His tone worries me a little. I still feel he’s overly attached to this baby as if he’s ours and not our daughter’s. It sounds like he’s talking about a son and not a grandson. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Considering the indifference I still feel, even now that I am resigned to the fact that Hazel is going to be a mother. That we’re going to have a baby in the house again. Probably for a few years because, once Hazel graduates high school, she’s going to have to go to community college. She’s going to have to learn to do something she can make enough money at to support this baby because what are the chances his father is ever going to support him financially in any way?
“Speaking of sons,” I say, deciding to change the subject. Because if we talk about Hazel for too long, we invariably get into a disagreement. “Yours texted earlier. When you were in the shower. He was checking in.”
“Checking to see if his allowance had been deposited, I imagine.”
I smile. “It’s his money. For the most part. I’m just doling it out. Anyway, he said he and Kyo went to a concert last night.”
“Kyo.” He raises his eyebrows. “He actually used her name. You think that’s his way of telling us he has a girlfriend?”
“That’s my guess. I’d heard mention of a girl, but this is a new one. I wanted to text back and ask him if—”
My phone, on the nightstand, vibrates. I glance at it. It’s after ten. Calls after ten are never good.
“My mom?” I ask. The phone is closest to him.
“Nope.” He picks it up. “Your sister.” He answers it. “Beth.”
He listens. I can hear my sister’s voice, but not what she says.
“Shit,” Oscar says. “But they’re okay?” He pauses again. I’m gesturing for him to give me the phone. “No, no, we’re in Bar Harbor. Our weekend getaway. Liv told you we were going, Beth. I was standing next to you when she told you.” He catches my eye. “Beth . . . Beth. Let me give you Liv. I’m going to get dressed and get us packed up.”
I sit up in bed, scared.
“They’re okay. They both got out.”
I meet his gaze. Both got out? I grab the phone. “Beth?”
“Jesus Christ, Liv. I go away for a few days and they set the house on fire?”
Oscar turns on the light and starts putting his clothes on.
“Mom and Dad set the house on fire?”
“Who do you think?” Beth says.
I scramble out of bed. “But they’re okay? How bad is it?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds pissed. And a little drunk. “I’m in Cancun.”
“Cancun? What are you doing in Cancun?”
In boxers and a T-shirt, Oscar lays my jeans on the bed. “I’ll get you some underwear,” he says quietly. “Start getting dressed.”
“I told you I was going to Cancun with Jason.”
“No, you did not tell me—”
Oscar hands me a pair of pink panties.
“Those are dirty,” I tell him, my tone short. Then into the phone, “You did not tell me you were going to Cancun, Beth. I talked to you a week ago. I told you that Oscar and I were going to be out of town for the weekend. If you’d told me you were going to be in another country, we wouldn’t have gone!”
“Hon, they’re okay,” Oscar says from behind me. “I can’t find any clean underwear in your bag.”
I walk naked to my duffel bag and start digging through the clothes. “What happened, Beth? Is it bad? Were they hurt?”
“How the hell do I know how bad it is? Mom called me. They were at the neighbor’s.”
I hear music in the background. It sounds like disco. “I’m two hours away. I don’t—” I give up on the underwear and go back to the bed to sit down and pull on my jeans. I’ll just go commando.
“We’ll call Hazel,” Oscar says, laying my bra on the bed beside me. He’s in jeans now, but hasn’t buttoned them up yet.
I stand back up, pulling up my jeans. “I’ll call Hazel,” I say into the phone. “She stayed with Mom and Dad Friday night, but she and Katy were—” I press my hand to my forehead. “Dad set the house on fire? How did he—”
“I don’t know the details, Liv. Mom was pretty pissed when she called. The firemen couldn’t find the cat. It had something to do with popcorn. Mom had already gone to bed when the fire started.”
“Putting you on speaker,” I say, setting my phone on the bed so I can put on my bra.
Oscar has added a cami and sweater to my pile.
“Look, I can’t change my flight. I’ll be home Wednesday.”
“You’re not coming?” Tears fill my eyes. I don’t know why I care. It’s not as if Beth is going to be any help.
