Our New Normal

by Colleen Faulkner

  My mother says something, and I blink. “Sorry?”

  “I said it’s only going down into the forties at night,” my mother quips. “I doubt he’d have frozen to death.”

  I set my jaw. I can’t believe Oscar gave my mother crap about this thing with my dad. How dare he. And today of all days, when he knew Mom was having a bad day.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Oscar had no right to—”

  “Oh, he’s right,” she interrupts sourly. “Ed’s my responsibility. In sickness and in health. That’s what I vowed before God. I know that. I just wanted to lie down for a few minutes. How did I know he was going to take off?” She lifts the patchwork quilt laying over her and draws it up to her chin. “Oscar says he can install some kind of alarms on the doors that will beep when your father opens them.” She sighs heavily. “So, we’ll put alarms on the doors. Then what? The windows? Next thing you know, you’ll want me to chain him to the bed.”

  I stand there for a minute, staring at the TV. The temperature is expected to drop significantly over the weekend and they’re calling for snow flurries on Sunday. I’m glad I got the cement pad poured in the Anselins’ barn earlier in the week because freezing temperatures don’t bode well for curing concrete.

  “What are we going to do when he gets worse, Liv?” Her voice is suddenly full of emotion. “Because you and I both know it’s going to get worse.”

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Mom.” I use the same gentle tone I used with my dad. “We’ll come up with a plan. But you don’t need to worry about this tonight. Tonight, you should rest. Would you like some pizza?”

  “Nope. Just going to lie here for a little while. Your father still in the kitchen?”

  I look down at her. She looks old, and weary, but still so beautiful. My father always said she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever met and that was why he married her. “He is. Playing Candy Crush.”

  “You may as well go home and make yourself some dinner.” She shoos me away with her hand. “We’ll have our pizza in here and watch Family Feud. It comes on at six. You father still likes if I put it on for him. He can always name a category or two that actually makes sense.”

  “You don’t want me to stay?”

  She makes a face of disgust. I feel as if she’s angry with me. Why would she be angry with me? I was a state away when Dad took off. I didn’t have anything to do with Oscar reprimanding her.

  “Why would you stay?” she asks. “He won’t go again tonight. I guarantee you that. I imagine he’s worn out walking all the way into town to the bookstore. He bought a hunting magazine. I suppose he’s going to take up moose hunting now.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that so I just stand there for a minute, looking at the TV. I look back at her. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay, I guess I will go home.” Go home and ask Oscar what the hell he was thinking, lecturing my mother on her responsibility to my father. About anything. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing. It’s so not like him.

  “Good night, Liv.” She glances up at me, then back at the TV. “Hazel’s the one who found him. She was the one who was worried about him, not your sister. She’s a good girl, that Hazel. I don’t think you have to worry about her.”

  Don’t have to worry about her? My sixteen-year-old daughter, who’s pregnant? But I don’t say it. My mother has enough problems right there in the kitchen playing Candy Crush. She doesn’t need me to pile mine on top of her. “Call me before you go to bed?”

  “Ayuh.” Her gaze is fixed on the TV.

  In the kitchen, I say good-bye to my dad, getting less response than from Mom, and then I head home. Five minutes from the house, I spot Oscar’s car at the gas pumps at the Cumberland Farms mini-mart. I don’t know what gets into me, but I wheel into the parking lot and pull up right behind him. He’s leaning against his car, talking to a guy on the other side of the gas pump as they both fill their tanks.

  I’m pretty sure I slam my truck door.

  When Oscar sees me, he’s startled. “Everything okay?”

  The tall, slender man Oscar was talking to has finished pumping his gas and is screwing on his gas tank lid. “Good to see you, doc.”

  Oscar glances at him. “You too.” He returns his gaze to me, resting his hand on the nozzle still in his gas tank. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “Okay?” I ask, marching up to him. “Is everything okay?”

  The guy hops into his car and closes the door. I’m guessing he’s heard the same tone of voice from his own wife at some point and just wants to get out of Dodge.

