Our New Normal (ARC)

by Colleen Faulkner

  “Ty.” I lay my hand on his arm.

  “What?”

  He kind of shakes me off. He doesn’t hurt me, but it pisses me off.

  Actually, I’ve been pissed at him all week. He didn’t get me a birthday present. He said he was going to get me something when he got paid again. That everything he’d saved went into the down payment on the truck. But he didn’t get me a birthday card from the dollar store, either. Or make me a freakin’ origami pickup truck from a page of homework. When we first started talking, he made me a couple of origami things: a dog, a loon, a box he put some M&M’s in. I still have them on a dresser in my bedroom. He wasn’t great at making them; they’re a little lopsided. But it was so sweet of him to try.

  Tyler didn’t even tell me happy birthday until Katy pulled him aside in the hall after lunch and told him he was an asshole and a dickwad. Which she and I laughed about later because really, she could have picked one or the other, right?

  “Who are you texting?” I ask, looking at his phone in his hand.

  “No one.”

  I point at his phone. “I see you texting.”

  He crams his phone into his Carhartt canvas coat pocket and throws the truck in reverse.

  “Where are we going?”

  He pulls out in front of a car and I hear a beep from behind us. I instantly lay my hand on my big belly. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to be able to let Tyler drive our baby around. A car seat provides a lot of protection. I’ve been doing a lot of research because that’s what I want for Christmas. But even with the infant car seat with the highest safety rating, obviously, you don’t want to get into an accident with your baby. Tyler’s going to have to start driving more responsibly. Acting more responsibly if he thinks he’s going to get to drive his son around.

  “Guess I’ll take you home,” he mumbles. “My uncle said I can work for an hour or two tonight. After my cousins get off. I’ll take you home.”

  I look at him. “I thought we were going to hang out.”

  “You said you want me to make money.” His tone is mean. “You keep telling me you want me to buy diapers and shit.”

  I stare at him. He’s trying to grow a mustache, but right now it doesn’t look great because it’s sparse. It kind of looks like pubic hair above his upper lip. I feel like telling him so because he’s being such a dickwad. “For our baby. Your baby. It’s not fair to expect my parents to pay for everything.”

  “Why not? They’re rich.” He hits the gas pedal and races through a yellow light.

  I look out the window. It’s almost dark out even though it’s only four o’clock. I love summers in Maine, but the winters are cold and dark and dreary. And it’s already snowed twice this week and we’re expecting snow on Thanksgiving.

  “They’re not rich,” I say quietly. There’s no way I’m getting into this conversation with him again, not when we just had it last week. All I asked him was if he wanted to talk to his parents about buying the baby’s crib since my parents were getting the car seat and the good ones cost more than a crib. He got all pissy with me and said he wasn’t asking his mom and stepdad to buy anything.

  I stare out the window as he turns onto my road. I guess he really is going to take me home. Fine. I don’t want to be with him if he doesn’t want to be with me.

  A lump comes up in my throat and not the acid reflux kind. I feel like I could cry. I lean my cheek against the glass of the window and stare out. The wind is whistling over my head where it’s coming through the crack, making me even colder. I’m glad Tyler is taking me home. I don’t want to ride around with him in his stupid truck anyway. It’s a death trap. He told me about the exhaust problem, but what about the squeaky brakes? I’m no car expert, but that sound has to mean something and I bet it doesn’t mean everything is A-OK.

  “You coming to Thanksgiving?” I ask him. “At the cottage. My aunt and uncle and their families will be there. And Aunt Beth is bringing Gran and Granddad. Unless Granddad’s colitis is acting up again.” That was what happened last year. Gran said it was because he ate a bunch of nuts the night before after she told him not to.

  “Nah.” Tyler doesn’t look at me. “Going to Sebago. Uncle Benny’s.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t talking to your mom because of what J.J. said about your uncle’s ex-wife.” I feel bad for Tyler. Every holiday, there’s always a big fight with someone in his family. He says it’s been that way as long as he can remember. Even when he was a little kid he remembered his family fighting. Like sometimes they hit each other. One year, they drove to New Hampshire for Christmas dinner and turned around and came all the way back before they even got to eat.

