The toaster clicks and Oscar tops the sandwiches and begins wrapping them. I dig in the refrigerator for something to pack for myself for lunch. I have to hit both job sites today. I’ve got a beautiful I beam being delivered to the new project that I plan to use as a divider between their kitchen and living room and I also have an appointment with a stonemason. I’ll be lucky if I even make it home in time for dinner. Which I just threw in the Crock-Pot: pot roast with carrots and potatoes.
Oscar looks up from his post at the counter. “This is nice, Liv.”
“What?” I glance at him. I found cold pesto pasta in the back of the fridge that can’t be more than four or five days old. I feel like I’ve hit the lotto.
“Being here with you like this. Without the kids.” He pauses. “I think they make us both a little crazy.”
We both stand there looking at each other, me still holding the refrigerator open. He comes to me and puts his arms around my waist and I let go of the fridge door. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him tightly, surprised by the tears that spring to my eyes. “We have to figure this out, Liv. You and me.” His breath is warm in my ear. “I miss you. I don’t want to fight.”
“I miss you, too,” I breathe.
“Maybe we need to get away. Just you and me? A B&B or something. Vermont?”
He’s still murmuring in my ear. “I think we need to take a little focus off baby mama and put more on ourselves. On our marriage. Because . . . because I love you, babe.” His voice crackles with emotion. “And I don’t like this. I don’t like how we are anymore.”
A lump rises in my throat and it takes me a moment to find my voice. “I love you, too,” I manage.
“So . . . a weekend away?”
Before I can rattle off all the things I have to do besides look for a decent price on a weekend getaway at a B&B, he says, “I’ll look into it. Next weekend? Or is that the baby shower?”
“No baby shower now.”
“No baby shower? What happened?”
I take a breath, step out of his arms, and go back into the refrigerator for my cold pasta. “Cancelled. She doesn’t want it. She said none of her friends were coming. I think she had an argument about it with Katy.”
“No baby shower? So, what? You and I are going to be buying baby crap? That pissant doesn’t plan to contribute anything financially toward this?”
I decide not to address the baby stuff right now because I’m a little concerned that Hazel isn’t making plans as far as what she’ll need. When she first found out she was pregnant, she had lists, what kind of equipment, what kind or organic sleeper, pacifiers, all highly researched. But I haven’t heard a word about any of it in weeks. It’s almost as if she’s forgotten she’s having the baby.
Maybe trying to forget.
“Next week. Let’s shoot for that.” I stand there holding my bowl of pasta. “You really do need to get to work.”
He checks his watch. Sighs. “I’d love to call in sick. You and I could just . . . I don’t know. Hang out. I could light a fire in the fireplace.” He says it as if trying to entice.
“I can’t. I wish I could.” I shake my head. “Appointments out the wazoo.”
“I know. I can’t, either.” He goes back to the counter and takes two of the wrapped sandwiches. “But I’ll see you tonight?” He comes back to me, his lips puckered for a kiss. “Let me make that fire for us? We’ll send the kid to her room. Kids.”
I kiss him. “It’s a date.”
He kisses me again, this time his lips lingering over mine. And then he heads for the laundry room. “Can you let Willie Nelson out one more time before you leave?”
I look at the clock on the stove. Now I’m running late, too. “Sure.”
“And my suit that’s still at the dry cleaners? Could you run by and pick it up? I’ve got that meeting next week. Apparently we can’t wear our pjs.” He tugs on his scrubs top.
“Tomorrow, if not today.”
“Love you, babe,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Love you,” I echo softly.
24
Hazel
I walk up to Katy’s locker and lean against the one next to hers. My back is killing me. And my feet hurt. Thank goodness I wore my Ugg boots. My feet are already swollen and it isn’t even lunchtime yet.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Katy’s digging around in her locker so I can’t see her face. I know she’s still mad at me about the shower. She really wanted to have a baby shower for me. And order a cake that looked like an old-school baby rattle and play dumb games like guessing the baby’s due date and weight. But I don’t want a baby shower. She said she’d already made plans. Bought invitations with elephants on them. I told her I didn’t care. Return the invitations. I don’t want my friends sitting around playing games and eating cake. I don’t want their presents. I doubt many people would have come, anyway. And those who did come would only have done so because Katy or maybe their moms guilted them into it.
