Just 18 Summers Page 9

  But she had to wonder if Beth felt the guilt that cast a long shadow across Helen’s heart. When the children were younger, she could be stern but then end the day with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and all was forgotten. Now, it seemed, nothing was forgotten, by any of them.

  At the front window of the house, looking down the neighborhood street, Helen watched for car lights, though it was much more likely that she would hear Sasha’s parents’ car long before she would see it.

  Of her three children, Hannah had looked the most angelic when she was born. Her face was completely symmetrical, with big blue eyes and hair as white as snow. But by the toddler years, she’d become the one who was more likely to embarrass them in public, with angry outbursts and a low threshold for obedience.

  They had the most disagreements, and suddenly it exhausted Helen, a weighty burden at the bottom of her heart. She stood at the front door, one hand on the knob, wondering how to help this child. Maybe she should do something kind for her. Maybe that said more than words. Helen had never been particularly good with words, according to her high school English teacher. Of course, that never kept her from getting her point across.

  She thought of prayer. It was not something she did regularly, but she’d felt the need to lately. Ever since Jenny Browning died. She wasn’t extremely close to Jenny, though they scrapbooked together once a week. But Jenny was always asking about her kids, asking if there was anything she could pray for. It was such an odd request, Helen thought, that Jenny wanted to pray for other children. But every once in a while she would let Jenny know of a struggle in their home, and she knew it would be prayed for—and kept private.

  It had been a Tuesday, on the way to take Hannah to a pageant activity, when Marlene called to let her know Jenny was dead. Helen dropped Hannah off and sat in the parking lot and cried, despite herself. She didn’t even cry when her own mother had died. She couldn’t explain the grief. It had subsided in the days that followed, but she did miss her.

  A car rattled around the corner at the end of her street, its lights bouncing off the pavement as it headed for the Buckley home. It pulled into the drive as Helen stepped lightly onto the front porch, still holding the door handle. She pulled her cardigan closed as she gave a short wave to the mother, who she could see was wearing a tank top with her bra straps hanging out.

  It was Charles who’d said to let Hannah hang out with Sasha. She was really the first good friend Hannah had found at school, and he’d described the family as harmless. They’d had quite a discussion about it.

  “I don’t like the influence they’ll have over her,” Helen had argued.

  “Honey, it’s not like she’s going to drop out of school and go join the circus.”

  “She already writes so much poetry. The angst that spills out of that girl would make us rich if we were paid by the pound for it.”

  “She’ll be fine,” he’d said. He never worried as much as she did about the kids. He was hardest on Madison, but mostly just about her grades.

  Hannah bolted toward the door, and Helen stepped aside to let her in, following her and closing the door behind them.

  “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” She grabbed the stair railing and started upward.

  “Not so fast.”

  “Mom, I’m tired.”

  “We need to get some things straight about curfew.”

  “I’m sorry. Sasha’s mom drives like a turtle. I told her eight. I promise. But she starts talking and telling stories and then she drives really slowly. I’m really tired. Can I get to bed?”

  Something caused Helen to pause. That little hesitation in her heart saying something wasn’t quite right. It was the way Hannah insisted on rushing upstairs. Nearly every time Hannah came home from anything at all, she went straight to the fridge.

  “Stop right there.”

  Hannah froze midstep.

  “Turn around, young lady.”

  She didn’t.

  “I said, turn around.”

  Slowly she did. She looked uncomfortable, scratching her nose, her eyes darting around. Yeah, Helen was definitely onto something.

  “What is going on?” Helen crossed her arms.

  “I just . . . think I have a nosebleed. I need to run upstairs and get some toilet paper or something. It’s going to drip all over this white carpet.”

  Helen, startled, glanced down at the carpet. She knew how hard blood was to get out. Cory had proven that true four different times. “Let me see,” she said, stepping forward. A little blood never bothered her.

  “No! No . . . I’m fine. I just . . . don’t want to drip.”

  Helen grabbed her arm. “Is it pot? Is it? It’s pot, isn’t it? I knew those theater geeks weren’t trustworthy.”

  Hannah’s eyes, just seconds ago wide and frightened, narrowed quickly. “Pot? Really? They’re nice people, Mom. They would never give me pot. I would never smoke pot. How could you think that about me?”

  “Well, I can’t trust you to be on time, so how can I trust you with anything else?”

  Hannah’s hands dropped to her sides and she only stared at Helen, right at her eyes, glaring.

  “What? No nosebleed?” Helen spat.

  “It did bleed. A little bit at first. Not much.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This.” Hannah pointed to her nose.

  “Yes, I see your nose. It looks fine.”

  “It is. But look closer.”

  Helen leaned in. “You’ve got glitter on your . . .” And then it hit her. It felt physical and literal as the realization hit her. She stumbled backward, grasping at the handrail.

  “Hannah!” she shouted, so loudly that Cory and Madison came running to the top of the stairs. “Go to your rooms!” The two turned and Hannah tried to leave with them. “Not you.”

  Hannah turned around, but there was no hint of fear in her eyes. “So what? I got my nose pierced.”