  He shrugs. “Mom’s working till noon, then we’re going.”

  “And J.J’s going?” I only ask because on Fourth of July Ty’s stepfather got drunk at some other relative of Cricket’s and somebody called the cops and Cricket said she wasn’t taking him to any family dinners anymore.

  “I guess.” His phone dings in his pocket. Another text. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Just leave me at the end of my driveway.”

  “What?” He looks at me and makes a face. “No. It’s cold. And getting dark,” he adds, clearly pissed at me. “I don’t care if your mom sees me. I don’t care what she thinks.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear him say bitch under his breath. I’m not sure if he’s saying my mom is a bitch or I am. Right this minute, it could be appropriate for either one of us. I still don’t like it. But I don’t call him on it. Instead, I say, “I don’t care what she thinks, either. I’m saying let me off in the driveway because that’s what I want you to do.”

  His phone dings again. Who the heck is texting him? His friend Rob lost his phone yesterday riding dirt bikes somewhere. He can’t be texting him.

  “Fine,” he says, taking the curve just before our house a little too fast.

  “Fine,” I repeat, grabbing the seat, being all dramatic about it.

  Tyler doesn’t slam on the brakes, but probably mostly because his brakes are crappy and he can’t. The truck is still rocking on its bad shocks when I unbuckle my seat belt and shove open the door.

  I get out. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. I want to turn around and yell something at him. But I don’t know what I want to say, so I just slam the door. I hear him tear off, the truck sliding on the snow that’s blown onto the road.

  Mom’s in the dining room folding laundry on the table when I walk inside. I’m shivering, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m cold from the walk up the driveway or because I’m so upset. She looks at me as I stomp across the dining room, headed for the stairs.

  “You okay?” she asks, one of my dad’s scrubs tops in her hands.

  Willie Nelson is lying on the floor between the kitchen and dining room area. He picks up his big head and stares at me.

  “I have to pee,” I say, like it’s somehow Mom’s fault. “Again!”

  I stomp up the stairs, down the hall, and into the bathroom that I have all to myself now. I barely make it to the toilet and sit down hard, exhaling with relief as a bucket of pee runs out of me. My baby is now around the size of an eggplant, but he feels like an elephant when he’s sitting on my bladder. As if he knows I’m thinking mean things about him, he rolls and I put my hand on my belly.

  I still feel like I could cry. I finish peeing, pull up my old lady stretch pants, and go to the sink to wash my hands. When I look up, I hardly recognize myself in the mirror that Mom made from a big, old picture frame. My face is puffy, I’ve got a bunch of zits on my chin, and my hair is greasy because I was too tired to get up early enough this morning to take a shower. I used to be pretty. Now I’m ugly and fat and I’m never going to be pretty again.

  Tears roll down my cheeks.

  By the time I dry my hands, I’m full-out crying. I’m in big trouble, bigger than being pregnant, and I
know it. Even though I’ve been pretending for weeks that I’m not.

  But it’s becoming pretty clear that I’m pregnant and I’m alone because Tyler doesn’t love me anymore.

  I had sex with him because he said he loved me. I know I can’t blame my getting pregnant on him because it’s my fault, too. I realize that, but he said he loved me. He swore he’d always love me. And I made the decision to keep our baby because I knew we could do this together.

  But what if there isn’t a together anymore? I sure don’t feel like we’re together.

  My back to the sink, I slide down to the floor, flopping my legs out straight because I can hardly cross them anymore, my belly is so big. It’s like . . . like a basketball, it’s so big. Like I have a basketball under the sweatshirt I stole from Dad’s closet. Hugging my basketball belly with my arms, I sob.

  I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

  Tyler doesn’t love me anymore. I know he doesn’t.

