25

Liv

My mother is waiting for me at the back door and she opens it before I’m all the way up the snowy walk.

“Sorry to call you so late. I cut the water off, but the bedroom was already flooded.”

“It’s fine, Mom,” I say tiredly.

When she called me, I had just changed into plaid flannel pajama pants, a T-shirt, and my favorite hoodie, sans bra. I had sat down with a glass of wine in my hand, yet untouched, and a blanket on my lap. I was cold and sleepy and had big plans to sit beside Oscar on the couch and watch a PBS documentary on Hitler’s bunker. The scary thing is, I’m so worn-out from the week that I was actually looking forward to curling up with Oscar and watching the horrors of World War II be recounted.

“You look good, Mom.” I nudge her into the laundry room and close the door behind me. Her health seems to have taken a turn for the better. Her doctor isn’t sure why, but he’s hoping her new medication is what’s giving her more movement and less pain.

“Feeling pretty chipper.” She tightens the tie of her fuzzy red bathrobe; she’s dressed for bed, too. “Or was, before I heard what sounded like splashing coming from the back of the house. It was your dad wading out of his bedroom to tell me there was a pipe leaking.” She tries to smooth down her short white hair; it’s sticking out in every direction like porcupine quills. “Had to take off my slippers, roll up my pajama legs, and wade in to shut the valve off under the sink. It’s a wonder I was able to get down and reach it without going swimming.”

I slip out of my coat that’s covered with a dusting of snow, shake it, and hang it on a hook. Next, I step out of my boots and into the sheepskin slippers I leave at my parents’ for just these occasions.

“Still coming down, the snow.” Mom nods in the direction of the back door.

“Expecting six to eight inches overnight.” I follow her into the kitchen. I’m in my jammies. After Mom called, I considered running back upstairs to put on jeans and a bra but decided there was no reason to change. I was just running to my parents’.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Sitting on his bed. Won’t come out.” She puckers up her lips as if she’s just tasted something particularly sour. “He’s declared it an island in a moat. Told him he could stay there until hell or his bedroom floor froze over, for all I care.”

I try to think of a response, but I’m just too tired. I understand her frustration with my dad, but I don’t see any reason to be mean to him. Instead of starting what will inevitably turn into an argument with her, I head down the hall. It’s dry. Maybe the “flood” isn’t as bad as Mom said. Hope springs eternal.

“By the way, he’s not wearing pants!” my mother calls after me. “Or skivvies.”

I stop and look back. She’s standing at the end of the hallway in her red robe, her spiky hair backlit by the kitchen light. She somehow reminds me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining; all she needs is an axe.

“Dad’s naked, sitting on his bed in the flooded bedroom?” I ask as if it’s an everyday occurrence.

“No. He’s wearing his pajama top and wool cap. We were going to bed when he decided to install a new faucet in his bathroom.”

I close my eyes for a second. I had a bad day at the Anselins’. They were unhappy with the latest version of the layout of their bedroom suite, even though I’d been clear as to what could and couldn’t be done while still keeping the exposed ceiling beams that they wanted. “Replace the faucet?” I squint, trying to process. “What was wrong with his bathroom faucet? Weren’t all the fixtures just replaced last year?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s a small woman, but she looks pretty formidable. Even without the axe.

“Let me guess.” I press my thumb and index finger to my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “There is no new faucet.”

“Nope. He thinks he’s a retired plumber. I told him he was a retired physician. He said I was crazy and that he was going to tell his wife on me and that she was going to put me in the loony bin.” She turns away. “I’m making tea. Mint or chamomile?”

“Mint.” I walk slowly down the hallway. “Dad? It’s Liv. I’m going to come in so . . . so maybe throw a blanket over your lap?”

I get no response. “Dad? Is it okay if I come in?”

“Held my finger in the dike as long as I could,” I hear him say from his room. Followed by a chuckle.

“You decent, Dad?” I hesitate. It’s not so much that I care if I see my dad’s genitalia. It’s just the idea of it. If he were himself, he’d be mortified. When he doesn’t answer, I step into the doorway to his room, averting my eyes at first, then shifting my gaze.

I find my father, indeed, sitting in the middle of his bed, in a room flooded with water. But at least he’s dressed. He’s wearing his old tuxedo shirt and jacket, what appears to be track pants, slippers, and a gray watch cap. He’s pulled the whole ensemble together with a plaid navy scarf tied jauntily around his neck. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I want to do both. I feel as if the more my father loses his identity, the more I lose mine. My whole life I’ve been Dr. Edward Cosset’s daughter. Who will I be when he’s gone?

