Just 18 Summers Read online

  His steps were tentative, as if he were avoiding land mines. He finally reached the bed and sat down, folding his hands in his lap.

  “You have to get on your knees.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “In this house, yes. Everybody has their way of doing things.”

  “Right. Okay.” He knelt, his left knee popping from an old football injury. Then his back spasmed for half a second. But finally he got there.

  Ava smiled triumphantly. “Dear God, thank You for a beautiful day.”

  “Amen.”

  “I’m not done.”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Help Catelyn. She was sick today.”

  Silence. Butch peeked to see what she was doing. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she looked totally focused. Butch wondered if he should say something. Was she waiting on him? This was getting awkward.

  Then, “Tell my mommy that I drew a picture of a tree today and my teacher really liked it. Ariel Forrester said hers was better, but mine had glitter and I can color between the lines. Ariel’s looked like a green cotton ball. I drew in the leaves like Mommy showed me.”

  Butch felt the lump in his throat, the one that never went away with a swallow and that had rarely left since Jenny died. He remembered the drawing lesson Ava spoke of. It had been last year. Ariel, then a bossy, sassy first grader in class with Ava, liked to put Ava down and tell her how badly she drew. Ava, the ever-determined kid she was, worked all through the summer to improve her drawing so she could one-up Ariel Forrester.

  Ava’s run-in with Ariel had been the first time he’d seen Jenny so up in arms. Usually Jenny was the peacemaker. She tried to get both parties to see things from the other person’s perspective. When Ava first came home and complained about Ariel, Jenny said, “Well, maybe she doesn’t have a mommy and daddy who take time to look at her pictures.” But as the year wore on and it was clear that Ariel was just a spoiled-rotten kid, Jenny had finally had enough. One night as they lay in bed, she suddenly said, “I’m going to set that little scaly mermaid straight!”

  Butch had been so startled he almost fell out of bed. He thought she was asleep.

  “A mermaid’s cute till it comes up against a shark. Then it’s just a singing fish.”

  Butch couldn’t help but laugh. Jenny’s face was turnip red. She didn’t find his amusement funny.

  “Honey,” Butch said. “You can’t go stomping into the school to set a first grader straight. That’s how you get on the evening news.”

  “True.” She sighed and rolled over to face him. “I just hate how it makes Ava doubt herself.”

  He stroked her hair. “If I know you, you’ll find a way to help Ava figure this out.”

  Butch blinked and the memory was gone. Ava, however, was still praying. “The teacher put it up on the wall. Tell her tomorrow if you can . . .”

  Butch shut his eyes and tried not to cry.

  “I know there are probably a lot of people up there, but my mommy’s the one with the long hair and really pretty . . .”

  Butch put a hand on Ava’s shoulder. “Ava, God knows who your mom is.”

  “You’re right. She’s the one always singing, and God likes singers.”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes closed. Of course God knew her. Because Jenny knew God, and that was just how it was. Maybe Butch couldn’t offer much wisdom, but he knew there was no doubt God knew Jenny Browning. Butch had witnessed her spend every morning with Him since the day they were married.

  “Tell her Daddy said hi too . . .”

  He hadn’t spoken to Jenny since she died, and that was how it was supposed to be. Maybe heaven was there. If it was, she was in it, but there was a gulf the size of the universe between them, so what was the point?

  “And, Jesus, also please help Daddy become a better cook.”

  Butch looked up and found her peeking out one eye at him.

  “Sorry, Daddy. It’s not your fault. It’s just that Mom told me whenever I had a trouble, I should talk to Jesus about it. I’m not mad at you. I’m just worried that I’m not eating the rainbow.”

  “I can’t cook, that is true. But I definitely can’t cook a rainbow.”

  She smiled. “It means eating all the colors using vegetables and fruits.”

  “Oh.” When was the last time he’d bought a fruit?

  “Amen.” Ava rose and slid into bed, pulling the covers to her chin.

  Butch sat on the edge of the bed. “You drew a picture of a tree?”

  “It was really a fish. But Mrs. Murdock thought it was a tree. I drew scales the way Mommy taught me to draw leaves and, anyway, it worked out because of the glitter.”

  “Well, I’d like to see it.”

  “They’ll send everything home the last day of school, so you can see it Friday.”

  “Okay.”

  Ava held out her bunny to be kissed.

  “Good night . . . um, Moo . . . Mo . . . Mu . . .”

  “Macey.”

  “Good night, Macey.” He kissed Ava. “And good night, Ava.”

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  “And, Ava?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you ever punch Ariel in the nose, you won’t be in trouble with me, okay?”

  “I don’t know how to punch.”

  “Then I think we have our weekend project cut out for us.”

  “I don’t think Mommy would approve.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  A small smile emerged on her lips, and her eyes grew distant, like she was imagining herself in a fistfight. Her expression twisted suddenly. In her mind’s eye, she was giving someone a black eye and happy about it. But then the expression faded and she looked at Butch.

  “Maybe I should pray for her instead.”

  “A girl like that doesn’t deserve your time, you know.”

