead, I sigh the way my dad used to and go back to the kitchen sink, the same sink I washed dishes in as a child. The feeling that the world as I know it is gone passes, and I grab a crocheted kitchen rag my mother uses to clean up my father’s spills. I go to the place where I see the remnants of my father’s dinner on the floor and squat to wipe it up.

  The familiarity of the pattern of the hard maple wood flooring, of the motion of wiping it, feels good. I’ve always found comfort in this house, which I find interesting because when I was a teenager, I just wanted to get away from it. But maybe it was just my mother I wanted to escape from.

  My parents bought this house on Wren Street three years before they adopted me. Dad’s practice was doing well, and they were happy. At least as happy as a childless couple who desperately wants children could be.

  Mom loves this house; she says she intends to die in this house. No one likes to think about their parents dying, but if that’s what she wants, I hope I can make it happen. I hope I can be strong enough to see it through, to hold her hand and watch her pass. Of course, I also hope we’ll have many, many more years with her. I want that for my kids. Hazel especially. While my mom always struggled to connect with me, she’s never had any trouble making a connection with my kids, particularly with Hazel. She and Hazel have always been best buds, and now . . . now Hazel is going to need her Gran even more.

  The potato salad and condiments wiped up, I go back to the sink, rinse out the cloth, and give the floor one more swipe, just to be sure it will pass Bernice’s inspection, and then I return to the sink to finish what I was doing.

  I squirt dish soap on the plate that held the raw burgers before they went onto the grill. Stare out onto the front lawn that’s immaculately kept. It’s our last dinner with my parents and my family here for a while. Tomorrow I’m taking Sean down to Massachusetts.

  I let the water run, staring out the window but not really seeing anything.

  I assumed I’d be upset about Sean leaving, but I’m surprisingly composed. I think he’s going to be okay. And here I thought he was the one I needed to worry about, not Hazel. I know he’ll excel academically. And despite his social angst, I think . . . I’m hopeful that he’ll find his way. He had a good time in Portland with his roommate last week. He seems excited now to go, rather than scared the way he was a few weeks ago.

  And by tomorrow afternoon, one of my chicks will have flown the nest.

  That feels good. Scary, but good.

  Tomorrow I’m driving alone with Sean to a little town outside of Boston, Massachusetts, and back. Oscar couldn’t take the day off. I wanted him to go with me, with us, but it will still be good to ride down with Sean. He and I don’t get to spend much time together alone. Then Tuesday I’m meeting the demolition guys I hired to take down a wall in the Anselin house. I’m excited to get started on the job. Nervous because even though I know I’ve thought of everything, I know I haven’t.

  I hear the door open behind me and I glance over my shoulder. It’s Oscar.

  “Hey,” I say, hoping I don’t look like I’ve come close to tears several times in the last ten minutes.

  He glances at me. “Hey, babe.” I get a lopsided grin. “More beer in the fridge?”

  I nod and turn to lean against the sink. I watch him open Mom and Dad’s refrigerator that’s so clean it looks as if it could be on the sales floor of the local Lowe’s. “How’s everyone doing out there?”

  Two amber bottles of beer in hand, he lets the door swing shut and grabs the opener magnetically attached to the side of the refrigerator. He pops the caps, somehow managing to catch them in his hand. He knows how to open a beer, I’ll give him that. He can also resuscitate someone. A renaissance man if there ever was one. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Fell hard. What seems like a million years ago.

  “Everything’s good. Your mom is grilling Hazel about her doctor’s appointment right now. Beth and I beat Sean and Hazel twice at corn hole. Now they want best out of five.”

  I feel like he’s avoiding eye contact with me. I surprise him and me both by walking over and kissing him on the mouth. I stroke his beard. It’s getting a little scraggly, a little ZZ Top. I’m amazed no one in the emergency department has said anything to him about it.

  “What’s that for?” He sounds suspicious.

 
; “Have to be for anything?” I kiss him again, playfully, but a little harder. He tastes like beer and dill pickles.

  He makes a face, curling his upper lip, Elvis style. “You don’t want to talk, do you?”

