Just 18 Summers

  Daphne got Lily’s attention by waving her hands.

  “Lily. Yes, you. Lily. Come here for a minute. I’d like a word with you.”

  Lily stood with her arms dangling by her sides, her eyes wide and searching. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m your neighbor. I’ve known you since you were born.”

  Now Lily had her arms crossed. “That’s not what my mom said.”

  “Your mom said I haven’t known you since you were born?”

  “No. She said you were stranger. Stranger than our other neighbors.”

  Daphne crossed her own arms. “Is that so?”

  Lily was beginning to look terrified, so Daphne tried a lighthearted laugh. It failed on nearly every level. Lily looked ready to run inside.

  “Listen, Lily, I just want to talk to you about all the noise you’re making.”

  Lily took a few timid steps toward the open window that Daphne hung out of. “What about it?”

  “It’s just that—and maybe your mommy never told you this—but you should be using your outdoor voice.”

  Lily cocked her head. “Huh?”

  “There’s an indoor voice and an outdoor voice. See how I’m using my indoor voice right now?”

  “But you’re outdoors.”

  Technically, yes, she was, but she tried to keep on point. “And then there’s an outdoor voice. An outdoor voice is slightly louder than your indoor voice. It’s designed to be heard over things like the wind and maybe the rumble of trash trucks.”

  Lily was gawking now.

  “Then there’s the voice you’re using.”

  “What’s that called?” Her hands rested on her tiny hips.

  “It’s more the kind of voice you’d expect to hear during the apocalypse.”

  “The what?”

  “It reminds me of the screaming you’d hear in a zombie movie.”

  “I’m not allowed to watch those.”

  “I see.” Daphne thought for a moment. “If I all of a sudden started screaming right now, what would you do?”

  “Cry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’d be having a baby out the window and that doesn’t seem like how it should happen.”

  Daphne sighed. Maybe she should be more direct. “Yes, see, I’m pregnant. And pregnant girls . . . ladies . . . need naps. So that’s my point—I’m trying to nap but I can’t because you’re screaming.”

  “I hate naps.”

  “I bet you get cranky without one, though, right?”

  “My mommy calls it ‘mood-challenged.’” But Lily seemed to be thinking about this. “Is that why you’re like the way you are? Because you’re mood-challenged? Because you don’t get your naps?”

  Daphne shook her head but said yes at the same time. “If you could just keep that in mind during the afternoon, I would be so grateful.”

  Lily nodded and left to rejoin her friends. They all started screaming.

  Daphne sighed again, checked her watch, and walked out of the bedroom. Tippy must be home. She could smell the construction site like it’d walked in her front door.

  “Honey, you really have to shower when you come home from work. I can’t be inhaling fumes. You know that.”

  Tippy made a grand, sweeping gesture around the room. Daphne smiled, clapping her hands together. “I knew this would work! And it’s so cost-effective, isn’t it? I should post this on Pinterest.”

  All around the living room, on everything that had a corner, Tippy had secured pool noodles, cut to spec. No matter where the baby fell, he or she would be completely safe and she and Tippy would stay on budget. Maybe it was a ridiculous sight. It did mess with her Pottery Barn sensibilities. But her perspective had changed so drastically lately. It seemed danger lurked around every corner . . . literally around the corners, but also in food preservatives, shampoo dyes, cleaning chemicals, solar bursts, rainwater . . . The list went on. She’d filled half a journal documenting everything she was supposed to stay away from while pregnant.

  But today they’d conquered one issue: corners. Daphne fell into the sofa, lifting her swollen ankles onto the injury-proof coffee table.

  “You okay? You look tired. Didn’t you take a nap?” Tippy asked. “Butch is giving you half days off so you can rest.”

  “Believe me, I tried. I finished the books around noon. But Lily next door insists on playing at a decibel typically reserved for a rock concert. Doesn’t she understand that even with the amniotic fluid, our baby is at risk for tinnitus?”