  Ava shrugged and rolled to her side, her eyes blinking slowly and heavily. “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, Ava.” He walked to the door and was about to slide out when she turned toward him again.

  “Daddy, can I ask you something?”

  “It’s late, sweetie . . .” He checked his watch. Well, not that late. He decided to walk back in. He was going to have to start tolerating these inconveniences, deal in patience with her. She probably wanted to know what the weather would be like tomorrow—a stall tactic, he knew, but he could afford at least one. “Yes, Ava?”

  She rose to an elbow, looking intently at him. “I want you to tell me what happened to you that day.”

  “What day?”

  “The day that Mommy died.”

  Butch’s heart thudded with alarm. He was not expecting that question at all. He didn’t even know how to answer it or what she was really asking. He slowly sat on the edge of her bed. She struggled to loosen the blanket underneath him.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”

  “I remember that you came to school and got me, and when we got home, you told me Mommy had died in a car wreck.”

  Tears stung his eyes. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. “That’s right. That’s what happened.”

  “But what happened to you that day?”

  He touched her arm. “I guess I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Were you at work?”

  “Yes, I was at work. At a construction site.”

  “So how did you find out about Mommy’s wreck?”

  Butch tried to gather himself, tried to answer as straightforwardly as he could. But he wasn’t even sure this was a good idea. “I got a call from a police officer on my cell phone.”

  “How did he know your number?”

  “I’m not sure how they knew. Maybe they looked in Mommy’s phone.”

  “What did the police officer say?”

  “He said that I should go to the hospital, that Jenny—Mommy—was in a wreck.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “I was scared, yes. Tip
py drove me to the hospital.”

  “And then what happened?”

  Butch pushed hair out of her eyes. “Ava, why do you want to know this? What are all these questions about?”

  She shrugged. “I just want to know.”

  “You don’t need to know this stuff.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Butch stared at the floor. What was he supposed to do here? He glanced at Ava. Her eyes were wide, searching him.

  “Well, it was at the hospital that the doctor came out to the waiting room and told me that she didn’t . . . make it.”

  “Did she die in the car or at the hospital?”

  Butch blinked slowly, hating to remember that day. “She died in the car.”

  “Because of the truck.”

  “The semi, yes.”

  “Then what happened?” She was asking so matter-of-factly. It was like she was a reporter, digging for details, completely detached from the situation.

  “I called your aunt Beth.”

  “Was Aunt Beth sad?”

  “Yes, she was very sad. Everyone was very sad.”

  “Tippy, too?”

  “Yes, Tippy. And Daphne. You know how much everyone loved your mom, right? I don’t think there was a single person on earth who disliked her.”

  “Why did they like her so much?”

  “She was very thoughtful. And she was always doing nice things for people, thinking of others besides herself. When someone was sick, she would take them a meal. When someone had a baby, she would bring them a present.”

  Ava looked to be processing all of this. She was frowning, not out of anger but out of deep concentration. “Did you ever get to see Mommy again? I never got to see her again, except in my dreams now. Sometimes I see her there.”

  Butch took a deep breath. “That’s the best place to see her, you know.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see her in your dreams?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I wish I could see her every night. I used to, right after she died, but now she only comes sometimes.”

  Butch put his hand to her heart. “But she’s always here.” He touched his own chest. “And here.”

  “And there,” Ava said, pointing to the ceiling, though he knew she meant heaven.

  “And there.” He clasped his hands together on his lap. “Did I answer all of your questions?”

  She nodded. “I just wondered about it, about you. Maybe nobody asked you those questions and maybe you thought nobody cared about your day. But I care.”

  He pulled her into a hug. “I know you care. You care just like your mommy cared.”

  Ava grinned as she lay back against her pillow.

  CHAPTER 11

  HELEN

  IT WAS AFTER 8 P.M. when Helen sat down with two of her three children at their dinner table. She’d asked her husband, Charles, many times to remove the two leaves in the center of the table. They’d put them in for a dinner party four weeks ago, but the table was much too long for a family dinner, especially with Charles working late. The mood lighting she was normally fond of now made the vast dining room look like a cave.

  “I thought Dad was going to be home tonight.”

  “Plans change, Cory,” Helen said. She gestured toward him. “And please hold your fork correctly. Also, why isn’t your hair fixed?”

  “It is.” Cory patted the top of his head. She was already sensing a rebellious spirit in him, at age eight.

  “First,” she said, “we pray. Madison, I believe it’s your turn.”

  They all bowed their heads. Madison said, “Holy Father, thank You for the provision of food and home and opportunity. Amen.”

  “Amen. Go now, Cory. Comb it down. The table is no place to get slouchy. Do you know how many of your father’s successful business deals have been brokered over a meal?”

  Cory groaned. “Fine.” He slid out of his seat, dropped his fork to the table, and left for the bathroom.

  “Madison, please get his fork off the table. Put it on his plate.”

  As Madison did so, Helen looked at the clock on the wall. “Where is she?”

  “She’s with Sasha, Mom,” Madison said with her mouth full. “You know that family can’t get anywhere on time.”