“Why wouldn’t I be decent?” he harrumphs. “Know where the story of the little Dutch boy who sticks his finger in the dike comes from? Hans Brinker; or, The Silver Skates. Mary Mapes Dodge. The Dutch boy story”—he gestures with a twirl of his bony finger—“is within the story.”

How the hell does he remember that and not remember that he went to medical school?

I look down at the shallow layer of water on his floor. Not as bad as Mom suggested on the phone; I’m not going to have to get a dingy to rescue him. But definitely not good. The transition on the floor in the doorway is what’s keeping the water from spilling into the hall. I kick off my slippers and roll up the hems of my plaid pajama pants. “I’m coming in, Dad.”

“Careful, it’s wet,” he warns.

I meet his gaze. “I hear you had a little problem with your bathroom faucet.”

He shakes his head slowly. Thoughtfully. “Nope.”

I step into his room. The water is cold. “Then what’s this?”

He looks over the edge of his bed. “Water. Once it freezes, I thought I’d take you girls ice-skating. You always loved to ice-skate.”

I walk into the bathroom, trying not to splash any water onto the walls or furniture and make the situation worse. The floors are hardwood. If I get the water up fast enough with a shop vac, set up a fan or two, maybe the floors can be saved.

“Dad, you’re not supposed to be messing with the—” My phone in my back pocket rings. “You’re not supposed to do any plumbing in the house. You call the plumber if you need a repair. Or me.” I grab my phone and look at the screen. It’s Hazel’s friend Katy. Which means it’s Hazel. Which means she either left her phone somewhere or broke it again. “Hazel?”

There’s quiet on the other end of the line long enough for me to wonder if it was a butt dial. Then I hear a small voice: “Um, no it’s . . . it’s Katy, Miss Liv.”

“Katy?” My mom alarm goes off in my head. My daughter is thirty-six weeks pregnant. Too early to be in labor. I feel a flutter in my chest. What if she has gone into labor? Why else would Katy be calling me? But I don’t want to sound like a panicked mother, and I don’t want to scare Katy or Hazel if she has gone into labor.

“You girls okay?” I ask carefully.

Hazel and Katy left school together. I got the full itinerary from my mother on the phone on my way home from work. The girls stopped at my parents’ and made a chicken rice casserole, which my mother called to tell me was better than the one I made. Then they went home to Katy’s house to watch Titanic and have a sleepover.

“Miss Liv, I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”

Once she starts to speak, I realize Katy—sweet, kind, silly Katy—is drunk off her ass. My second thought is that there’s something wrong. Seriously wrong, if she’s calling me in this state, risking her parents finding out. “What’s going on, Katy?”

“Hazel.” She sounds like she’s about to burst into tears. “Something’s wrong with her. She . . . Oh, God, she’s going to kill me when she finds out I called you. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Katy,” I say sharply. “What’s wrong with Hazel? Is she—” I don’t want to say “in labor” because how would either of them know, if it’s just the early stage? First-time mothers rarely do; I know I didn’t. “She okay? The baby all right?”

“She’s fine. The baby’s fine, but . . . I think you better come here, Miss Liv,” she says in a rush of words.

I splash my way out of my father’s bedroom. “Katy, let me speak to Hazel.”

“That’s the thing, Miss Liv, Hazel, she—” Now Katy is crying. “She locked herself in this bathroom and she won’t come out.”

This bathroom? “What bathroom?” I demand, getting the impression Katy doesn’t mean her bathroom, at her house where they’re supposed to be. Where they’re supposed to be eating popcorn and watching Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet lock lips.

“We’re at this girl’s house. Kelsey.” She sniffs. “We know her from school. Actually it’s her brother’s house,” she mumbles.

I hear my father splashing toward me. He’s gotten out of bed. “Dad, get out of the water. You’re going to ruin your slippers.” I point at his feet. “Katy, are you two at a party?” I ask suspiciously into the phone.

“Yes,” she blubbers. “I’m sorry. I knew it was a bad idea. But, Hazel, she—She made me bring her,” she wails.

I can’t believe Hazel is at a party. An underage drinking party. Thirty-six weeks pregnant and she’s partying. “Why did she lock herself in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know. I . . .”