  “She’s just a kid,” Tippy laughed. “They have no volume control.”

  “Promise me, Tippy, that we won’t be those parents.”

  “What parents?”

  “The kind whose kid throws a fit in a grocery store while they do nothing about it. We live in a cul-de-sac, not a jungle. Lily should take into consideration that there are other people living within earshot. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, I for one love to hear kids laugh and play outside. It seems the world is right when they do.”

  “You realize our children won’t be playing in the front yard until they’re sixteen.”

  Tippy nodded. “Of course.”

  From nearby, Daphne grabbed the new parenting book she’d ordered off Amazon. She was halfway through it, and it contained some of the most valuable information she’d acquired to date. The title was Fighting Infant Obesity in the First Thirty Weeks.

  “Did you read the chapter I marked last night?” she asked Tippy, eyeing him over the book.

  “Yes, I did,” he said proudly over his shoulder as he tried to open a cabinet. “Why won’t this open?”

  “You installed that thing.”

  “I know, but an adult is supposed to be able to open it.”

  “Try to push that tab harder.”

  “I’m pushing it as hard as I can.”

  “Well, I’m comforted knowing there is no way our baby can get in there.”

  “It’s not like it’s a knife collection. It’s just some junk and old board games.”

  “Tippy,” Daphne said, lowering the book, “that might as well be a pit of vipers. Board games have tiny pieces that could choke our baby.”

  “True,” Tippy sighed. “But all I need is some tape. If I could just get in here!”

  “So back to the questions for the day. At two months, how much breast milk per feeding?”

  “Five to six ounces. I’m literally going to have to take this thing off at the hinges.”

  “And how many feedings per twenty-four hours?”

  “Eight to ten.”

  Daphne gasped, causing Tippy to turn around. “What?”

  “Are you trying to make our child obese?”

  “Sorry! Five to six. Five to six. Don’t know what I was thinking. At eight to ten, I might as well feed him a cheesecake.”

  “Or her.” Daphne smiled.

  “Listen, sweetie, do you think we need to triple-proof these cabinets now? It’s going to be months before the baby can even reach up here.”

  “You want our baby to be obese and dead?”

  Tippy bit his lip. Daphne took a deep breath, trying to dial it back a notch. She knew her hormones often made it hard for her to think like a man. But she had to get Tippy to understand just how important all of this stuff was. She’d read five times the amount of literature that he’d read. The baby was coming soon and he still didn’t understand the need for organic cotton burp rags. He was so behind.

  “Got it,” Tippy said, finally pulling the cabinet open. “Looks like you have to push down, pull with your thumb, then twist with your pinkie.”

  Daphne put the book down. “Tippy, our little one is going to be here soon. I know this all feels extreme, but you and I are getting ready to be in charge of a life. We have to protect this child from dust mites and bedbugs. From illiteracy and attention disorders. All before kindergarten. And those are just the tangibles. What abou
t the intangibles? What about our child’s spirituality and his or her life philosophy? We really need to plant deep-seated ambitions early on, like at six months, or our kid is going to be one of those people who deliver pizza well into their forties. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “It’d mean free pizza for life, right?” Tippy’s grin dropped off his face. “No. Right. Obviously. Probably should have him stay away from the entire food industry to avoid obesity in general.” He wiped his brow. “I gotta run to the hardware store to get some stuff to build the support beam under the crib that you wanted.”

  “All right. But don’t stay long.” She’d noticed Tippy seemed to want to linger away from home more. She’d send him out for kale and he’d return home two hours later.

  Daphne wandered into the kitchen for some coconut water. Maybe he was just as stressed-out as she was. He put on a good front, acting like sending off for SAT help books now was too early, but she could feel it. He was sharing the same terror that kept her up at night, pacing the hall, wondering why they hadn’t started a college fund for their child when they were first married.

