A Brew in Time

by Robin Roseau

  “I’ve been stuck to a lot worse, let’s put it that way,” she said. “In about another two minutes, we’ll reach our jump altitude. Margaux will climb out first and wait for us. We’ll move into position. You’ll hold onto the straps.” She reached down and grabbed one hand and moved it into position, clasping the harness at my shoulder. I moved my other hand myself. “You don’t have to do a thing. We’ll sit in the door, and then you’ll count down Three, Two, One! At one, we roll forward, just like we taught you on the ground.”

  She talked for a little longer, reminding me of everything they had taught us. I waited until she was done then looked back at Phoebe.

  But Meadow turned my face back towards her. “Don’t worry about them. It’s your birthday. Phoebe and Jackie will be fine.”

  “But–”

  Meadow had to yell to be heard, and Phoebe must have heard her. She leaned forward and set her hand on my leg. “We’ll be right behind you, Lydia. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Time to get ready!” the pilot yelled.

  Margaux, the camerawoman, turned to look at me. She gave me a thumb’s up. I nodded. We watched as she moved to the door then slid outside into the slipstream, standing on a small ledge behind the door while clasping a handle.

  Meadow moved us into the doorway until I was sitting on the edge, my feet hanging into the air. “Let’s do this, Lydia!”

  I paused, then nodded. “Three! Two! One! Go!” Then I gave a squeak -- I’m sure it was just a squeak and not an all-out scream -- as Meadow rolled us forward and we fell out of the airplane. Margaux jumped after us but kept some distance as we stabilized.

  I didn’t have to do anything, not really, except crane my neck upward like I’d been taught while hanging onto the straps of my harness. We fell for a few seconds, and then Meadow tapped my shoulders, my signal to spread my arms and fly.

  I flew!

  Part of me was concerned about Aunt Jackie and Phoebe, but we’d left them behind, and I wouldn’t see them for a while.

  But the three of us, Margaux, Meadow, and me -- we flew. Well. Dropped. Which is it? I’m not really sure. During training, Meadow had taught me a little bit about how I could control what was happening. I knew that she had released a drogue chute behind us, a very small parachute that helped keep us belly down even if I did something stupid. The same chute slowed us down a little bit. Margaux didn’t use one, of course, but she had a partial squirrel suit instead, which gave her far more control and the ability to drop precisely at the rate that Meadow and I dropped.

  And so, I spent a little time practicing the things I’d been taught, turning slowly to look around while Margaux flew around us in circles. Then she drew near and held out her hand. We clasped for a moment, the camera on her head pointed at me before she drifted away again.

  Our timer went off. Meadow guided my hand to the parachute release. I grabbed it and pulled firmly. There was a great noise as the parachute was dragged from its packing, and over just a few seconds, we slowed dramatically.

  The world grew much quieter. Oh, it wasn’t absolutely quiet, but it seemed like it, as over the course of several seconds we decelerated from a fall speed of 120 miles per hour to less than twenty miles per hour.

  It felt like we were just hanging there. I realized my heart was pounding, and I was breathing quickly. I took several deep breaths, then looked over my shoulder at Meadow. “Oh. My. God.”

  “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it a rush?” Then she guided the handles to me. I clasped them. “We’re heading there,” she said, pointing to the right. I turned to look. “Do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  With Meadow guiding me, I pulled on the handles, and we turned towards our landing zone.

  Five minutes later, it was all over. I lifted my legs. Meadow controlled our touchdown, and then we were taking just a few quick steps together before coming to a stop. Margaux was already down and filmed our touchdown. “Congratulations, Lydia! You’re now a skydiver!”

  Meadow unclipped us and saw to the parachute in time for me to turn and watch Jackie come to her own landing with Phoebe another thirty seconds behind her. They were both grinning widely, and I realized I was, too. A moment later, and Phoebe was tightly hugging her wife. Then some of the jump school assistants were handling parachutes. The seven jumpers came together.

  “You made it,” I said to Phoebe.

  “Only because that one pushed us out,” she said, hooking her thumb at Ruth, her instructor. Then she grinned. “We can do this again next year.”

  The Talk

  Mom hosted a birthday party for me. It wasn’t a surprise party, but I thought it would be small: Me, Mom, Dad, Aunt Jackie and Phoebe, and Serephine, of course. Instead, it was somewhat larger.

  She sent me to my room “to change”.

  “What’s wrong with this?” I said with a gesture to my jeans and tee-shirt.

  “Honey,” she said. “For me.”

  “You want me to wear a dress, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “You only turn 18 once, honey.”

  I sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine.”

  “I’ll come up and get you when we’re ready for you,” Mom said. I cocked my head at her. “Lydia, you were born at 10:57 at night. You’re not 18 for several more hours. Do what your mother says.”

  I laughed and headed for my room. A half hour later, I sent a text to Mom. May I come down? The reply was simple.

  No. I’ll get you when I’m ready for you.

  Whatever shall I do? Let’s see. Teenage girl. Have cell phone. It didn’t take long to decide.

  To Jenny: I’m a prisoner.

