CHAPTER 1
Becky—2012
The hand on her cheek weighed no more than a birthmark.It fluttered, stirred by the breeze of a dream, but remainedtethered to Becky's face.
Her neck stiffened. A neutral position was out of thequestion. She was trapped at an odd angle between the arm ofthe porch swing and the breath of the child.
With one foot planted on the porch's floorboards, and therest of her a cradle, Becky kept the swing in motion. A smoothbackstroke. Hesitation. Then as she lifted her foot, the forwardstroke was accompanied by a two-toned creak the baby musthave thought was white noise.
Becky guessed thirteen pounds. The bulk lying stomach-downacross her torso like a seat belt might have come intothe world a wisp of six pounds—less than a gallon of milk. Butseven hundred bottles later, give or take, and he could hold hisown against a Costco-sized bag of sugar.
A sweat bee buzzed a fly-by. Becky waved it off. Baby droolpuddled at the top of her breastbone. She let it be, let it be.
The rich, woody scent of the neighbor's cottonwoodsmelded with the lingering aroma of her caramel latte, the onein her favorite pottery mug on the small table just out of reach.The mug, her book, sanity—so much seemed just out of reach.
The baby lifted his head. Feather lashes still closed, he nestledthe opposite cheek into the hollow of her neck. She pattedhis diapered bottom with a rhythmic, unspoken "Shh. Back tosleep, little one."
The buzz returned, but not above them. UnderneathBecky's right hip, her cell phone thrummed. She reached forit, motionless except for the espionage-worthy stealth of herretrieve arm and the unbroken choreography of her swingfoot.
The phone buzzed again. She held it away from her, saw thefamiliar caller ID, and hit the "talk" button with her thumb."What's up, Lauren?"
An opportunity, no doubt. Chance du jour.
A finals study group that included two brainiacs and a certifiedmember of the National Honor Society had invited Laurento a cram-fest.
"Please don't stay out late." Becky felt the vibrations of herwords in her chest. The baby lifted his head and nestled, facingthe other direction again.
Not late, Lauren answered. No. But Becky did realize thegroup would have to go get something to eat after studying,didn't she?
Becky disconnected the call. She may or may not haveremembered to say good-bye.
The baby oozed awake and pushed against her chest untilhe'd raised himself enough to lock gazes with her. Thosedenim-blue eyes looked so like his father's, if her suspicionswere correct about the child's paternity. She brushed strands ofcornsilk hair off his cherub forehead.
"Your mommy called." Becky kissed one barely there eyebrow,then the other. "She says hi."
* * *
Dodging scattered mounds of clothes—distinguishable asclean or dirty only by odor—Becky crossed Lauren's room tothe crib lodged between Lauren's dresser and her shoe jungle.Well-practiced, Becky eased the baby from her shoulder to themattress. She pulled a blanket from the corner of the crib,but its sour smell told her it belonged in one of the piles onthe floor, not wrapped around her grandson. Stifling a groan,she bent to the plastic storage tub tucked under the crib. Oneclean blanket, too thick for an Indian summer afternoon.
Laying babies on their backs? The "let's change everythingwe knew for sure" revised recommendation from the pediatricsociety or some other entity still disturbed her. Hard habit tobreak. Aren't they all?
Her dentist wouldn't appreciate her new habit of grindingher back teeth. She untensed her jaw, laid the blanket up toJackson's waist, then exited the room with an armload of laundryshe shouldn't have to wash.
Mid-hallway, she leaned against the wall. Baby socks anda pair of skinny jeans drizzled to the floor as she searched fora way to readjust her load. Not the laundry. The pieces thatstuck to the rough edges of her fractured hopes.
Monica's well-intentioned voice thundered through thethrobbing tunnels in her head. "Don't do everything forLauren, Becky. You're enabling her. She'll never take responsibilityif she doesn't have to."
Great advice, Monica. And who suffers if I don't bathe that child,if I don't put diapers on my grocery list, if I don't make sure hehas something to wear that doesn't smell like curdled milk? Laurenwon't even notice.
Drafting an apology for words her friend would never hear,Becky pushed off from the wall and aimed for the laundryroom.
Jackson's cry stopped her before she recapped the detergent.
* * *
Mamas don't get to stay out past midnight.
How had pushing a baby through her woman parts givenLauren the right to abandon the house rules? And on a schoolnight?
Becky steeled herself for a confrontation. She'd say, andthen Lauren would say, and then she'd say ...
No. That hadn't worked the last four times they'd had asimilar conversation.
She drowned another tea bag—fragrant, impossibly smoothwhite peach—and forced her gaze away from the clock onthe kitchen wall. But the digital displays on the stove and themicrowave mocked her attempts to forget what time it was,where her daughter should be, the lure of her pillow, and thefact that Lauren's father was missing all the fun.
