Speak of the devil—or rather, our daughter. Bethany wanders into the kitchen, also yawning, her hair in a bright purple silk bonnet she uses to keep the frizz down, dressed in her usual pajamas of sweats and aMy Little Ponyt-shirt she’s had for at least a decade. She glances at us in sleepy curiosity before coming to a halt in the middle of the kitchen. Max lifts his head, sniffs, and then drops it to his paws again.
“Whoa,” Bethany says slowly as she eyes us up and down. “Why are you guys looking like you’re on the verge of a major freakout?”
This is not the way I wanted to start this conversation. I was going to be kindly, measured, manifesting a little of Miss Barbara’s Zen as I spoke oh-so reasonably to my daughter about her life plans and aspirations. Instead, Bethany is already wary, Josh’s face is flushing beet red, and I’m on the back foot before we’ve even begun.
“We’re not freaking out,” I say as mildly as I can, and Bethany snorts in response. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee?” I suggest in the same mild voice, “and then we can chat?”
“Chat?” she repeats scathingly. “Why am I in trouble?”
“Since when didchatmean you’re in trouble?” Josh demands. He already sounds angry, which certainly gives credence to Bethany’s assumption.
“Since when did it not?” she counters, and now,shesounds angry. This really is not going well. “Anytime you guys want to sit down andchat,it’s because I’m in trouble or I’ve disappointedyou orsomething.” She lets out a huff and then stomps over to the stove to pour herself some coffee. “So, what is it this time?”
This doesn’t feel exactly fair. It’s not like we’re hauling our oldest to account every five seconds. And I don’t think I’ve ever beendisappointedin Bethany, no matter what she says or feels about the matter. Back in New Jersey, I was more concerned that she was putting too much pressure on herself, and then even more concerned when she burned out. But right now, I need to claw back some calm and control of the situation, not rise to Bethany’s accusations.
“Bethany, you’re not in trouble and no one’s angry,” I say, shooting Josh a quelling look. “We just wanted to ch—talkto you about something, okay? So, pour yourself some coffee and sit down. Please.” Okay, now, despite my best efforts,I’msounding angry. I sigh and briefly close my eyes, and Bethany notices.
“Oh, wow, and now I get the-sigh-and-the-closed-eyes treatment!” she exclaims, which I had no idea was a thing. “You guys arereallystarting to crash out.”
Clearly, I cannot react in any way whatsoever. I do my best to keep my expression both calm and blank as I wait for her to fix her coffee. She shakes her head all the while, then slouches over to the table and throws herself into a chair.
“Okay,” she says, sounding surly, “what?”
Chapter six
Itake a calming breath, ready to launch into my Zen-like speech about howwe understand you’re getting older, that you’re taking on new responsibilities, and we so appreciate your maturity, but…
When Josh gets there first. “Are you and Ben shacking up together at Miss Barbara’s place?” he demands.
I close my eyes. Again.
Bethany scoots up in her chair, sitting up straight. “What?” she practically shrieks, her tone one of both incredulity and outrage.
“Josh…” I murmur, but it’s too late. My husband is off and running.
“Miss Barbara told us,”—not quite true, she toldme—“that you were moving into her place so you could have somespace.” He imbues that innocuous word with alotof innuendo.
Bethany’s face is flushed, her eyes glittering with anger. “I can’tbelievethis,” she exclaims. “You couldn’t just ask me about it, you have to jump to these ridiculous conclusions?”
Okay, despite her obvious anger, it comforts me that Josh’s conclusions are, according to our daughter, ridiculous. Still, I clearly need to do some damage control.
“Weareasking you about it,” I point out. “And all right, your dad might be feeling a little emotional about his baby girl moving on in life. Cut him a little slack, okay?” I smile, willing her to enter into my vibe, but Bethany is still glaring at us.
“Why don’t you save your overprotectiveness for the baby girl you’re having?” she suggests, pointing a finger almost accusingly at my bump.
Whoa. This conversation just took a strange and severe turn. “Bethany…” I stare at her, noticing the tears starting in our eyes, the way her lips tremble. “Are you… are you upset about my pregnancy?” I ask, feeling my way through the words because Bethany is nineteen, not an anxious toddler threatened by Mommy’s attention being on the brand-new baby. Right?
“No, I’m notupset,” she says on a huff as she brushes at her eyes. “It’s just… you guys have a lot going on. And you know, this baby is going to take up a lot of your time, and…” She trails off, shaking her head, seeming frustrated with herself. “I don’t know, I just thought it might be better if I moved out.”
“Honey…” Josh’s anger, as it so often does, has left him in one big rush, so now he can smile tenderly at our eldest. “Maybe we’ve been preoccupied, but there’s always room for you here.”
“Is there really?” Bethany asks with a touch of asperity even as she sniffs. “Because where exactly is this baby going to sleep?”
“Well, in our bedroom at first…” I begin, trailing off as my daughter’s eyes narrow.
“And then with Rose,” she fills in, “or will the baby wake her up at night, and Rose will have to sleep with me?” Neither Josh nor I answer. I suspect there’s more than a little truth to that supposition. “Look,” Bethany says tiredly, “it’s not like I mind sharing with Rose. It’s just… all my friends from New Jerseyare in college. They’re living independent lives. If we’d stayed in Princeton, I would have moved out nearly a year ago.”
There is clearly a lot going on in our daughter’s mind, and I understand it. Missing out on college, coping with an unexpected sibling, navigating a new relationship, her first ever romantic one…