“Liv,” Oscar says gently, buttoning up a flannel shirt. “They’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m calling Hazel now. Beth, are they at Jessop and Lori’s?” he says louder.
“I don’t know. Yes . . . I guess.”
“Look, I’m going to try to call Mom,” I say to Beth. “Did she call you from her cell or one of Jessop and Lori’s numbers?”
“She called from her cell,” Beth huffs at me.
“I’m on it,” Oscar tells me. “I’ll send Hazel over now.”
“I’ll call you back after I get there, okay, Beth?”
“Sure. Okay. Talk to you later. Tomorrow if you can’t get me tonight. Tell them I love them,” my sister adds cheerfully.
I hang up without saying good-bye, à la Mom.
28
Hazel
“Nope. You asked for cereal, Granddad.” I plop the bowl down in front of him at our dining room table and tighten the tie on Dad’s robe that I’m wearing. My prego jeans and one of Dad’s flannel shirts are tumbling in the dryer because I forgot to put them in last night before I went to bed. “Cereal is what you’re getting.”
“Don’t want cereal.” My grandfather swipes at a piece of candy on the screen of his new iPad.
Dad got it for him yesterday. His burned up in the fire. Pretty much everything they owned burned in the fire. Gran’s cat died. She cried. Not about the house and all of her pretty furniture and all her photos and stuff. She cried about her old cat, which made me cry. But Gran and Granddad didn’t get hurt. Which is a miracle, Dad says. And what matters. Granddad just had a small burn on his hand that’s almost already healed.
The night the fire happened, I was at Katy’s. Jack and Katy’s new boyfriend had come over and we were watching one of the old Saw movies. Jack was super sweet about me having to leave to rescue my grandparents from the neighbors. He wanted to come with me, but I didn’t think that was a great idea. He kissed me good-bye, which I think surprised both of us. Then he texted me, like, six times to make sure I was okay and my grandparents were okay after I left Katy’s.
That night, Mom and Dad drove home from Bar Harbor and met me at the hospital where Gran and Granddad were getting evaluated. They crawled out the window in Granddad’s bedroom. We all got home at three o’clock in the morning. I think that’s why I’m still so tired. Even though that was almost a week ago.
No one talked about Gran and Granddad moving in with us. Everyone just assumed that’s what would happen, at least until we know how long it’s going to take to rebuild their house. It’s pretty bad. And even if the house does get fixed, I wonder if they’re going to be able to move back anyway. I mean, Granddad set the house on fire. Gran can’t watch him every minute. One of them could have gotten seriously hurt, or even died of smoke inhalation like the poor cat. But if anyone else has considered that, they haven’t said so. Not even Aunt Beth, who told me she was relieved they were staying with us instead of her. So I’m keeping my mouth shut.
The problem is that I was going to move into the downstairs bedroom with Charlie after he’s born. So if he cried, he’d just wake me up and not Mom and Dad. That was the plan. Now my grandparents have taken over the spare bedroom and the family room where Dad used to lie on the couch every night and watch TV. Dad’s squeezed into the ti
ny sitting room with a great big TV he bought when he bought Granddad the iPad. I don’t think Mom was happy about a second TV in the house, but she didn’t come out and say so. Not in front of me. How could she say anything to Dad? Both of her parents have moved in and one is wearing a bib and a nighttime diaper.
“I want crepes,” Granddad tells me.
He was already awake and playing Candy Crush when I came downstairs half an hour ago. I told Mom she could go ahead and take her shower and I’d get Granddad his coffee. She’s still not down, so we’re having Rice Krispies.
“Crepes with Nutella,” Granddad tells me. “We had them at the Eiffel Tower, my girlfriend and I.”
“I don’t know how to make crepes. And if I did, I couldn’t make them for you because I have to go to school. And that was Gran, your wife, Granddad. Her name is Bernice. You and Bernice went to France for your fiftieth wedding anniversary. You saw the Eiffel Tower and you went to Normandy to see where the allies landed on D-day.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Ever been married?” I ask.