  From Jenny: Is that some weird Davis birthday tradition?

  To Jenny: It hasn’t been in the past. What are you doing?

  From Rose: Jenny said your mom is holding you prisoner in the dungeon.

  To Rose: If by dungeon you mean bedroom, yes.

  From Jenny: Well, I’m not being held prisoner in the castle tower.

  To Jenny: What have you been smoking?

  From Rose: Did they get you a car?

  To Rose: No new cars in the driveway, so I doubt it.

  From Janie: How is prison?

  To Jenny: How many people did you tell?

  From Jenny: I don’t smoke. Just Janie and Rose, but I’m about to Facebook it. Send photos for my post.

  To Jenny: (selfie)

  From Janie: Nice prison outfit. Green is the new black?

  To Janie: Mom is making me wear it.

  From Rose: (link to Facebook)

  To Jenny: I didn’t think you were serious!

  From Jenny: Four likes so far.

  We went back and forth for a while, and then there was a knock at the door. Mom didn’t wait; she rarely waited. Instead, the door opened, and she slipped in. I climbed from my bed, and we faced each other.

  Mom was wearing her own dress, and she’d spent time in front of the mirror, too. “You look good, Mom.”

  She crossed the room to me then took my hands. “Your father and I are so proud of you, Lydia. Thank you for being such a fabulous daughter.”

  “That’s me. Being fabulous is my superpower.”

  She laughed. “It’s a pretty good superpower. Come sit for a minute.” She tugged me to the bed, and we both sat down.

  “You’re not about to tell me about the birds and the bees, are you? Because we’ve had that conversation.”

  “No,” she said. “Lydia, you’re eighteen now.”

  “Four hours went by in a flash.”

  “And you’re a smart ass. This is a serious moment, Daughter of Mine.”

  “Right. Serious.” I put on a serious expression. “Got it.”

  “You’re eighteen now.”

  “Did you practice a speech, Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you really?”

  “For hours.”

  I cocked my head. “I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg.”

  “I’v
e been thinking about this speech since the day I lost my magic, Lydia.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’ll shut up now.”

  She caressed my cheek for a moment. “You’re eighteen now. And there is a tendency to think, now that you’re legally an adult, that you’re emotionally an adult.” I wanted to say something, but I clamped my lips shut. “You’re a very grown up girl, but you’re still my daughter.”

  “I know, Mom,” I said gently.

  “I’m asking you.” She paused. “No. Lydia, I’m begging you. Now that you’re an adult, the temptation is to think you can make all your decisions yourself. That you don’t need to talk to your mother, or to ask permission. I’m begging you not to act any differently than you have.”

  I thought before responding and then asked, “Is this about anything in particular?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe it’s about all those adult things.”

  “List five.”

  “Fine. Alcohol. You’re not 21.”

  “Wine is necessary for some of the magic Aunt Jackie is teaching me.”

  “And you do it under her direct supervision. Promise me, Daughter.”

  “I’m not 21,” I said.

  “Daughter,” she said in her Mom voice.

  “What are you asking for, Mom?”

  “No drinking. And when you do turn 21, I want your first night out with legal alcohol to be with your parents.”

  “That’s three years away.”

  “Promise.”

  “I’ll be at college. Probably. If I go away.”

  “We’ll talk about college another day. Your father and I will come to you. Promise.”

  I thought about it then nodded. “You’ll bring Jackie and Phoebe, too.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I didn’t hear a promise.”

  “Other than under your direct supervision, or Aunt Jackie’s, I won’t consume alcohol until the day after my 21st birthday. And I won’t turn into a party animal.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Two. Boys.”

  I didn’t say anything, but simply waited. And then when the delay dragged on, I began to smile. “What about boys, Mother Dearest?” She looked away, and there was an awkward pause until I said, “Mom?”

  “Boys come with expectations.” She didn’t look at me when she said it.

  “They can have those expectations filled somewhere else.”

  Her head snapped back. “Honey?”

  “You don’t have to worry about boys, Mom,” I said.

  “You should date.”

  “Mom,” I said. “Don’t be dense. It’s not boys you have to worry about.” Mom opened and closed her mouth several times. I then asked her, “Maybe I should have this part of the conversation with Aunt Jackie.”

  Mom closed her mouth and said nothing for a long time. Finally I grew uncomfortable until finally I whispered, “Are you disappointed?”

  “Oh, honey, no,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “I am wondering how stupid I am.”

  “It’s not like I’ve brought girlfriends home,” I said. “Or let you catch me having make out sessions in my bedroom.” She stilled again. I let it go several seconds before I began laughing. “Seriously, Mom.”

  She pushed away. “You’re enjoying this far more than you’re supposed to. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Let me ask you the counter question. If I liked boys, was I supposed to announce it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So somehow it’s a big deal that I like girls, and I was supposed to publish it in the paper or something.”

  “Have there been any?”

  “Girls?” I asked, as if that weren’t obvious.

  “Yes. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No,” I said. “There are girls I like, but you know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I understand.”

  I changed the subject. “Mom, when she’s twelve.”

