Our New Normal

by Colleen Faulkner

  “Why wouldn’t I be decent?” he harrumphs. “Know where the story of the little Dutch boy who sticks his finger in the dike comes from? Hans Brinker; or, The Silver Skates. Mary Mapes Dodge. The Dutch boy story”—he gestures with a twirl of his bony finger—“is within the story.”

  How the hell does he remember that and not remember that he went to medical school?

  I look down at the shallow layer of water on his floor. Not as bad as Mom suggested on the phone; I’m not going to have to get a dingy to rescue him. But definitely not good. The transition on the floor in the doorway is what’s keeping the water from spilling into the hall. I kick off my slippers and roll up the hems of my plaid pajama pants. “I’m coming in, Dad.”

  “Careful, it’s wet,” he warns.

  I meet his gaze. “I hear you had a little problem with your bathroom faucet.”

  He shakes his head slowly. Thoughtfully. “Nope.”

  I step into his room. The water is cold. “Then what’s this?”

  He looks over the edge of his bed. “Water. Once it freezes, I thought I’d take you girls ice-skating. You always loved to ice-skate.”

  I walk into the bathroom, trying not to splash any water onto the walls or furniture and make the situation worse. The floors are hardwood. If I get the water up fast enough with a shop vac, set up a fan or two, maybe the floors can be saved.

  “Dad, you’re not supposed to be messing with the—” My phone in my back pocket rings. “You’re not supposed to do any plumbing in the house. You call the plumber if you need a repair. Or me.” I grab my phone and look at the screen. It’s Hazel’s friend Katy. Which means it’s Hazel. Which means she either left her phone somewhere or broke it again. “Hazel?”

  There’s quiet on the other end of the line long enough for me to wonder if it was a butt dial. Then I hear a small voice: “Um, no it’s . . . it’s Katy, Miss Liv.”

  “Katy?” My mom alarm goes off in my head. My daughter is thirty-six weeks pregnant. Too early to be in labor. I feel a flutter in my chest. What if she has gone into labor? Why else would Katy be calling me? But I don’t want to sound like a panicked mother, and I don’t want to scare Katy or Hazel if she has gone into labor.

  “You girls okay?” I ask carefully.

  Hazel and Katy left school together. I got the full itinerary from my mother on the phone on my way home from work. The girls stopped at my parents’ and made a chicken rice casserole, which my mother called to tell me was better than the one I made. Then they went home to Katy’s house to watch Titanic and have a sleepover.

  “Miss Liv, I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”

  Once she starts to speak, I realize Katy—sweet, kind, silly Katy—is drunk off her ass. My second thought is that there’s something wrong. Seriously wrong, if she’s calling me in this state, risking her parents finding out. “What’s going on, Katy?”

  “Hazel.” She sounds like she’s about to burst into tears. “Something’s wrong with her. She . . . Oh, God, she’s going to kill me when she finds out I called you. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Katy,” I say sharply. “What’s wrong with Hazel? Is she—” I don’t want to say “in labor” because how would either of them know, if it’s just the early stage? First-time mothers rarely do; I know I didn’t. “She okay? The baby all right?”

  “She’s fine. The baby’s fine, but . . . I think you better come here, Miss Liv,” she says in a rush of words.

  I splash my way out of my father’s bedroom. “Katy, let me speak to Hazel.”

  “That’s the thing, Miss Liv, Hazel, she—” Now Katy is crying. “She locked herself in this bathroom and she won’t come out.”

  This bathroom? “What bathroom?” I demand, getting the impression Katy doesn’t mean her bathroom, at her house where they’re supposed to be. Where they’re supposed to be eating popcorn and watching Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet lock lips.

  “We’re at this girl’s house. Kelsey.” She sniffs. “We know her from school. Actually it’s her brother’s house,” she mumbles.

  I hear my father splashing toward me. He’s gotten out of bed. “Dad, get out of the water. You’re going to ruin your slippers.” I point at his feet. “Katy, are you two at a party?” I ask suspiciously into the phone.