  Helen frantically searched her daughter’s face, hoping not to see another piercing. She was secretly thankful the diamond was tiny. It looked like a speck. If Helen didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought nothing of it, except to tell Hannah to go wash the piece of glitter off her face.

  But it was what it represented. Hannah had gone and done something she knew she shouldn’t, just to spite them, it seemed.

  “Take that out this instant!” Helen said.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Your father cannot see this!”

  “I don’t think Dad is going to be as upset as you think.” With that Hannah turned and raced upstairs, even as Helen protested.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Helen stood completely alone and cold with shock.

  CHAPTER 12

  LARRY

  BECAUSE HIS OFFICE was on the east side of the building, daylight always faded far before the sky went dark. But at this late hour, it was pitch-black. Larry sat slumped at his desk, hovering over work that he no longer cared about, reading text that he was not absorbing, drinking coffee he didn’t taste.

  Was it just him or was time going by faster? It seemed like a week ago they were eagerly sending Nathan off to his first day as a senior. Then they were ordering his ring and his portraits. Then they were receiving acceptance letters to colleges.

  And now he was a high school graduate.

  And little Robin. He hadn’t pegged her as a girl—young woman—who would rush off and get married. She was his steady Eddie, the kind of kid who “had her head on straight,” as his father liked to say. She thought things through. She planned out her life, even as early as kindergarten, when she’d declared that she needed a file folder to organize her drawings from least well-drawn to most well-drawn. She was so kindhearted, too. The type of kid who played with the kids who had nobody to play with at recess. He’d thought she might go into the Peace Corps one day or do missionary work or something of that sort. Inner-city kids were g
reat, but was that her vision for her life or Marvin’s? Of all his children, it had seemed Robin had the most ambition and the highest calling to do well in her life.

  Marvin didn’t seem to fit into any part of that picture. He was a nice enough kid—young man—but how could he take care of Robin by delivering pizzas and spending his weekends jumping out of airplanes? He was dangerous, in more ways than one.

  Larry set his pen aside, fell back into his chair, and stared at the floor in a lame attempt to pray something—anything—to get God to move a mountain named Marvin off their ranch and back where he belonged. He always knew he’d struggle with whatever man Robin chose to bring home, but this was testing his limits.

  Still, he couldn’t fall apart. Beth was doing enough of that for both of them.

  If he thought about it, what he really wanted was simply to leave his mark on his kids’ lives—to have impacted them and their memories. He wasn’t an absent father by any stretch of the imagination. But he’d known college was coming and worked long hours sometimes in an attempt to move up in the company. It worked. He was now head of his department and could pay for two kids in college . . . except one had dropped out.

  He bit his lip and closed his eyes, praying Scriptures that had nothing to do with the situation, but if taken out of context sounded like they could make things right in his life.

  “You sleeping on the job?”

  Larry looked up to find Carol standing in the doorway of his office.

  “Awfully late for you to be up here,” she said, her deep, craggy voice louder than usual since the hum of copiers and computers was nearly silenced this late.

  “Hi, Carol. Just finishing some work.” He sat up in his chair. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making up for some work from a couple of weeks ago when I had to take that time off.”

  “For your dad’s funeral.”

  “That’s it. And thanks for the flowers, by the way.”

  “Sure. Hey, Carol?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How much vacation time do you have left?”

  “I burned through it all taking care of Daddy in the last weeks of his life. Pancreatic cancer sure does take them fast. I don’t have anything left.”

  “You know, I haven’t taken a single vacation day this year. I just realized it. We haven’t had the time, trying to get Nathan into college and working all that out.”

  “You got something like three weeks, don’t you?”

  “Plus sick time.”

  “You planning a trip or something?” She took a draw from the vapor cigarette hanging around her neck. Today it smelled like Dreamsicles.

  “Not so much a trip as a . . .” Larry laughed a little. “A memory maker. Just bam, going home and making some memories with my kids.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Don’t have that really planned out yet, but I’m thinking it through. You got a kid, don’t you, Carol?”

  “A daughter. She’s thirty-one now.”

  “You see her much?”

  “No, not really.” She picked something off her pant leg. “I’d love to see her more. She lives up in Michigan with her husband and two girls. She’ll call sometimes on Mother’s Day. I hope she comes to visit soon. I ask her every year to come visit us, but it seems like she’s very busy with work and all that. You know how it goes.”

  Larry looked at Carol in a whole new way suddenly. Before, she was a cranky old woman who hated her job, her life, her boss. Now he saw the traces of a woman who had probably sacrificed everything to raise a little girl who never returned home to see her. Would that be Nathan? Off to his own life, too busy to even call? Would that be Robin? Would Marvin move them to some new town, a fourteen-hour drive away, and be unable to pay for a plane ticket to come home?

  “You know what?” Larry began clearing his desk of paperwork.

  “You’re dying of cancer and leaving me your fortune?”

  “I’m taking vacation starting today.” He glanced up at Carol, who toyed with her cigarette, swinging it back and forth across her chest. “All three weeks of it, plus sick days.”

  Carol looked alarmed. “Is it cancer?”