“How’d you do on your quiz?”
“Ninety-one.”
I peek around the corner of her locker door. “You did better than I did.” For once, I almost say. But if I’m trying to suck up to her, that’s probably not the way to do it. To rub her nose in the fact that I’m the better student. Always.
Or was. Before I started slacking off. Before Charlie.
The baby moves inside me.
He’s head down already, Dr. Gallagher says. Which is supposed to be good, but now I feel like I have a bowling ball between my legs. I put both of my hands on my belly to feel him. It’s like he knows I’m thinking about him. Like he’s saying he doesn’t care that he’s ripped a big hole in my life.
Charlie settles down and I lean against the lockers again. Kids are passing by in the hall. Some people I know say hi. But some don’t even make eye contact. I watch them, trying to remember what it felt like when I wasn’t pregnant. When I didn’t feel the responsibility of another human being weighing down on me.
“I talked to Ms. Esposito this morning,” I say. “About finishing out the year at home. It took me all week to get in. Did you know you have to make an appointment with a guidance counselor now? You can’t just walk in?”
“What did she say?”
I shrug and lower my backpack to the floor. All of a sudden, just in the last week, it’s started to feel heavier. I think it’s because I’m so fat. I’ve gained twenty-three pounds! When I got on the scale at Dr. Gallagher’s office the other day, I actually started bawling.
“She said I can definitely do it. Nobody wants me here, not with my titties leaking milk.”
“Ewww,” Katy says. “Do you have to keep talking about that?”
I’m just as weirded out by the whole idea of a baby sucking on my nips as Katy is, but I don’t say so. All the research stresses how important breast-feeding is, so I have to do it for Charlie. I’m going to do it for him. “I can definitely do the online school thing. I just . . .” I groan and rest the back of my head against the locker behind me. “There’s, like, a lot of paperwork and . . .” I groan again. “There’s just a lot of stuff I have to do.”
“Guess you better start doing it, then.”
“Hey, Katy,” this girl Marissa we know calls as she walks by.
“Hey,” Katy calls back.
“Hi.” I wave at Marissa.
She smiles at me, but she doesn’t say anything. I want to say she’s acting like a total bitch. But she’s not. Not really. She’s one of the girls who still actually talks to me. And doesn’t talk about me behind my back, like some of the other girls do.
I grab Katy’s locker door and pull it back farther so I can see her. “You going to Kelsey Wright’s party Friday night?”
She’s flipping through a spiral notebook and glances at me. “I was thinking about it, but—Oh crap. Incoming. My three o’clock.” She rolls her eyes dramatically in the direction behind my back. “Coming up on you.”
I don’t look. I know who she’s talking about. Tyler. He’s walking down the hall. Right toward us. I shrug like to say, “So?”
Actually, this is the first week I’ve been able to see him without having to hide so he won’t see me crying. I’m so over him now. Completely. “He still coming this way?”
Katy cuts her eyes in his direction and then sticks her head back in her locker.
A bunch of freshman boys walk by, being loud and shoving one another. Tyler is walking behind them.
With Amanda.
Holding her hand.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I swallow hard and look down. Then I look up, bringing my hand to my enormous stomach. I rub it; making it obvious I’m trying to call attention to my baby. His baby.
“Hey, Ty,” I say loud enough for one of the freshman boys to look back over his shoulder.
Tyler acts like he didn’t even hear me.
“Amanda.” I nod my head when she meets my gaze.
She looks away fast. “Hey, Hazel. I like your . . . your sweatshirt,” she says.