Katy’s voice fades.

“Katy,” I say loudly into the phone. “Why did Hazel lock herself in the bathroom?”

“She . . . Tyler was here with Amanda and . . . and this guy Jack was supposed to be here, but he didn’t show, and—” She takes a blubbering, shaky breath. “Marissa is afraid Hazel is going to kill herself.”

“What?” I say sharply. Suddenly I can barely catch my breath. “Did Hazel threaten to kill herself, Katy, because if she did—” I try not to hyperventilate. “Because if you seriously think she might hurt herself, you need to get off this phone and call 911.”

“I don’t think she said it.” Katy burps loudly in my ear. And then she’s back to crying. “Marissa exaggerates. But I still thought I should call you. Because I didn’t know what else to do. She won’t come out, Miss Liv.”

I catch my breath. “No, you did the right thing. Absolutely.” I force my brain to move away from my inherent fear into logic mode. “Katy, listen to me. I want you to text me the address where you are. I’m going to hang up and call Hazel.”

“She won’t answer,” Katy wails. “I tried. I knocked on the door. She just keeps telling me to go away.”

My dad walks past me, his scarf trailing behind him. “I’m getting pretzels. You want pretzels, Bethie?”

“Text me the address,” I say into the phone.

“I will.”

I disconnect and call Hazel. Twice. She doesn’t answer. Then I text her. You okay?

No response.

I stand there for a minute, trying to decide what to do. I can hear my parents in the kitchen arguing. Mom is telling Dad he can’t have pretzels this close to bedtime. My phone dings. It’s a text message from Katy with an address about twenty minutes away, maybe farther because of the snow. I look up at the water lying on the floor of my dad’s bedroom. Then I dial Oscar, who was asleep on the couch. I give him the rundown on the flooded bathroom, followed by the phone call from Katy.

“Locked herself in a bathroom?” Oscar says. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Katy doesn’t know. But Hazel won’t come out of the bathroom and the door is locked. I need to go see what’s going on.” I hesitate. “Hon, could you come over to my parents’ and run the wet vac?”

“Of course,” he says.

“I’m sorry.” I head toward the kitchen, pressing my hand to my forehead. I just want to get to Hazel. To my baby. “I know it’s late. And I know we were going to watch TV together, but—”

“Liv,” he interrupts. “Let me clean up the water. I’ll get some fans set up. You go see what’s wrong with Hazel. You think it’s the baby? You don’t think she’s bleeding, do you? Placenta previa can be life-threatening. If—”

“I don’t think she’s bleeding,” I assure him, trying to reassure myself. Hazel’s made some dumb mistakes, but she’s not dumb. I’m certain she’s smart enough to go directly to the hospital if she has any sort of serious condition. Or call 911. “She’s at a party. It has something to do with dumbass.”

“Hazel’s at a party? Like a birthday party? I thought she was going to Katy’s.”

“Like a drinking party,” I tell him. I find my parents in the kitchen still arguing over the pretzels. Only now Dad’s got the bag in his hand and Mom is demanding he put them back in the cabinet. “Oscar, I’m going to go get Hazel. I’ll call you in a little while.”

“You coming back home, or to your parents’ house? Should I wait for you there?”

“I’ll call you,” I repeat.

“I have to go,” I tell Mom and Dad as I rush through the kitchen. “Oscar is on his way over to clean up the water.” In the laundry room, I kick off my slippers. “Mom, Dad’s going to have to sleep in the spare room. He won’t be able to sleep in his room tonight with—”

“I’m not letting him mess up the spare room.” Mom comes to the laundry room door. “Lynette just cleaned it, top to bottom.”

I step into my boots. “Then he’ll have to sleep with you.” I throw up my arms. “Or on the couch in the family room. I honestly don’t care where he sleeps, Mom. He can sleep at my house if that’s what you want. Send him home with Oscar. He can sleep in the downstairs bedroom.” I grab my coat. “I have to go. Hazel needs me.”

She follows me to the door. “She’s in labor? It’s too soon for her to be in labor.”

“She’s not in labor. I have to go.” I slip into my coat. “Bye, Dad. Stay out of the water, Dad.” I open the back door and the frigid air and snow rushes in. “Oscar will be here as quick as he can.”

Mom starts to respond, but I walk out into the snow and close the door behind me.