  Well, none of that mattered. She couldn’t dwell on the past. The baby would be here soon and they had to get things in order, including the water filters he’d yet to install in the bathtub or the kitchen sink. Later she would show him the article she found on amoebas in drinking water, but for now there were other matters to attend to.

  She blew out a tight-lipped sigh. The most important thing for her to remember was to stay calm, to not stress. Jenny had talked about that when Daphne first got pregnant, when they’d taken Ava to the park. “You’re going to start feeling a lot of fear, but you’ve got to stay calm. Do a lot of praying about whatever is bothering you.”

  Daphne noticed that the voice mail light was flashing on her home phone. Someone must’ve called when she was napping. She picked up the receiver and punched in the code.

  “Hi, Daphne. This is Carrie from Dr. Petree’s office. Listen, just wanted to alert you that your group B streptococcus screening came back flagged. Nothing to worry about at this point, okay? It just means we’ll need to treat you with antibiotics during delivery so the baby won’t contract the infection at birth. See you at your next appointment. Call if you have any questions.”

  Daphne dropped the phone back into the charger. A wave of nausea passed over her as she slumped against the counter. Nothing to worry about? Strep B was the leading cause of life-threatening infections in newborns. It could cause mental retardation, impaired vision, hearing loss . . .

  Daphne trembled, trying to remember to pray. Breathe. Breathe and pray. How could this happen? She’d been so careful about everything. Everything!

  Next door, Lily screamed.

  CHAPTER 7

  BETH

  IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN nicer weather for a Saturday in early summer. Beth stood in the kitchen stirring the lemonade. Next to her a stack of Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens magazines loomed like a skyscraper over a smaller city. She’d been a year behind until last night, when she stayed up to go through every single one. Neither she nor Larry had slept well lately. Larry plotted out their “Summer of Intense Fun” while Beth marveled at how far she was from actually doing anything worthy of these magazines.

  She flipped from page to page, noticing how moms had designed entire rooms for their children’s benefit, complete with DIY chalkboard walls and hidden reading nooks. She marveled at homemade cookies sitting on handmade ceramic platters in the middle of spotless kitchens. Real fruit was clustered in the bowls on the magazine counters. The bananas were actually yellow, not brown. And the kids were actually eating the fruit.

  She’d had plans like these, to make memories worthy of magazine covers. But something happened along the way. She still wasn’t sure what. Life, perhaps. But who doesn’t life happen to? What kind of excuse was that?

  She stared down at the linoleum floor under her feet. They’d vowed that the new century would not arrive before they put in tile. But here it was, green and dull and curling up at the edges.

  Jenny would’ve never let her house go like this. She’d been the DIY queen. Of course, it helped that her husband was a contractor. But everything in her house always looked . . . perfect. Maybe if Beth had paid attention to the details, Robin wouldn’t be so quick to want to run off and get married.

  Larry walked in, carrying a stack of rectangular boxes. “Found them! They were buried at the back of the attic, behind the VHS boxes.” He peered over the stack. “What’s that?”

  “Lemonade.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “To drink.”

  “Don’t we usually drink soda?”

  “Usually,” she said, smiling, “but not today. Today begins a new era for us. And it’s fresh, too. I squeezed a dozen lemons by hand. My thumb is still cramped.”

  Larry looked impressed. “Nice.”

  “We really should’ve taught our kids not to drink soda.”

  “Whose plates are those?” Larry asked, setting the boxes of board games on the counter.

  “Ours.”

  “Those aren’t ours.”

  “They are. I bought them at Target for when we went on picnics. They’re plastic and durable and cute with the little ants, don’t you think?”

  “But we never went on a picnic.”

  “I know. And it’s a shame, isn’t it? So today we’re using these. I’ve got chips and salsa and lemonade. What a great family day, right?”

  Larry grinned. “That’s the spirit! Pour me a glass. I want to be the first taste tester. And also eat chips for breakfast.”