It’s one of Dad’s hoodies because I’m a whale and I can only wear his shirts now. Nothing I own, even my big stuff, fits. And nothing of Mom’s fits me anymore, either. The sweatshirt I’m wearing has a beach and a sunset on it and says Key West. Mom and Dad took us to Key West for Easter when I was in the eighth grade. We had so much fun that it makes me sad to think about it because I won’t be going on vacations like that anymore. You can’t take a baby on a WaveRunner.
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
Tyler and Amanda walk past me. Still holding hands.
I wait until they get all the way to the water fountain before I whisper to Katy, “He didn’t even speak to me.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She slams her locker door shut. “You don’t need him. You don’t even want him.” She stands beside me and leans against her locker, her books in her arms. “You said you wouldn’t take him back, even if he begged you.”
I rub my belly and breathe deep to keep back the tears. Tears that are his fault. Which really doesn’t mean much—the fact that I would cry because the dickwad didn’t say hello. I didn’t used to be a crier, but I cry over everything now. Mom says it’s hormonal. That it will get better after the baby is born. I sure as tarnation hope so. This week I’ve cried because Gran bought me a cupcake with an elephant on it. An Indian elephant. She remembered that you can tell if they are Indian elephants or African elephants because their ears are shaped like the continent they originate from. I also cried watching a cell phone commercial on TV. Then there was the breakdown in the doctor’s office when I realized what a cow I was. The nurse actually had to tell me to sit down and she got a bottle of water for me.
“The party Friday night,” I say to Katy. “You definitely going?”
“Why?”
I look at her. She’s frowning so hard that her eyebrows almost go together. She has the best eyebrows. She uses some kind of plastic stencil to pluck them perfectly. I used to pluck mine; right now, they look like two azalea bushes on my forehead. Some of the hairs are almost as long as Granddad’s.
“You wanna go to the party?” she asks me.
I chew on my bottom lip. “I think maybe I do.”
She doesn’t seem to be all that psyched about the idea. “Her parents aren’t going to be there. There’s going to be beer. You allowed to go?”
I look at her like that’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. “Can I spend the night with you?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
“You wanna stop at Gran and Granddad’s with me after school first? Then to your house? I was going to make them this chicken-and-rice casserole. Gran is supposed to pick up all the ingredients when she gets her groceries. I gave her a list.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to make stuff like that. From scratch.”
“It’s easy. Mom’s recipe, but I add some veggies because Gran and Granddad aren’t eating as many as they should.”
She nods. The hall is starting to clear out. We need to go to class or we’re going to be late and I’ve already been late to class twice this week. Line in the girls’ bathroom. I have to go between practically every class.
“I thought she wasn’t going to take your granddad to Hannaford anymore because she embarrassed him at the bakery when the lady wouldn’t give him a free sugar cookie because he was over six and he took a bunch of them.”
I laugh. “Granddad likes cookies with sprinkles.” I lean down and grab my backpack and heave it onto my shoulder. “So no, she’s not going to Hannaford’s with him anymore. She’s doing one of those pickup deals. She calls in the order or does it on her computer and they have the groceries ready for her when she gets there. She just pulls up and someone loads them in the car.”
Katy steps back. “I gotta go. So plan for Friday—after school, we’re going to make dinner for your grands, then to my house to get ready?”
I nod.
Katy starts backing up down the hall in the direction of her class. I have to go the other way. “You sure you want to go?”
“Definitely.” I grin. Lower my voice so no one else can hear me. “Because Jack told me he was going to be there.”
25
Liv
My mother is waiting for me at the back door and she opens it before I’m all the way up the snowy walk.
“Sorry to call you so late. I cut the water off, but the bedroom was already flooded.”
“It’s fine, Mom,” I say tiredly.
When she called me, I had just changed into plaid flannel pajama pants, a T-shirt, and my favorite hoodie, sans bra. I had sat down with a glass of wine in my hand, yet untouched, and a blanket on my lap. I was cold and sleepy and had big plans to sit beside Oscar on the couch and watch a PBS documentary on Hitler’s bunker. The scary thing is, I’m so worn-out from the week that I was actually looking forward to curling up with Oscar and watching the horrors of World War II be recounted.