  She knew immediately what I was talking about. “That’s too young to make decisions.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not too young to begin learning. Speaking of which.” I moved closer, pulled her head down, and then began pawing through Mom’s hair. Mom laughed, but she didn’t resist as I carefully pulled three hairs from her head. I examined each of them carefully then got up from the bed. I had a special case on my desk, and I carefully stowed the hair. I’d use them for a fresh protection charm this weekend.

  Then I turned back and put a hand on my hip. “Twelve. I’ll give you what you want, Mom, but you owe Serephine and me this.”

  Mom looked at me then nodded. “Twelve.”

  I moved back to sit on the bed. I put an arm around Mom and laid my head on her shoulder. “I can’t believe you gave this up for me. Thank you.”

  She kissed the top of my head. “You’re welcome. Thank you for being worth it.”

  I laughed. “What’s item three?”

  “Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”

  “I’m grown up now.”

  “Then you can begin paying rent,” she responded immediately. “That was a real question, Lydia.”

  “Mom.”

  “I’m asking because I want you to be realistic about your future. You’re a smart girl, and you can be anything you want.”

  “I’ve been reading this book about famous painters,” I said. “I think I might want to study that in college.”

  “Art History?” she asked, squeaking. Yes, she actually squeaked. “You want to study Art History?”

  “It’s all the rage, Mom. I thought you wanted me to be happy.”

  She looked over and caught me grinning at her. “You’re a little shit,” she said. “I should take your birthday present back for scaring me.”

  “Maybe I’ll study food services. Do you remember my lemonade stands?”

  “You’re not remotely as funny as you think you are,” she replied.

  “I think I want to start my own business.”

  “Lydia,” Mom said slowly.

  “A little shop,” I said. “I can sell magic charms and eye of newt and stuff.”

  She got up from the bed and stepped away. From the set of her back, I could tell she was upset.

  “Mom,” I said. “The world isn’t like what it was when you were my age.”

  “I know,” she said softly, barely a whisper.

  “The types of jobs you and Dad could find barely exist.”

  She turned around. “What are you getting at?”

  “Remember when Karla and Jay-jay took me to their friend’s cabin this summer?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, we had a nice, long car ride. And Karla asked me what I wanted to do. And then she talked about opportunity.”

  “Did she have a particular opportunity in mind?”

  “No. She talked about how opportunity comes and goes and shifts and changes, but that there is always new opportunity, and what mattered the most was paying attention when opportunity arises and having the skills to capitalize on it when the right opportunity comes along.”

  “That sounds like a good conversation.”

  “We don’t know what the world will be like in four years. We know that some sorts of jobs will always exist. Doctors and lawyers and various forms of bankers.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I’d be a horrible banker,” I said. “But you know what? Jay-jay didn’t want to hire a minor, but she said if I want a job next summer, and am willing to do shit work, she’ll see to it I learn as much about building houses as I can learn in one summer.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a growth industry,” Mom said.

  “No, but knowing which end of a hammer to use when pounding in a screw would put me ahead of Dad.”

  She snorted. “So a life skill.”

  “Yeah. Mom, I don’t know what I want to be, but if I don’t want to be a doctor, lawyer, or banker, then the best industries are still the ones where you use your brain. Computer nerd. Engine
er. Heck. There’s decent money writing books, if you’re halfway good.” I grinned. “And I can make up stories with the best of them.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means I’m going to make sure I get a good education, and it won’t be Art History and Underwater Basket Weaving.”

  She nodded. “All right. For now, it’s enough you’re thinking about this.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said. “Karla told me other things.”

  “What?”

  I patted the bed. Mom stepped over and sat back down. “She told me about being fulfilled.”

  “I’ve tried to have that conversation with you.”

  “I know,” I said. “Sometimes a kid needs to hear it from someone else.”

  “Even an awesome kid like you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m ready to hear what you have to say.”

  “Really?” And darned, but if I didn’t see tears begin to well in her eyes. I smiled and nodded. Mom looked away, brushed at the tears, and turned back. “Life is full of compromise.”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “Paying bills requires sacrifice.”

  “Right.”

  “But at the same time, you should like your job. It should be a source of fulfillment.”

  “Phoebe likes teaching, and she’s a great teacher, but I think I’d hate it.”

  “I think you’d like teaching, but you’d hate the compromises associated with being a public schoolteacher,” Mom replied. “So would I.”

  “Right,” I said again.

  “It is a mistake to take a job that you find soul crushing, and this is at least as important for you as it could be for anyone. Honey, I know you were teasing me about that shop, but if that’s what you have your heart set on, you know I’d support you, as long as you were being realistic about it.”

  “I don’t want to own a shop,” I said. “I don’t know what I want. But a few minutes ago you were telling me to make responsible choices. Now you’re encouraging irresponsible choices.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “You have to decide what will make you happy and fulfilled. Some people love being lawyers.”

  “I don’t think I want to be a lawyer.”

  “Right, so it would suck the soul from you. You might be very good at it, and you might make a lot of money, but would you be happy?”