  “Can it. They’re late sleepers.” Beth took one of the plastic cups that had come with the picnic set, filled it with ice, and poured the lemonade for him, watching with delight as Larry took a big gulp.

  He grabbed his face and yelped.

  “What?” Beth gasped.

  “Did you put sugar in this?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Larry’s face was turning red. “Not enough, sweetie. Not enough.”

  They stood there taste testing for ten minutes, Beth adding one tablespoon of sugar at a time. Finally Larry grabbed the sack and dumped the rest of it in. A poof of sugar smoke rose from the pitcher.

  “You’ve now reduced this to a health hazard,” Beth growled.

  Larry poured another small glass and smiled. “Maybe. But it tastes amazing! Way better than soda. Here.”

  Beth took a sip. “Wow. That’s nice.”

  Larry lowered his voice. “And that’s the key here, sweetie. We’ve got to pack almost two decades of memories into a summer. We can’t risk something like sour lemonade. Every time one of our kids looks at a lemon from now on, they’ll remember the ecstasy of that first sip, the sugar coma that followed, and remember us.”

  “I hope they remember these plates. They’re cute, aren’t they?” As Larry started to walk off, Beth grabbed his arm. “Was Robin up yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you think today’s a good day for me to talk to her?”

  “About what?”

  “About what? About her upcoming wedding and marriage and all that.”

  “Beth,” Larry said, “she’s twenty-one years old. You can’t talk someone that age out of something they want.”

  “Are you not the least bit worried?”

  “Of course I’m worried. But trying to convince her not to marry Marvin will only drive you two further apart.”

  Beth’s arms fell to her sides. “What do you mean, further apart?”

  Larry looked regretful. “I didn’t mean it exactly like that.”

  “Then what did you mean? Are we not close?” Beth glanced down. “Never mind. I know what you mean.”

  “Look, we’re kind of scrambling here. Both of us. The last few years I’ve been chained to my desk at work. I’ve missed more dinners. Worked on the weekends sometimes. Robin’s been off to college, and so naturally there’
s been a separation between the two of you. It’s expected.”

  Beth felt herself tearing up. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t tell us about Marvin . . . that they were serious, in love. . . . She just sort of dropped this on us.”

  “Then let’s make the most of our time, okay?” Larry smiled and slipped out the front door toward the porch. Beth stood there for a moment, not thinking about him or the boys or Marvin or Robin.

  She thought about Jenny—how she had been robbed of all the time in front of her. In a split second, she was gone from the earth and didn’t have as much as a minute to say good-bye. And here Beth stood, with time to be had. What was she going to do with it?

  She could stew about Marvin, or she could dive in and make plans with her daughter. Dress shopping. Picking out flowers and invitations and wedding themes.

  Beth smiled at the thought. She tried to imagine Marvin in a tux. That was more difficult. Then she was back to plotting how to convince Robin that Marvin wasn’t the one.

  She grabbed the pitcher and walked out to the front porch. As Nathan and Chip gathered around, she set out the snacks and lemonade on the wicker table that looked about to fall apart though it had never been used. The porch really hadn’t been used, not like she’d hoped when they first moved in.

  For three weeks in 2007 it housed a floral couch that they’d tried to donate to charity but nobody wanted. Their neighbor Helen finally called the police to complain, so they decided to burn it in the backyard and have a bonfire. The smoke got too thick and then another neighbor called the fire department. To this day Beth still found small scraps of floral material buried in the soil of their yard.

  Other than that, the porch just sat here, serving as the bottom lip of the house, having nothing to say. They walked in and out of the house and never gave it a second thought, but it was nice. A fresh coat of paint would make it look magazine worthy. It needed a good sweeping, too.

  “Is this urine?” Chip asked, gawking at the lemonade.

  Beth sighed, tearing her gaze from the old swing that drifted slightly in the wind. The rope was frayed like she imagined her nerves had been a few times through the years. “It’s freshly squeezed lemonade, Chip.”