I hope you're enjoying California, Bub. She should probablyuse his real name. It wasn't Gil's fault his job demanded thekind of travel she'd find more fulfilling than he did. Wait. Itwas only a little after ten, Pacific time. She could call.
One ring. Two.
"Hey, honey. How's my angel?"
"She's not home yet."
"I meant you, Becky."
The sincerity in his voice was like ointment for a scrapedknee. "I—"
"Are you okay, my pugalicious?"
"Gil. Not in the mood for nose-related terms of endearment,okay?"
"Sorry."
Of course he was. Good man. The kind she'd hoped Laurenwould choose one day.
"Is Jackson sleeping?" he whispered, as if he could wake thebaby from six states away, as the stork flies.
She swirled her tea bag through the steaming water. If itwere her typical daytime choice—Black Pearl—it would bynow be oversteeped, the deep molasses of Gil's eyes. "Jackson?Sleeping obliviously. Like I should be."
"I wish I were there."
"I know."
"What's Lauren's excuse this time?"
"Study group."
Gil's sigh traveled through the fiber-optic phone lines andtickled the hairs in Becky's ear. "Is she still talking college?"
A slosh of tea left a mini-puddle on the white countertop.She swiped at it with her palm, which turned the small puddleinto a smear. "We want her to further her education, don't we? Imean, providing she gets through this last year of high school."She ripped a paper towel from its holder. "That's not a given."
"We knew this would be hard." Blistered. His voice soundedblistered, as though life's shoes had rubbed too long on a tenderspot.
"He's our grandson."
"And she's our daughter."
"That's been confirmed, hasn't it?"
Gil chuckled. "You mean, how did two fully responsible,completely mature adults manage to raise a daughter whoseems allergic to responsibility?"
"Something like that."
"She's not fully grown yet, Becky."
"Oh, that's comforting." The baby monitor let Becky knowher not-fully-grown-yet daughter's infant son squirmed in hiscrib.
"Do you want me to call Lauren on her cell?"
"I tried that. It went to voice mail."
Gil huffed. "That'll be the last time."
"It's on my list." Becky turned away from the glare of themicrowave's time keeper.
California said, "We're in this together, hon."
She should have replied instantly with something thatmeant, "We sure are." But six states of separation and full-timeversus part-time parenting left an awkward gap she didn't havethe energy or wisdom to fill.
"Becky?"
Somewhere beyond the walls, a car door slammed. "Nevermind. She just got home."
* * *
"Five, six, seven, eight!"
Monica's ever-present ebullience grated today like a hangnailon silk. So did the fact that nothing bulged over the lip of heryoga pants.
Becky retrieved Jackson's pacifier from the floor of Monica'slower-level exercise room, squirted it with water from hersports bottle, and stuck it back in his pouty mouth beforereturning to the video segment Monica seemed to enjoy farmore than a normal person should.
"We didn't ... use ... pacifiers ... with our ... kids,"Monica puffed out, proving she was working hard enough tomake conversation difficult.
Mimicking a scaled-back version of Monica's arm and legmovements, Becky fought to catch the beat of the exercisevideo. "Yeah, well ..."
"And none ... of our ... kids ... needed braces ... or had ..."
"Cavities, either. Yes, I heard."
"I'm just ... saying ..."
Was she serious or teasing? "Two different schools ofthought on it, Monica."
"And ... slow it on down."
Oh. The exercising. No problem there.
"Beck, honestly, I don't know how you do it." Monica wipeda delicate dot of perspiration from her forehead with the backof her wrist. "You're an amazing woman."
"Even though I take full advantage of disposable diaperswhen cloth is more environmentally friendly and have beenknown to rock Jackson clear through his entire nap?"
Monica's arms flapped to her side. "You don't really— Oh.You were kidding."
Perfect mothers sometimes can throw a pall on the best-friendidea.
"No, I mean it," Monica said, lunging forward just for thefun of it. "I don't know that I could do what you're doing." Sheswitched position and lunged again.
"Lauren needs to graduate." As if that explained it all.
With the video segment complete and Jackson temporarilycontent, the two women rehydrated and sat cross-legged onthe floor near Jackson's bouncy chair. Becky knew her kneeswould give her grief for choosing that position, but she foundherself drawn to eye-level with the cherub who didn't knowany better than to love her.
"Doesn't it bother you that you had to quit work?"
"Bother me? Other than the loss of the paycheck and thefact that I loved what I did? No, not a bit."
Monica tilted her head as if to say, "Oh, you poor thing."
Thanks, Monica. That helps. Pity—every woman's deepest need.
Attitude adjusted with a Lamaze technique, Becky pressedout a smile. "We do what we have to do." With a Vanna Whitewave of her hand, she added, "This is all ... temporary."
"He's gorgeous, Beck."
The two friends watched him breathe, watched his fists batthe air, his feet engage in a dance to silent music.