  He hasn’t said he doesn’t love me, but he hasn’t said he does in weeks. And he’s been acting like such a jerk. And sneaking around. And I’ve heard from several people that he’s talking to Amanda Peterson. That’s probably who he was texting. Katy says he isn’t, but what if she’s trying to protect me? Or . . . or what if she’s just wrong? If he was going to cheat on me with someone, it would be Amanda Peterson for sure. She’s got a reputation in school for stealing people’s boyfriends. I know she liked him. Her and her friend Christina, both.

  I cry louder. I can’t make myself stop. I cry big, ugly, wet tears and my nose starts running.

  A knock at the bathroom door startles me. I’m about to scream at Sean to take a freakin’ hike. But then I remember he isn’t here. I remember he’ll never live here again, and even though he drove me crazy, I realize I miss him.

  I suck in a big, loud sob. Because my brother is gone and we’ll never live together again. I’ll never be able to steal his no-show socks from the top drawer of his dresser, or lock him out of the bathroom while I sit on the floor reading a book with the shower running.

  “Hazel?” It’s Mom. “You okay?”

  “Go away!”

  I sob louder. I can’t stop. I cry so hard I feel like I’m going to throw up. Sean said Tyler wouldn’t be there for me when the baby was born. Mom said it. Aunt Beth said it.

  And almost more than being afraid Tyler doesn’t love me anymore, I’m afraid they’re right.

  “Hazel, hon . . .” Mom says. “Is it okay if I come in?”

  I’m crying so hard, I can’t even holler again for her to go away. To go shop for tile or go build those people’s house or go do whatever it is she’s doing all the time when she’s not here. Because she’s never here anymore. She’s never here when I get home from school. She’s gone most Saturdays and now she’s started going places on Sundays.

  “Hazel, I’m coming in. Okay?” There’s a pause and the bathroom door slowly opens.

  I want to yell at her to leave me alone, but I can’t. I don’t. And the next thing I know, she’s sitting beside me on the bathroom floor, hugging me.

  I lean against her, still crying.

  She holds me in her arms, rocking me, like she did when I was little. She just lets me cry for another minute or two and then she says, “Hazel, honey, what is it? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “What . . . what’s wrong?” I blubber.

  Arm around my shoulder, she pulls me to her. “You and Tyler have another fight?”

  I lean over, put my head on her boobs, and close my eyes and hold on to her. She smells so good, like the mom I remember when I was little. Like vanilla, and even though she smells a little bit like sawdust right now, she still smells like my mom.

  And I cry harder.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she soothes, rocking me rhythmically. She strokes my dirty hair.

  “It’s not,” I sob. I lift my head off her shoulder to look at her. “How could I have been so stupid, Mom? I’m not stupid. I’m not the kid who does stupid things,” I say, putting emphasis on each word. “I’m the one who turns her homework in early and researches running shoes before I buy a pair.”

  Mom almost looks like she’s going to smile, but she doesn’t. Maybe because she knows if she does, I’ll freak out.

  “How could I have gotten pregnant and ruined my life?” I go on. “And ruined some little baby’s life and . . .” I hiccup. “How could I have been so stupid?” I say again. “People like me, we . . . we don’t do stupid stuff like get pregnant. Not in the second decade of the twenty-first century, not with free access to contraception and our parents’ credit cards.” I drop my head to her chest, sobbing again.

  “Oh, sweetie, you’re not stupid,” she whispers, pushing back my hair that’s all sweaty now and probably snotty. “You just made a mistake, a tiny, little mistake.”

  “This isn’t tiny,” I wail, stroking my big belly that makes me feel like I’ve been kidnapped by an alien or something and now serve as a host body. “Look at it, Mom. Look at me. I’m enormous!”

  She sort of laughs, but not like she thinks something is funny. It’s the kind of sound you make when you decide you want to laugh instead of cry. “Come here,” she says quietly and she helps me rearrange myself so I’m lying in her lap now. She’s still stroking my hair.

  “You made a mistake, but you’re not stupid. We all make mistakes, especially when we’re young.”

  “Not you. You never made mistakes. Granddad told me you were the best kid ever.” I sniff and wipe my nose on Dad’s sweatshirt I’m wearing. “He said you always did what you were supposed to. You got good grades, you never came home past curfew, and you never smarted back at him and Gran. And he said he wasn’t just comparing you to Aunt Beth. He said you were a good kid, a good teenager.”