  “What did you say to my mother?” I demand.

  “What?” Now he’s got tone.

  “What did you say to my mother?” I repeat. “About Dad? You upset her.”

  He twists his mouth one way and then the other the way he does when he’s trying to decide whether or not to engage with me or back down. The gas pump clicks off and he yanks the nozzle from his gas tank and places it back in its cradle on the pump. “What did I say to her? I told her we got lucky. That the whole thing with your dad could have turned out much differently. I told her she was going to have to keep a closer eye on him.” He shrugged. “Liv, if he’d gotten lost, or wandered into the woods—”

  “How dare you,” I interrupt. “How dare you speak to my mother that way.” A young woman with a streak of snow-white hair falling over her cheek two gas pumps over looks in our direction. I don’t care.

  Oscar screws on the gas cap and slaps the cover closed. “Speak to her what way?” He’s getting loud now.

  I still don’t care. “She’s sick, Oscar.”

  “I know she’s sick.” He takes a step toward me. “That doesn’t change the fact that things are going to have to be done to prevent your dad from wandering away like this. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

  I shake my head. “What do you mean?” I shrug. “He’s gone down to see Mr. Dugan to have a cup of coffee a couple of times without telling her.”

  “I’m not talking about him staying too long for coffee with Mr. Dugan. Two weeks ago, Bernice called me on a Saturday morning. She couldn’t find your dad.”

  I screw up my face, wanting to accuse him of making this up. Of course, I know better. To my knowledge, Oscar has never lied to me or anyone else in his life. Not unless you count telling your children there’s an Easter Bunny and a guy in a red suit who comes down your chimney to give gifts every December twenty-fifth. “Where was I?” I ask, spreading my arms wide.

  “At the Anselins’. Where I think you spend more time than you spend at home.”

  “That’s not fair, Oscar. It’s not true and it’s not fair. And how is me being at the Anselins’ any different from you being at the hospital?!”

  He cuts his eyes at me. I know it’s on the tip of his tongue to say something along the lines of, “It’s work. It’s how I pay the bills.” Lucky for him, he catches himself.

  “Where was he?”

  “What?”

  “Dad. You said Mom called you two weeks ago. Dad was missing.”

  “He was down the street in someone’s garage. Someone your parents don’t know. Trying to start their lawnmower.”

  My heart suddenly feels heavy. I think about what Mom said about the fact this was only going to get worse with Dad. It’s already worse, I just wasn’t in the loop. But I don’t say any of that because that’s not what we’re talking about. Right now, we’re talking about Oscar and what he said to my mother.

  “You had no right to tell my mother that it was her fault Dad got lost, walked away”—I make a sweeping gesture with my hand—“whatever the hell it is that happened. They are not your parents. They’re mine.”

  “Oh, Liv, we are not going there.” He shakes his head slowly. He’s so angry that his face is red. “I have been a son to your parents for as long as you can remember. I love Ed and Bernice like they were my mom and dad.” He points at me. “And you damned well know it.”

 
“It wasn’t your place to say that to her.”

  “It wasn’t my place to be honest?” He cocks his head. “Because someone needs to be. And who is that going to be? Your sister has no idea what’s going on in that house.” He’s pointing again. “You know, but you’re in denial.”

  “I am not in denial.” I want to grab his pointing hand and fling it.

  “All the signs are there, Liv. They’re there and you know it: loss not just of memory but logical thinking, loss of muscle tone, confusion in doing ordinary things.” He’s ticking them off the fingers of one hand.

  “The neurologist said—”

  “I don’t give a shit what the neurologist said! You know your dad. I know him and he’s got dementia. And he’s got no organic reason for it, no Parkinson’s, no Huntington’s disease, and he hasn’t had a stroke.” He’s doing that counting thing again.