  “Yes,” she blubbers. “I’m sorry. I knew it was a bad idea. But, Hazel, she—She made me bring her,” she wails.

  I can’t believe Hazel is at a party. An underage drinking party. Thirty-six weeks pregnant and she’s partying. “Why did she lock herself in the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know. I . . .”

  Katy’s voice fades.

  “Katy,” I say loudly into the phone. “Why did Hazel lock herself in the bathroom?”

  “She . . . Tyler was here with Amanda and . . . and this guy Jack was supposed to be here, but he didn’t show, and—” She takes a blubbering, shaky breath. “Marissa is afraid Hazel is going to kill herself.”

  “What?” I say sharply. Suddenly I can barely catch my breath. “Did Hazel threaten to kill herself, Katy, because if she did—” I try not to hyperventilate. “Because if you seriously think she might hurt herself, you need to get off this phone and call 911.”

  “I don’t think she said it.” Katy burps loudly in my ear. And then she’s back to crying. “Marissa exaggerates. But I still thought I should call you. Because I didn’t know what else to do. She won’t come out, Miss Liv.”

  I catch my breath. “No, you did the right thing. Absolutely.” I force my brain to move away from my inherent fear into logic mode. “Katy, listen to me. I want you to text me the address where you are. I’m going to hang up and call Hazel.”

  “She won’t answer,” Katy wails. “I tried. I knocked on the door. She just keeps telling me to go away.”

  My dad walks past me, his scarf trailing behind him. “I’m getting pretzels. You want pretzels, Bethie?”

  “Text me the address,” I say into the phone.

  “I will.”

  I disconnect and call Hazel. Twice. She doesn’t answer. Then I text her. You okay?

  No response.

  I stand there for a minute, trying to decide what to do. I can hear my parents in the kitchen arguing. Mom is telling Dad he can’t have pretzels this close to bedtime. My phone dings. It’s a text message from Katy with an address about twenty minutes away, maybe farther because of the snow. I look up at the water lying on the floor of my dad’s bedroom. Then I dial Oscar, who was asleep on the couch. I give him the rundown on the flooded bathroom, followed by the phone call from Katy.

  “Locked herself in a bathroom?” Oscar says. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Katy doesn’t know. But Hazel won’t come out of the bathroom and the door is locked. I need to go see what’s going on.” I hesitate. “Hon, could you come over to my parents’ and run the wet vac?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I’m sorry.” I head toward the kitchen, pressing my hand to my forehead. I just want to get to Hazel. To my baby. “I know it’s late. And I know we were going to watch TV together, but—”

  “Liv,” he interrupts. “Let me clean up the water. I’ll get some fans set up. You go see what’s wrong with Hazel. You think it’s the baby? You don’t think she’s bleeding, do you? Placenta previa can be life-threatening. If—”

  “I don’t think she’s bleeding,” I assure him, trying to reassure myself. Hazel’s made some dumb mistakes, but she’s not dumb. I’m certain she’s smart enough to go directly to the hospital if she has any sort of serious condition. Or call 911. “She’s at a party. It has something to do with dumbass.”

  “Hazel’s at a party? Like a birthday party? I thought she was going to Katy’s.”

  “Like a drinking party,” I tell him. I find my parents in the kitchen still arguing over the pretzels. Only now Dad’s got the bag in his hand and Mom is demanding he put them back in the cabinet. “Oscar, I’m going to go get Hazel. I�
�ll call you in a little while.”

  “You coming back home, or to your parents’ house? Should I wait for you there?”

  “I’ll call you,” I repeat.

  “I have to go,” I tell Mom and Dad as I rush through the kitchen. “Oscar is on his way over to clean up the water.” In the laundry room, I kick off my slippers. “Mom, Dad’s going to have to sleep in the spare room. He won’t be able to sleep in his room tonight with—”

  “I’m not letting him mess up the spare room.” Mom comes to the laundry room door. “Lynette just cleaned it, top to bottom.”