  Mom looks like she’s going to say something. Then she reaches up and grabs a handful of tissues from a box on the sink and passes them to me.

  I blow my nose.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I rest my cheek on her shoulder. “I’m fat and ugly.”

  “You’re neither,” she says.

  “Tyler’s not coming to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I know she’s not, but it’s still kind of nice of her to say it. “He got a truck, but there’s something wrong with the exhaust on it. I don’t think I should be riding with him.”

  “He bought a truck?” I can tell she’s trying hard to be careful with her tone. Because what she really means is how does he have money to buy a truck when he’s supposed to be saving money to help with the baby.

  “Yeah, but I don’t care about the stupid truck. I don’t think he likes me anymore.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I roll over so I can look up at her. The floor is toasty warm because when Mom tiled it herself, she put this big heating-pad thing under it so the whole thing is heated. It’s on a timer so it comes on every morning before I get up for my shower and then again late in the day so it’s warm in the evening. “He never wants to do anything with me anymore. I hardly ever see him at school and when I do he’s . . . I don’t know. Weird.”

  She’s still stroking my hair. “You talk to him about it?”

  I meet her gaze. “Talk to Tyler about it?” I don’t know why or how it’s even possible, but I laugh. And then Mom laughs. And then we sit there on the bathroom floor for a long time talking about stuff, not Tyler stuff, just stuff like something Mom heard on NPR that she thought I’d be interested in and what kind of Christmas cookies we’re going to make this year. And we stay there on the floor until Dad gets home and we hear him yell up the stairs.

  “Liv? Hazel? You guys up there?”

  Mom and I start laughing. I don’t know why. But it feels good and it makes me feel like maybe everything will be okay.

  19

  Liv

  I turn the burner on under the pot of potatoes and rea
ch for my glass of wine. I hear Oscar’s brother, Joe, shouting, “Child! Child!” from the family room.

  “Boy!” yells their sister.

  “Boy child,” hollers Joe and there’s raucous laughter.

  They’re playing charades: Oscar, and his siblings and all of our children while I finish preparing our Thanksgiving dinner. Even my parents have joined in the game. Dad isn’t actually playing, but I hear him chuckling, which means he’s engaged. I feel as if he’s better mentally when he’s engaged with others. And my mother won the last round. She’s having a good day, feeling decent. She arrived dressed in a skirt and sweater and knee-high boots and didn’t need her wheelchair. I think she misses the old days when holidays were big in our house. She and Dad entertained often and they served many a cocktail in their home. While we didn’t have many relatives, my parents had a lot of friends. No one who knew Ed and Bernice Cosset ever had to spend a Christmas or a Thanksgiving, or even a Saint Paddy’s Day, alone.

  The sound of the laughter makes me smile, but also thankful I’m not in the middle of it. After spending a fun couple of hours peeling potatoes, chopping veggies for stuffing, and making a homemade version of green bean casserole with different family members, I was relieved when Marie suggested they move to the family room and play a game while the turkey finished roasting. I genuinely enjoy cooking and I’ve been so busy working this week at the Anselin farm that being alone in the relative peace of the warm kitchen to gather my thoughts and catch my breath is nice.

  I set the lid on the potato pot with one hand and sip my Malbec with the other.

  “Mm, smells good in here.”

  I turn to see Oscar coming into the kitchen, a glass in each hand. “Marie likes the wine. Wants to know what box it came out of. And she needs a refill.” He raises the stemmed wineglass high.

  I smile and take it from him. Marie makes fun of my selections of wine. She buys bottles that cost forty dollars, but she can afford it; her husband, Sai, is a plastic surgeon. I see no reason to spend that much on wine, even if I had it. I doubt I’d be able to taste the difference between the eight-dollar bottle of wine and one costing five times that. The funny thing is that Marie admits my boxed wine is pretty damned good; she just can’t bring herself to buy it.