Becky caught a whiff of something other than a wet or dirtydiaper. Sweat. Her own. Had she remembered deodorant thismorning? She ran her tongue over her teeth. Had she brushedthem? These were things new moms were supposed to fretabout, not new grandmothers. No doubt Lauren had time tostraighten or curl her hair, depending on her mood, and doa complete makeup routine before leaving for school. Beckyreached into the outside pocket of Jackson's diaper bag, thearea she claimed for herself, and grabbed a stick of gum. IfMonica left the room for any reason, she'd dust a handful ofJackson's baby powder under her armpits.
She wouldn't, couldn't let herself think about what shewould be doing at work today. The magazine layout she'd besupervising. The interviews other editors craved but couldn'tsecure. The adrenaline jolt from editing an article to its crispest,laser-sharp edge.
Becky rubbed her left elbow. Infant Seat Elbow, Gil calledit. He joked about inventing collapsible legs with wheels forthe infant carrier. Becky teased back that a little thing called astroller had been invented long ago but the two items couldn'tswap duties. Days ago, she'd dreamed he'd engineered theideal answer. When she woke, the dream dissipated withoutleaving a blueprint. Dreams do that.
"Vitamin water?" Monica held one toward her.
Eww. She tipped her sports bottle in Monica's direction tosignal she was good. The bottle's stainless steel sides kept itscontents—unvitaminized, uninteresting, electrolyte-deficienttap water, with a hint of lemon juice—a secret. Becky didn'tneed another reminder about the proper way to do things.And hadn't she seen a segment on Good Morning America aboutvitamin water? Yay or nay? She couldn't remember the point.More than a few things lost their crisp edge with midnightfeedings when Lauren had a test the next day. She rubbedher forehead. Brain fog could lift any time now without herobjection.
"Beck, do you—" Monica hesitated, as if sifting her wordsthrough a tightly woven screen. "Do you regret not makingLauren go to youth group?"
Patience, get out of my way. I'm putting you in Time Out."Monica, come on. You really think Gil and I could haveprevented Lauren from getting pregnant if we had forced herto go to youth group?" Blood pressure? Rapidly approachingnuclear meltdown.
"Brianne can't stop talking about all she's learning underPastor Jon's leadership. Did you know she's serving on theyouth worship team now? We've always had an intentionalfamily devotional time—we call it God Circle—at home, butthe church is offering our young people tools to help themnavigate the dangerous waters of—"
Is this the same church that didn't know how to react, where tolook, what to say when Lauren came to the morning service in askintight maternity top? The same church people who scheduled,then quietly canceled a baby shower?
Becky didn't know she had the oomph to go from cross-leggedto fully upright at lightning speed. "Monica, we're donehere."
The sitting one looked like she'd never been interruptedbefore. "This is only the first-round cooldown. We have fourmore tracks to go to complete the exercise series."
Becky took mental note of her internal temperature. Shecould boil pasta. Cool down? "I mean, we are done. You werethe one person I thought I could count on for support."
Monica jumped to her feet. "You always have my support,Beck."
Her fingers fumbling with the safety belts, Becky unlatchedJackson from the bouncy chair, then propped him on her lefthip, slung the diaper bag over her right shoulder, grabbed thefront lip of the chair, which slammed against her shin, andheaded for the door.
"Becky, don't go."
"We're done."
"I'll call you later."
Becky had no hands left to turn the doorknob. The burningsensation rose from her stomach to her throat to her jaw toher ears. Forehead to the door, her voice squeezed out, "A little... help ... here?"
Jackson's pacifier hit the floor. The scream that came fromhis mouth was the one Becky thought she had dibs on for thatmoment.
Monica's hand on Becky's back felt like a branding iron.Apparently when an animal is branded, it reacts with tears.
"Please, hon, let's talk about this. That was insensitive ofme. I'm sorry. Please stay."
Becky managed to grab the doorknob with the fingertipsof her left hand. "Not now, Monica. I need a God moment. AGod circle. God."
* * *
The contents of Jackson's diaper bag left a Hansel-and-Greteltrail from Monica's front door to Becky's Honda Civic. Thecontents of his diaper left a wet spot on her hip. She strappedhim into the—to hear him tell the story—straitjacket car seatand dug a spare pacifier from the glove compartment to quietthe noise while she retrieved the crumbs of their morning'sadventure.
Hot tears splatted the concrete paver sidewalk and drivewayas she bent over the strewn baby paraphernalia. Lauren. Youshould be doing this. You should be the one with urine on your hip.You should be holding that child to your breast, making room for carseats and high chairs, and losing sleep and shreds of sanity.
She was probably in biology II right now. Biology class. Alittle late for that.
Becky slid into the driver's seat and glanced at the rearviewmirror's reflection of the back window's baby mirror. Jackson'seyelids drifted shut over flushed cheeks.
Why am I doing this? Why am I doing any of this? Because I lovethat child.
She sighed as she turned the key in the ignition. Jackson,too.