“You look good, Mom.” I nudge her into the laundry room and close the door behind me. Her health seems to have taken a turn for the better. Her doctor isn’t sure why, but he’s hoping her new medication is what’s giving her more movement and less pain.
“Feeling pretty chipper.” She tightens the tie of her fuzzy red bathrobe; she’s dressed for bed, too. “Or was, before I heard what sounded like splashing coming from the back of the house. It was your dad wading out of his bedroom to tell me there was a pipe leaking.” She tries to smooth down her short white hair; it’s sticking out in every direction like porcupine quills. “Had to take off my slippers, roll up my pajama legs, and wade in to shut the valve off under the sink. It’s a wonder I was able to get down and reach it without going swimming.”
I slip out of my coat that’s covered with a dusting of snow, shake it, and hang it on a hook. Next, I step out of my boots and into the sheepskin slippers I leave at my parents’ for just these occasions.
“Still coming down, the snow.” Mom nods in the direction of the back door.
“Expecting six to eight inches overnight.” I follow her into the kitchen. I’m in my jammies. After Mom called, I considered running back upstairs to put on jeans and a bra but decided there was no reason to change. I was just running to my parents’.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Sitting on his bed. Won’t come out.” She puckers up her lips as if she’s just tasted something particularly sour. “He’s declared it an island in a moat. Told him he could stay there until hell or his bedroom floor froze over, for all I care.”
I try to think of a response, but I’m just too tired. I understand her frustration with my dad, but I don’t see any reason to be mean to him. Instead of starting what will inevitably turn into an argument with her, I head down the hall. It’s dry. Maybe the “flood” isn’t as bad as Mom said. Hope springs eternal.
“By the way, he’s not wearing pants!” my mother calls after me. “Or skivvies.”
I stop and look back. She’s standing at the end of the hallway in her red robe, her spiky hair backlit by the kitchen light. She somehow reminds me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining; all she needs is an axe.
“Dad’s naked, sitting on his bed in the flooded bedroom?” I ask as if it’s an everyday occurrence.
“No. He’s wearing his pajama top and wool cap. We were going to bed when he decided to install a new faucet in his bathroom.”
I close my eyes for a second. I had a bad day at the Anselins’. They were unhappy with the latest version of the layout of their bedroom suite, even though I’d been clear as to what could and couldn’t be done while still keeping the exposed ceiling beams that they wanted. “Replace the faucet?” I squint, trying to process. “What was wrong with his bathroom faucet? Weren’t all the fixtures just replaced last year?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s a small woman, but she looks pretty formidable. Even without the axe.
“Let me guess.” I press my thumb and index finger to my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “There is no new faucet.”
“Nope. He thinks he’s a retired plumber. I told him he was a retired physician. He said I was crazy and that he was going to tell his wife on me and that she was going to put me in the loony bin.” She turns away. “I’m making tea. Mint or chamomile?”
“Mint.” I walk slowly down the hallway. “Dad? It’s Liv. I’m going to come in so . . . so maybe throw a blanket over your lap?”
I get no response. “Dad? Is it okay if I come in?”
“Held my finger in the dike as long as I could,” I hear him say from his room. Followed by a chuckle.
“You decent, Dad?” I hesitate. It’s not so much that I care if I see my dad’s genitalia. It’s just the idea of it. If he were himself, he’d be mortified. When he doesn’t answer, I step into the doorway to his room, averting my eyes at first, then shifting my gaze.
I find my father, indeed, sitting in the middle of his bed, in a room flooded with water. But at least he’s dressed. He’s wearing his old tuxedo shirt and jacket, what appears to be track pants, slippers, and a gray watch cap. He’s pulled the whole ensemble together with a plaid navy scarf tied jauntily around his neck. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I want to do both. I feel as if the more my father loses his identity, the more I lose mine. My whole life I’ve been Dr. Edward Cosset’s daughter. Who will I be when he’s gone?
Our New Normal (ARC) Page 23