“Cripes, no.”
“Children?”
“Negative,” he responds.
“Then no grandchildren, either?”
He shakes his head without looking up from the bright screen. I turned the sound off yesterday and he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Or he doesn’t care if he hears the candies explode.
“Hmm. Interesting,” I say, wondering exactly who he thinks I am. He called me by my name when I came into the kitchen this morning. Which was nice because yesterday he kept calling me by his dead sister’s name. I don’t know why, but that creeps me out.
I set his spoon down on his cloth napkin and go back to the counter for a second napkin to tie around his neck. Otherwise, he’ll dribble milk all over his pajamas. I move slow because I’m tired, even though I went to bed at seven last night. And slept eleven hours. My belly is so big now that it’s a wonder I can walk at all. Actually I don’t walk. I waddle. That’s what Sean said. He borrowed his roommate’s car and came home for a night, last week after the fire.
Turns out Granddad started it. No surprise there. He was making popcorn and the oil caught on fire. Then he tried to put it out with kitchen towels. Then when the towels caught on fire, he went to bed. After he took the battery out of the smoke detector in the kitchen. So it wouldn’t wake up Gran. By the time the smoke detector in the hallway went off, the kitchen was what the fire marshal referred to as “fully engulfed.” Apparently he spilled vegetable oil all over the stove and the floor.
I still don’t know how Gran and Granddad got out of the house, except that they did. Gran doesn’t want to talk about it and Granddad keeps making up stories. They’re good stories but aren’t really relatable to what actually happened. And they usually involve his girlfriend. Or the guys he was in Vietnam with during the war. He’s been talking a lot about Vietnam. So much that Dad started reading a history of the Vietnam War and he and I plan to watch the whole Ken Burns Vietnam documentary after the baby is born. He’s going to take a few days off to hang out with me, which is cool.
I lean over Granddad from behind, turning sideways so I fit.
“I said I don’t want cereal,” Granddad tells me. “I ordered crepes. And pain au chocolat,” he says, his French accent pretty good.
“Too bad.” I don’t say it mean, just giving him the facts. “No chocolate croissants in the house. Come on, Granddad, let’s eat now. Put away the game.”
“I’m winning.”
“Pause it.”
“Don’t know how.”
I finally get the knot tied on the napkin around his neck and walk around to sit next to him. “Then you can start another game.” Sitting beside him, I slide the iPad away from him. “Hungry?”
He grunts and picks up his spoon.
I pour almond milk over his cereal, then mine. I watch him shovel it into his mouth like he doesn’t even taste it and wonder what’s going on inside his head. I wonder if he knows he’s crazy. Well, crazy isn’t exactly the right word. Dad says it’s dementia. No matter what the neurologist says, he says Granddad has dementia either because he has hardening of the arteries or Alzheimer’s. Doesn’t really matter which.
I take a bite of my cereal and think how weird it is that I’m putting a bib on my grandfather and pretty soon I’ll be putting a bib on my baby. I don’t know exactly how old they are when they sit in a high chair and eat cereal. Mom gave me a book about a baby’s first year. I told her I was reading it, but I lied. I know I should read it. I’m thinking maybe when I’m at the hospital in labor. Like, between contractions. I keep opening it to read it at night, but I’m also reading The Scarlet Letter for English class and I’m so tired by the time I open the baby book that I can’t read more than a few words and I fall asleep. Last night I fell asleep with the light still on. Dad came in and turned it off.
I take another bite of cereal and check the clock in the kitchen. Jack and I have kind of been meeting in the parking lot every morning and walking into school together. He hasn’t tried to kiss me again and I haven’t had the nerve to kiss him first. I keep wondering if he kissed me the other night when I was leaving because I was upset about Granddad and Gran. But what if he hasn’t kissed me again because he didn’t like how I kissed? Or he doesn’t wanna kiss a girl with a baby in her uterus? A girl who let a dickwad like Tyler get her pregnant. Because he knows Tyler’s the dad. Everyone in school knows.
Granddad grabs the box of cereal and adds more to his bowl.
“I thought you didn’t want cereal.”