  I step into my boots. “Then he’ll have to sleep with you.” I throw up my arms. “Or on the couch in the family room. I honestly don’t care where he sleeps, Mom. He can sleep at my house if that’s what you want. Send him home with Oscar. He can sleep in the downstairs bedroom.” I grab my coat. “I have to go. Hazel needs me.”

  She follows me to the door. “She’s in labor? It’s too soon for her to be in labor.”

  “She’s not in labor. I have to go.” I slip into my coat. “Bye, Dad. Stay out of the water, Dad.” I open the back door and the frigid air and snow rushes in. “Oscar will be here as quick as he can.”

  Mom starts to respond, but I walk out into the snow and close the door behind me.

  26

  Hazel

  Someone knocks on the bathroom door and from the toilet, I scream, “I said go away!”

  I’m not actually on the toilet, as in using it. I put the lid down. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the door, but the linoleum was so grotty, I was worried it might have bacteria that could be harmful to a baby. The whole house is disgusting: dirty dishes in the sink, trash on the floor, dog hair everywhere. When Kelsey said we were invited to her party, I thought she meant at her house. This is her older brother’s place that he shares with a bunch of guys. They all work the lobster boats and the whole house stinks of rotten seafood. I’ve been in houses where lobstermen live and it never smelled like this.

  Whoever is on the other side of the door knocks again and I say, “I told you—”

  “Hazel!”

  My mom’s voice startles me and I jump up. “Mom?” I walk to the door. “What are you doing here?” I’m beyond embarrassed. I’m mortified. What’s everyone at school going to say when they hear my mother showed up at Kelsey’s party? “Mom! You can’t be here.”

  She turns the doorknob, but the door won’t open because I locked it. It’s a miracle the door even locks. I tried to hide in a bedroom, but this girl and guy were in one; they both had their shirts off. The other two bedrooms didn’t even have doors.

  “Hazel, open the door,” Mom says, rattling the doorknob. I know that tone. She’s pretending she’s not angry, but she is.

  “Go home, Mom.” I cross my arms over my boobs, looking around, trying to figure out how to get out of here. But I’m trapped because it’s a bathroom and it only has one door. Duh.

  “Hazel, you need to let me in.” She softens her voice, though she’s still speaking loud enough to be heard over the music. Angry Mom is sounding like worried Mom now.

  I put my hands on my head and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know where I want to be, but I know I want to be anywhere but here. I want to be anyone but Hazel Ridgely. Pregnant Hazel Ridgely. Tears sting my eyes. “Please, Mom,” I beg.

  “I called you and texted you. You didn’t answer.”

  “Because I didn’t want to talk to you,” I holler. She doesn’t answer and I lean against the door, the side of my head to it. “Can you go, Mom? Please?”

  “I can’t.” Her voice comes from only inches from mine. “I can’t leave you here, not locked in a bathroom. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Hazel, but you need to come home.”

  “I’m not going home!” I mean to scream it at her, but my voice cracks.

  I start pacing the dark, dirty bathroom that smells like piss. Boys are so gross. They can never pee in the toilet. They can pee on the seat, on the floor in front of it, they can even hit the wall behind, but they can never get their pee in the water. Mom makes Dad and Sean sit to pee, just so she won’t have to clean it up. When I potty train Charlie, I’m going to teach him to sit when he pees; standing isn’t even going to be an option.

  I get to a wall with a poster with snakes on it and turn and go the other way. Who puts a snake poster on a bathroom wall? It’s seven steps from one wall to the other. Eight from the door to the window. This is all Katy’s fault. If she hadn’t been flirting with some guy named Reds she doesn’t even know, we could have gone home an hour ago. But then she got drunk and couldn’t drive. I just had one beer. I could have driven us home. But she wouldn’t give me her keys because she didn’t want to go home. She wanted to make out with Reds. That’s when I locked myself in the bathroom. When she said we weren’t going home. Which was stupid because now I don’t know how to get out of here. Everyone at the whole party knows. I’m sure they’re all talking about it. How am I going to walk out now, with everyone staring at me, knowing I’m the crazy, pregnant girl who locked herself in the bathroom?