  He means about Hazel. I do want to talk to him. But not about Hazel. Not right now, at least. I want to talk about us. About this distance between us even when we kiss. Once upon a time, he would have abandoned the beers, pushed me up against the counter, and copped a feel. Kissed me good and hard. A time not too long in the distance.

  He takes another sip of his beer. “You coming outside? One of us can sit out a game and you can play.”

  I push the hair that’s fallen from my ponytail out of my eyes. “I was thinking maybe we could squeeze in a little vacation. Go up to Bar Harbor, or, I don’t know, Québec City?”

  He takes a long pull on one of the beers. “Hon, I can’t take any time off right now.”

  “A long weekend, then, even midweek.” I shrug. “Depending on your schedule. Just you and me. Hazel can stay with Mom and Dad.” I sound pathetic. Desperate, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the vulnerability I hear in my voice. I feel in my chest. “We could take a walk on the beach? Go hiking?”

  “We can do that at the cottage for free. My sister said something about all of us going next weekend.” He sips his beer, not making eye contact with me.

  “I meant the two of us alone together. Away from all this.” I gesture to the kitchen floor where I just cleaned up potato salad.

  He glances at the floor. I can tell he has no idea what I’m talking about, but he doesn’t question me.

  “We could use some time alone, Oscar.” I pause. “Don’t you think?”

  “Ayuh,” he says like a true Mainer. He turns away. “We can talk about it. It’s beautiful outside. Come on out.”

  I watch him go and then return to my sink duties. Not two minutes later the door opens again. This time it’s Sean. I watch him cut through the kitchen, headed to the bathroom off the laundry room.

  I feel like a revolving door of emotions.

  When he comes out of the bathroom, I’ve retaken my position leaning against the sink. Watching him. Smiling. He looks good today. Suntanned from our days at the cottage. And somehow more relaxed. He had a good time in Portland with his roommate.

  “You hiding in here, Mom?”

  I frown. “No, I’m not hiding.”

  “Aunt Beth says you’re hiding from us. And the world.” He starts to turn away and then surprises me by turning back. “We leaving soon?”

  I think for a second. “Another hour.”

  “I told Hazel we could go for a spin in my car. She might want to buy it. She says she and Tyler need a car for the little bambino. She’s got to look at some kind of brackets in the seat for a car seat? She started going on about regulations set up by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I never do.”

  I can’t help but smile. Hazel is a bit obsessed with safety regulations in the U.S. Her fixation seems to be somehow associated with her interest in additives in manufactured food and her whole green campaign in general. It all started back in the sixth or seventh grade when she did an experiment suggested by her science teacher where she tried not to eat anything with high fructose corn syrup in it. I don’t mind her preoccupation with all of it most of the time. It’s good for her, it’s good for a family, and it’s certainly good for the planet. It’s still annoying.

  “That’s not your car, that’s my car,” I repeat. “I bought that car from your granddad.”

  “She doesn’t know that.” He grins.

  “You are not selling your sister my car.”

  “Mom, I’m not going to need it. Freshmen can’t have cars. Richard says he might bring his next year, though.” He makes a face. “I think his parents are rich. They own some kind of company in Augusta. They said they’d pay for the parking. He thinks they think he’ll come home more often if he has a car. I don’t need my car.”

  “You don’t need my car,” I correct. “What about next summer? You’ll need it to get to work.”

  “Might not. My advisor said there are a lot of summer internships in Boston.” There’s an excitement in his voice. “He says the school places a lot of people. I wouldn’t get to actually create any game content, not the first summer at least, but I’d get to see how it works.”

  Not come home for the summer? I feel that lump in my throat again as my autonomic nervous system kicks in. I blink to hold back the tears. For a person who has never been a crier, this seems to be happening a lot. This is not the time to talk about this. I know it. Besides, why would he come home to nowhere Maine when he could spend the summer in Boston earning money, getting experience working in gaming, and hanging out with friends? I never lived at home again after the summer following my high school graduation. I couldn’t wait to get far away from this house.

  “You’re not selling your sister my car,” I repeat yet again. “I’m thinking about getting a pickup truck. I can trade my car and yours in and get at least fifty cents.” I cross my arms over my chest, taking my stand. “I’m not providing baby daddy Tyler with a car, Sean.”