He keeps pouring until I put my hand on the box and stop him. He’s filled up his bowl. Like, to the top.
The dryer buzzes and I jump up. If I hurry, I have time to get dressed, to do something with my hair, and put on some makeup. The baby is due in two weeks. My cervix isn’t doing anything yet. That’s like the door to let the baby out. I know that sounds juvenile, but I liked the analogy Dr. Gallagher gave. Mom says most first babies are late. So I’m thinking I still have three weeks. Three weeks to get Jack to kiss me again.
29
Liv
My dad squints through his Clark Kent reading glasses at the faded black-and-white photo on my laptop screen. “Hee hee hee.” He chuckles and points. “That’s John Lark. We called him Johnny Cake.” He shakes his head, staring at the black-and-white photo of a tall, skinny African American kid in a uniform and bucket hat. “Medic from some little town outside of Atlanta. Best one I had.”
I type the man’s name on the photo and add medic. Dad and I have been doing this almost every night since they moved in. Looking at the photos that I scanned last winter after buying a fancy photo scanner. Some nights he hasn’t had much to say, but a couple of times, like tonight, his recall has been amazing. He can’t remember that Mom is his wife, but he remembers a teenage soldier from six decades ago. The human mind is an amazing organ.
“You were in Saigon, right, Dad?”
He stares at the photo. “Ran a little clinic there for six months, before they sent me to A Shau Valley.” He shakes his head. “Bad place, that valley. A lot of men died. Had both hands tied behind my back. No sutures, no scalpels, nothing for me to work on them with but IVs and drugs. I don’t know why they even sent docs there.”
“This you?” I ask, pulling up the next photo. I barely recognize the man in uniform, wearing a helmet. But I see his eyes. I know his eyes.
“That’s me. In A Shau Valley. Longest six months of my life. Never thought I’d see my girlfriend again.”
I hope he means Mom. They were married just before he went to Vietnam for a year, after medical school, after his internship, before he decided to study ophthalmology. “The photo says 1967,” I muse.
My father is sitting on the couch beside me. We decided to let Mom and Dad have the family room and we would take the little room we call the sitting room. This way everyone could have some privacy and Mom and Dad can watch what they li
ke on TV. Oscar agreed it was the best thing to do, especially with our spare bedroom suite being off the family room. But he didn’t seem to be thrilled with giving up the family room. He went out and bought a huge TV for the sitting room. One even bigger than the one in the family room. Maybe to establish his dominance over the older male now in the household. Like marking his territory with urine, but instead with a big TV?
Dad stares at the photo of himself in front of the building that looks as if it’s been abandoned a long time. “Did my training at Fort Sam Houston. Commitment to Uncle Sam was a year. Took that picture right after I got to Saigon.” Now he’s shaking his head. “I was so scared those first few weeks. Sard. Didn’t think I’d make it.”
His use of a creative swearword makes me smile and then I tear up and have to look away. It’s been a while since I’ve heard him use one of his archaic curses. He told me many years ago that he started researching old curse words so he could curse and no one would know he was being inappropriate. That was so like my father, so proper, but he never crossed into snooty. Or bougie, as Hazel would say.
I type out Dad’s full name and add Saigon. The date is already printed along the bottom of the four-by-four-inch black-and-white photo.
“Where’d you get these pictures?” he asks. “I had some of me in the war, but they burned up. My house caught on fire. Bad wiring.”
I smile, but it’s a sad smile. I’m still trying to process the fact that my father set his house on fire. That he and Mom are living here now. Probably permanently. Oscar and I haven’t talked about it, but I know he knows they can’t go into their own home again. And that I can’t put them in an assisted living facility because they’d hate it. I just don’t have it in me. I couldn’t do that to the two people who took a child not of their body—me—and made her their own. They loved me and cared for me at the beginning of my life and now it’s my turn to do the same for them at the end of their lives. How we’re going to manage two old folks and a newborn baby in the house, I have no idea. I guess I’m going to try to do what Hazel plans to do. Figure it out.
Our New Normal (ARC) Page 26