  “Hazel, honey.” Mom rattles the doorknob again. “Please let me in. I just want to see if you’re okay.”

  “Mom,” I groan. “I’m fine. Go a-way!”

  She pushes on the old door. Kind of hard. “Hazel, I’m not kidding! Let me in.” She stands there for a minute, I can tell by the light blocked under the door. Then she walks away.

  I stare at the door. Music is blasting from the living room; it’s so loud the old floorboards are practically vibrating.

  Maybe it blew out Mom’s eardrums and she went home. Either that, or she went out to the car to call Dad, where she could hear. Or call the cops.

  God, if she calls the cops, everyone will hate me.

  Tears run down my cheeks; I can’t stop them. My eyes are stinging from the mascara I know is running down my face. I go back to sit on the toilet seat again. I’m tired and my back hurts and I hate this stupid party. I hate my stupid life. I hate this stupid alien living inside me.

  Jack was supposed to be here. I curled my hair and put on makeup and I put on one of Katy’s button-up shirts over Dad’s Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. Real vintage, right out of his drawer.

  Jack didn’t come.

  I waited and waited for him and then, after drinking the beer, I texted him. He put his number in my phone yesterday. I don’t even know why. He just took my phone out of my hand and put in his number under the name Jack Sparrow. A joke because I told him his name reminded me of the Johnny Depp character in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. He’s got the black hair that’s kind of long. I didn’t tell him I liked the movies because I know how cheesy they are. But then he told me he liked them. That’s when he gave me his number.

  The minute I texted him tonight, I wished I could suck the text back into my phone. Or suck myself into a vortex and disappear from Earth. Neither happened. Jack texted me back to say he couldn’t come because his grandma fell and broke her hip and he was on his way to a hospital in Portland with his mom. I don’t know if he was telling the truth or not. Probably not, although that seems like a weird lie for a guy to make up. What high school guy wants to admit he’s hanging out with his mom and grandmother?

  I wanted to go back to Katy’s then, but she kept saying no. That was when Tyler and Amanda showed up. That’s when things went from bad to catastrophic. They kissed right in front of me, tongues and everything. I thought I was going to throw up the beer and Doritos I just had.

  A sound at the bathroom window startles me and I jerk my head around to look at it. There isn’t a curtain or even a towel on it. This is one of those old houses where it has a big window in the bathroom like the room was something else a long time ago like another bedroom. Back in the day when there wasn’t any running water, there were no bathrooms in houses. You had to use an outhouse. Which I can’t imagine with the temperatures below zero at night and the snow up
to my butt cheeks.

  I come off the toilet, squinting at the window. It’s snowing hard now and dark out. The wind is blowing. Maybe a branch hit the glass. I can’t see anything. It’s all fogged up.

  Then the window begins to rise and it scares me. Is someone trying to break into the—My mom’s coat appears in the open window, then she leans over and sticks her head in.

  “Mom!” I take a step back, feeling like this must be a nightmare. This can’t be happening. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  She’s got Dad’s knit cap pulled down over her head and it looks stupid. She’s also wearing her old, ugly glasses that make her look bug-eyed. She never wears her glasses out. Not where people can see her.

  “Mom,” I say again. Someone has finally turned the music down. I don’t have to shout.

  She throws one leg over the window; she’s wearing plaid pajama pants. Pajama pants! Snow is blowing in and falling on the floor.

  I glance over my shoulder, seriously considering running out the door. Running outside and down the street. But where am I going to go? Especially with no coat. It’s on a chair in the kitchen.

  “How did you even know I was here?” I’m tempted to push her out the window and slam it shut and lock it. I know the answer as soon as it comes out of my mouth. “Katy. She called you, didn’t she?” I turn away, shaking my head. I groan out loud. “I can’t believe she called you. I’m gonna kill her.”

  Mom half steps, half falls through the window, onto the bathroom floor, making a loud thump. I’m petrified someone in the house has heard her.

  “I can’t believe you just climbed through some guy’s window.” I gesture at it.

  “Katy was worried about you.” Mom steadies herself with her hand on the windowsill as she gets to her feet.