  Helen groaned. “What kind of name is Sasha, anyway? I pray their influence doesn’t rub off on Hannah. Theater is all fine and well, but it is not a career choice. Her parents can barely make a living running that ridiculous community theater. One can’t be a wandering soul, directionless and shifting with the winds of desire. I want to take them by their slouchy knit shirts and tell them to attempt to thrive in the real world.”

  She turned her attention back to Madison, who was spinning her fork in the gravy meant for the pork loin. Helen worried about her oldest daughter. Though smarter than she and Charles combined, Madison had yet to make a career choice. “Speaking of careers, why not a business degree? An international business degree. It seems like such a natural choice for you, dear. You have your father’s instincts.”

  Madison only shrugged. “Mom, you know what? I like what you do.”

  Helen set her silverware on her plate. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re a mom, and you take us places, and then you can have lunch with your friends. And you always get your nails done too. That’s fun. Plus—”

  “Madison, please. First of all, I’m not just ‘a mom.’ I support your father in ways that none of you can possibly comprehend. Chatting with strangers at business dinners is harder than it looks. Secondly, you need a degree in something lucrative, financially beneficial. You must be able to support yourself in this world.”

  “Can you get a degree in mom?” Cory asked as he sat back down, hair almost neatly in place.

  Madison chuckled, but Helen didn’t find the topic funny. Yet it wasn’t Madison who kept her up at night. Hannah had always been the one she worried the most about, the true “free spirit” of the bunch. Helen knew there was nothing more detrimental to a life plan than a free spirit. She glanced at the door, hopeful to hear a car door shut, but it was quiet.

  They kept eating, but Helen’s thoughts soon turned to their mortgage and their bills. Charles had such a good job—and now a promotion—yet they were still stretched to the max with all the kids’ activities and college expenses coming up. Madison had gotten a full scholarship, but there were many, many costs. Charles had questioned the children’s activity level early on, but Helen knew it was their best chance at scholarships. Plus, there was nothing worse than a bored kid.

  Madison and Cory finished their meals, dutifully taking their plates to the sink. Helen looked at the clock again. She’d specifically told Hannah to be home from the mall by 8 p.m. It was now five past nine. And Hannah had not left the house on good terms earlier in the day.

  “Mom? Hello?” she had said to Helen, at the computer.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been saying your name for like ten minutes.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Hannah. It’s not flattering. Exaggeration signals desperation, and nobody likes a desperate person.”

  “I’m desperate for help with my computer.” She crossed her arms, and her eyes twinkled in the way they always did when she was being sarcastic. “It keeps locking up when I save.”

  Helen sighed. She still had a dozen e-mails to return before dinner, mostly about the summer swim party the gymnastic team was planning, plus a pageant update. “Isn’t there a help line or something? I thought I read something about that.”

  “They have live chat. But you’ve told me over and over not to talk to strangers on the Internet.” Then came the smirk. Helen blew out a tense sigh, but Hannah was already backing away. “Forget it. I’ll figure it out.”

  Helen had watched her shuffle to the stairs. When was that girl going to learn to pick up her feet? That sound caused the hairs on the back of Helen’s neck to stand on end. “Hannah, pick up your .
. .” But she’d already bounded up the stairs and out of earshot.

  Now she was at the mall and late for her curfew.

  Hannah was her dramatic one, the one who never could seem to get her emotions in check. Helen had vowed to work on that over the summer. Hannah didn’t know this yet, but emotions were a woman’s worst enemy in the real world. One wrong outburst could be held against her for years.

  Helen had learned that the hard way on a temp job in her early twenties. Men could scream all day long. Women could not even raise their voices.

  As she cleaned the kitchen, she wished Hannah—and all her children, for that matter—better understood her intentions. She simply wanted to give them their best shot, afford them all the opportunities she didn’t have. As she scrubbed the last pot, she lamented where those opportunities could’ve taken her, had she had them. Her life could’ve been different. She could’ve owned a business, she was sure. She’d had a lot of great ideas when she was younger. Her aunt once predicted she’d be an entrepreneur.

  Now what was she? A station wagon in motion, according to Madison. A bakery on demand. A chef at everyone’s service. She dressed as if she were of great importance, as if she were more than the source of her children’s angst, but what was the point, really?

  Helen slumped at the sink in the exact way she’d broken her children of. In the kitchen window, against the black night sky, she caught her reflection. She stared at herself for a long time, an expressionless face engulfed by darkness. The house, with five usually dwelling there, was quiet. The only sound was the faucet running into the sink.

  They knew, didn’t they? That she wanted to be left alone at night? It had become their ritual when Charles worked late. Sometimes she desperately needed the break, just a few quiet moments to herself.

  “Don’t be a bother,” she’d told them when they were young. It was what her mother had told her, and her grandmother had told her mother. “Stay out of the way.”

  Helen turned off the water. Suddenly her feet hurt from the heels she’d worn all day, but she tried to make it a habit to greet Charles fully dressed. Next door she heard her neighbor Beth take out the trash. Beth seemed unable to break the jeans-and-sweats cycle, wearing one or the other, and a ponytail, virtually every day. Beth was everything that Helen didn’t want to happen to her . . . to become lost in motherhood with no sense of who she used to be.