  “No, Carol, I’m not dying. I’m realizing time is . . . well, it’s a cancer of sorts, I guess. It eats whatever is in its path and never stops. You have what you have and you better make good use of it. I’m taking time off and spending it with my boys and my daughter and my wife. We’re going to have an amazing Summer of Intense Fun.”

  Carol’s expressionless face managed a yawn. “Intense fun, eh? That’s a step above ordinary, everyday fun?”

  “It means,” Larry said, grabbing his jacket and briefcase, “that I’ve got to pack a lot into a little time. There are things I always wanted to do with the kids. Now’s the time. Right now. Wait. I can’t. I have that proposal due tomorrow. Okay, well, the day after tomorrow. That’s when it starts. I’ll send Gerald an e-mail tonight about it.”

  “He’s going to take that well,” Carol said, stepping out of Larry’s way.

  “He’ll understand. He’s a family man.”

  Carol watched him walk to the elevator. “One time his wife was out of town and his kid was running like a 103-degree temperature. You know what he did? I saw it with my own eyes, right in his office.” She pointed south. “He plugged that kid with two doses of Tylenol and sent him off to school.” Carol moved toward her desk. “But good luck. Wishing you the best Summer of Intense Fun. I’ll hold down the fort in case you survive it and come back.”

  Larry got on the elevator and pulled out his phone, calling Robin’s cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, spumpkin,” he said. “Think you could work in a lunch date, next week or tomorrow or whenever, with your favorite dad?”

  She laughed. “You bet, Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 13

  TIPPY

  “HEY, THANKS FOR COMING OVER.” Butch stepped aside to let Tippy in while wiping his hands on his jeans. He closed the door with his elbow, like Daphne did now every time she germ-gelled herself.

  Tippy held his toolbox at his side as he looked Butch up and down. “Are you baking or painting? I thought you said baking over the phone, but you look like you’ve been building something.”

  Butch sighed. “Follow me. But keep your voice down. Ava is asleep.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why’d you bring tools?”

  “Never know when you’ll need a tool.”

  When they arrived in the kitchen, Tippy stopped at the door. Batter clung to the side of the counter, dripping slowly to the floor.

  “You did say baking.” Tippy wiped something sticky off the doorframe with his grease rag. Maybe egg. The floor was covered in something that looked like flour.

  “I know—don’t say it,” Butch said.

  “Hey, I’m not judging here. Flour is volatile. One false move and poof! It doesn’t play nice. Isn’t Ava on summer break?”

  “Almost. School ends Friday. Then it’s day care starting Monday. I have to put her somewhere while I work. But for right now I need cupcakes.” Butch moved to the island in the center of the kitchen, the last clear space to work on. “Obviously I would’ve started earlier had Ava not dropped this on me last minute.” He shrugged. “I got the impression from her that this is a big deal. I gotta get it right. But I can’t find that pan that has the circles, the one you make cupcakes with.”

  Tippy thought for a moment. “This isn’t rocket science. I’ll tell you what. Let’s bake the cake first, then we’ll worry about shaping them.”

  “Well, that’s the exact opposite of how we’d approach a construction job, so that makes sense. Jenny used to bake a lot, you know. I should’ve paid attention but . . .”

  Tippy slapped him on the back. “Kids don’t care what it looks like, as long as it tastes good. It’s the theory behind gummy worms.”

  Butch pointed to the mixing bowl in the corner. “Here’s the thing. There were three boxes of cake mix I found i
n the pantry. I ruined the first because apparently the measurements are supposed to be exact. Maybe it’s more like construction than we thought.”

  “What happened to the second box?”

  “I cracked the eggs in there and then smelled something funny . . . noticed the expiration date was four months ago. But the good news is I found a newer carton in the back of the fridge. I forgot I bought it for a science experiment Ava wanted to do.”

  “Oh, what experiment?”

  “We never got around to it. But anyway, I precisely mixed it all up over there, and I know there’s a cake pan somewhere.” Butch rummaged around and emerged with a rectangular pan that seemed suitable in Tippy’s opinion.

  Tippy switched on the oven. “What do you think the temp should be?”

  Butch studied the dial. “Should we broil it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where’s the box?” Butch looked around. “It was sitting there like ten minutes ago, I swear.”

  “Okay, don’t panic,” Tippy said, opening the garbage and peering in.

  “I feel like I should panic. It’s ten o’clock. Could we call Daphne?”

  Tippy dropped the garbage lid closed. “Not a good idea.”

  “Too late?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s . . . She’s . . .”

  “What? Sick?”

  “Not in the viral sense.” Tippy cleared his throat. “It’s just hard to take her out in public.”

  “I’m not public. I’m practically a hermit.”

  “We got this.” Tippy poured the cake mix into the pan and put it in the oven. “I think four hundred is safe. Let’s check on it in five minutes to see if it’s done.”

  Butch leaned on the counter. “Talk to me. What’s up?”

  Tippy shrugged, staring blankly at the oven as he leaned on the counter opposite. “She’s just been acting so weird. Weirder than normal. Not the kind of quirky that’s adorable. She cries a lot. And she cleans all the time. Everywhere. Not just at home. If I lose track of her at a store, I almost always find her in the cleaning aisle.”