  “It’s not my mother’s fault he walked away.” My voice is beginning to waver. I feel like I’m going to burst into tears and I glance away. The girl who was watching us drives by in her car, still staring at us. Someone else has pulled into her spot at the pump and she’s now looking at us with equal interest. She’s wearing scrubs, which makes me wonder if Oscar knows her. I wouldn’t want anyone carrying tales back to the hospital. I don’t want Oscar to be the topic of discussion at the coffeepot in the morning.

  “It’s not her fault,” I repeat, the fight gone out of me. A sense of guilt washes over me. I think Cricket is the trashy one, but here I am shouting at my husband in the Cumberland Farms parking lot.

  “I didn’t say it was her fault.” He gentles his tone. “But he is her responsibility, Liv. And she’s going to have to make changes. Changes to keep him safe. So he won’t have to go to a care facility.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. All of a sudden, I’m cold. I’m wearing a new hoodie I bought from the bookstore when I dropped Sean off. But the temperature is beginning to fall and the wind has picked up. My coat’s in the car, but I don’t plan on standing at this gas pump arguing with my husband long enough to get my coat out of the cab of my truck.

  “We’re not sending my dad to a nursing home.”

  Oscar throws his hands up in the air, his tone hardening again. “No one said anything about a f—” He cuts himself off, looking away.

  He’s so angry with me. As angry as I am with him. And it hurts. It hurts me and I can tell by the look on his face that it hurts him.

  When Oscar meets my gaze again, he says, “Liv, I’m not talking about a nursing home and you know it.” His voice is calm now. Controlled. “I’m talking about doing some things to keep your dad safe. Just alarms on the doors will make a huge difference. Then at least your mom will know when he’s left the house.”

  I’m still hugging myself. I look down at the blacktop. It’s stained with oil or gas.

  “I didn’t mean to upset your mom, Liv”—his voice cracks—“I was worried when Hazel called me.”

  “She shouldn’t have called you at work.”

  “You’re right. She shouldn’t have.”

  I look up at him, surprised he would agree with me about anything.

  “You should have called me, Liv. You should have been the one. I’m your husband.”

  There’s emotion in his voice, anger for certain, but pain, too. I slowly lift my gaze and am surprised to see the pain in his face.

  “What’s going on here, Liv?” he says quietly. “With us. Since this thing with Hazel, I don’t know what to say to you, what to do to make you happy.”

  My lower lip quivers.

  “I know this isn’t what you want for Hazel. But it’s how things are.”

  Then he puts his arms out to me and as angry as I am with him right now, I go to him. I let him close me in his arms and I wrap mine around his waist.

  He holds me tightly and kisses the top of my head. “I feel so far away from you,” he says into my hair. “I wish I knew how to bring you back.”

  “I know,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut to keep from crying. And I wish I knew how to bring myself back.

  18

  Hazel

  “You wanna come over to my house?” I ask Tyler, chewing on the cuticle on my thumb. “We could work on your paper for history or something.” I glance at him.

  We’re parked at a convenience store. He had to get cigarettes. I’m sitting beside him in the front seat of his new pickup truck. Well, new to him. It’s thirteen years old, a Chevy Silverado. Blue, except for the passenger door, which must have been replaced because it’s red. The truck needs a new exhaust system and muffler, but that’s all stuff he can do at his uncle’s when he gets the money for the parts. And it’s why he got such a good deal on it.

  Tyler came by for me about an hour ago, picked me up at the end of my driveway, and took me for a ride so I could check out the new truck. I’m sure I’ll hear about that from Mom later. Luckily she was on the phone with Sean when I left. I waited until I went out the door to text her and tell her I’d be home later. She texted me back, but I didn’t read it because whatever she says, I’m sure it will piss me off.

  “It’s due in two days,” I say when he doesn’t respond. This is his second time taking history and we have the same teacher, just not the same class period. “You said you haven’t started it.”