  My son looks down at me. He’s already at least two inches taller than I am. And he looks more like his father every day with his head of auburn hair. His movements. He’s even got the stubbly red beard growth going.

  He exhales just the way Oscar does when he’s frustrated with me. “Mom, you gotta stop,” he says.

  His tone startles me. He never speaks to me this way. With criticism in his voice. He rarely speaks to me at all, except when forced to by a barrage of questions, or if he wants to know where his favorite blue shorts are. The ones I’ve repaired the seat seam in at least three times.

  I feel myself prickle. “Gotta stop what?”

  “This thing with Hazel. You gotta—” He stops and starts again. “Let it go. I know it’s not the best situation, but—”

  Not the best situation? I want to interrupt. But I don’t, only because I’m afraid if I do, he won’t speak his mind again to me until he’s at least forty. So I suck it up. I keep my mouth shut and listen. Try to really listen.

  “Hazel’s keeping the baby.” He’s softened his tone. “It’s a dumb idea. It’s going to be a disaster. I know that. Tyler won’t even stick around long enough until she has the baby. Which means she’s going to have to raise it by herself. But, Mom, she’s already decided she’s keeping it and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

  He slides his hands into the front pockets of his shorts. He’s not done saying what he wants to say. I can see it on his face. I keep quiet, torn between being so proud of who he’s becoming and being angry that even if he agrees with me, he’s not agreeing with me.

  “It’s not legal. You can’t take her baby from her and just give it to someone, Mom.”

  He sounds like Oscar now.

  “You gotta stop making yourself crazy. Making us all crazy.” Now he’s on a roll. “No one even wants to be in the same room with you because you just start up again with the whole adoption thing. Face it. Hazel isn’t putting her baby up for adoption. It doesn’t matter if it’s the right thing to do or not.”

  I stand there looking at him for a moment, my heart swelling with love for him. Taking over the sense of betrayal I feel because he doesn’t understand that this isn’t about taking sides. It isn’t even about me getting my way. It’s about the instinct a mother has for protecting her child. Her cub.

  I smile at him. A proud mama smile. “I’m going to miss you so much, Sean.”

  “You coming outside? You need to get control of Granddad. He’s talking about going up on the roof to check the seal around the chimney. Gran just keeps hollering at him and calling him old man.”

  “Can I have a hug?” I ask, opening my arms.

  My son makes a face at me as if to say I’ve just made the most ridiculous request he’s e
ver heard. “Nope,” he says. “Because you’re still going to want a hug tomorrow when you drop me off.”

  12

  Hazel

  Mom pulls into Tyler’s parents’ driveway, and I close my eyes, wishing I believed in God or Mother Earth or Allah. Wishing I believed in something other than science, so I could pray for a miracle. Like an earthquake that would open a big crevasse under Mom’s new truck and we would fall into the heated rock mantle and be consumed by flames.

  Of course, that’s not how earthquakes work. Crevasses don’t open up during an earthquake; they happen after an earthquake when there are landslides and lateral spreads. An earthquake happens when two chunks of the earth’s crust slide past each other because of friction on the fault while the rest of the crust away from the edges is moving really slowly.

  The minute we pull in, Tyler’s dogs start barking. Hopefully they’re locked up in their kennels out back, otherwise Dad is going to start in about not getting out of the truck before someone locks them up. Then we’ll have to hear about the latest dog mauling he saw in the emergency department. I think he makes up these stories to suit his needs because he’s always got a story about a dog mauling, a boating accident, or a kid being blinded by a Nerf dart.

  I glance up as Mom parks behind Tyler’s stepdad J.J.’s truck. Sitting in the backseat, I feel small. Like I did when I was little and my legs didn’t hang over the edge of the seat yet. I cringe at what I see, even though I see it all the time.

  The lawn needs mowing and there’s a cement birdbath that got knocked over last winter that no one ever got around to standing back up again. There’s junk all around the house, too: last year’s Christmas tree with old-school tinsel still hanging off it, two tires, a recliner the dogs chewed up and Tyler’s stepdad got pissed and threw out the door.