  The topic for our paper is completely open as long as it’s related to Thanksgiving, which I think is a cool assignment. Mine is on why having turkey on Thanksgiving is a form of animal abuse. I totally eat turkey. Mom orders ours from a local farm every year: antibiotic and hormone-free and raised free range. But I still thought the topic was a good one. It makes you think about buying a grocery store turkey. Or really any poultry from a grocery store because the way most are raised is barbaric. Besides, I like riling people up with facts.

  Tyler shrugs his shoulders. He’s reading a text, but he got one of those things on his screen to keep his mom from seeing his texts so I can’t see what he’s reading or who is texting him.

  He starts texting back. “I can turn it in late.” He doesn’t look at me.

  “No, you can’t.” Now my thumb is bleeding. I suck on it. “It’s due Wednesday. Then it’s Turkey Day vacation. You lose ten points per day you’re late. You’ll fail if you don’t turn it in before we get back Monday.”

  “I’ll date it Wednesday. He said it has to be electronically submitted. He’s doing that stupid plagiarism thingy now where he runs them all through a checker.”

  I want to say “because of people like you copying from Wikipedia.” But I don’t because we already had a fight today. It was stupid. I thought he said he’d see me at lunch at school. He said he told me he wouldn’t see me because he had to take a makeup quiz. It was my fault I didn’t listen. And my fault because I was being a total bitch.

  “Ty,” I groan because I don’t think he’s dumb. I really don’t. But sometimes he says the dumbest things. “It’ll be timestamped when you submit it. Mr. Gaines will know you sent it Sunday night.”

  “Whatever,” he mutters, continuing to text.

  I look out the window at the car parked next to us. Some lady has just opened a can of Coke and is handing it to her kid in the backseat. I wonder if she knows there are thirty-nine grams of sugar in one can. That’s almost ten teaspoons! I know that because Dad was on a Coke kick for a while. He said he was trying to cut back on coffee at work because it was making him jittery. He wanted some caffeine, but not as much as he’d been consuming. His solution was Coca-Cola. I finally convinced him that while the coffee wasn’t great for him, the soda was worse because of how much sugar was in it. He couldn’t drink enough of that nasty creamer to get that much sugar in his coffee. What I really wanted to tell him was that he wouldn’t be so dopey in the morning if he lost a few pounds and got some exercise. I wanted to talk to him about it, but Mom said it would probably be better to keep that to myself. She reminded me that he was in the medical profession. That he already knew the impediments of
being overweight and he’d come to the conclusion to lose weight on his own eventually. I got the feeling she’d already tried to talk with him about it and it hadn’t gone too well.

  I look away from the little boy guzzling the Coke because I can’t stand to even think about it. Excess sugar in kids’ diets doesn’t just cause tooth decay. It causes obesity, high blood pressure, high LDL, and low HDL. That’s just a metabolic nightmare waiting to happen.

  I look at Tyler. We’ve been sitting here for at least ten minutes. “So . . . what do you want to do?” It comes out sounding whiny, even though I don’t do it intentionally. I’m feeling sick to my stomach. I’m not sure if there are actual exhaust fumes leaking into the cab because the engine is running, or if I’m imagining them.

  Exhaust fumes are full of poisons, and not just carbon monoxide. There’s sulfur dioxide, nitrogen oxides, formaldehyde, and other crap I can’t remember. I know because I looked it up when Tyler told me he was going to buy the pickup, but that it needed some work on the exhaust system. Also, on the heater. I’m wearing Dad’s Columbia coat, zipped up, because I’m too fat to wear my own coat now. I’m thinking about getting my gloves out of the pockets.

  I’ve got my window down a crack to lower the chances that Tyler’s poisoning me and his baby right now with this great deal he got on a truck.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “We could go to your house,” I suggest. Which is really just code for You wanna have sex? I don’t really want to have sex with him. It makes me feel like I’m going to pee on him because the baby’s sitting right on my bladder, but whatever. Or maybe he’d be satisfied with a BJ. And at least if we were sitting in his parents’ living room we wouldn’t be getting poisoned with carbon monoxide or freezing to death.