The Motherhood Intervention: Book 3 in the Intervention Series Page 2

  Isn’t that the truth?

  “How are you feeling?” she asked Summer.

  “I’m okay,” Summer said. “I mean, we’re down to the last few weeks. So I’m uncomfortable. And big. And exhausted. But other than that…”

  She saw Delaney and Josie exchange a look, but didn’t call them on it. She was allowed to complain once in a while, wasn’t she?

  ***

  All of a sudden, Summer was back in the trailer she and Willow called home during Summer’s sophomore year of high school. It was spring break. Josie signed up for a professional-track teaching course at Juniper City College and Delaney was off on some exotic vacation with her parents. Temperatures skyrocketed, which was awesome when you lived by the beach, but not so much when you lived in the desert in a crappy single-wide trailer with no air conditioning.

  To combat the dry, windy heat, Willow took to drinking more than usual. She spent most of her time on the couch, in front of an electric fan, pressing her sweating glass of bourbon against the side of her face between sips. Summer was hot and bored and cranky. One morning, she came out of her bedroom and sat next to Willow on the couch. If she had known her mother was three sheets to the wind, she never would have talked to her, much less said anything about the heat. But it was seven a.m.—way too early for a person to be drunk.

  “It’s hot this morning,” Summer said, her tone conversational.

  Willow’s head turned slowly, her eyes half-closed. She looked at Summer from under heavy lids. Summer thought her mother was being silly, pretending to suffer from heat exhaustion. So she did what any teenager would do: she laughed.

  “Don’t you laugh, young lady,” Willow barked. “I work hard to put a roof over our heads. Don’t you complain about the heat, do you hear me? With the amount you eat, we can’t afford air conditioning. If I hear you bellyache again, I’ll take a wooden spoon to your backside.”

  Of course she rarely actually hit Summer, but she seemed to get some kind of wicked satisfaction out of threatening her. Willow muttered under her breath about what an ungrateful slug her daughter was, and for the next few days, she challenged Summer to complain every time they interacted.

  “Have anything to say about this dinner?” she sneered when she plunked a bowl of chili on the table. “Want to share your opinion on your shoes?”

  Spring break of her sophomore year was the worst week of Summer’s life. She vowed never to complain again, and she always kept her promises. Especially the ones she made to herself.

  ***

  “Earth to Summer,” Josie was saying as Summer brought herself back to Happy Hour at Rowdy’s. At the bar, the Thursday night college crowd talked and laughed over colorful drinks and cheap beers.

  Summer forced a smile.

  “Sorry. Reminiscing,” she said.

  “Liar. You were on a whole different planet,” Delaney said.

  “I was,” Summer said. “But I’m back.”

  “Oh, good,” Delaney said. “Where were you?”

  With my lunatic mother in a flamingo-pink trailer with no air conditioning.

  “Just thinking about my mom.”

  Summer felt like crying. She blamed the pregnancy hormones. The multi-colored lights strung around Rowdy’s blurred and she blinked rapidly a few times to bring the whole scene back into focus.

  “What’s going on?” Josie said. “You’ve been acting weird since you got here.”

  “I have not,” Summer said.

  “Yes, you have,” Delaney said.

  “I haven’t even had a chance to act weird,” Summer said. She could hear the defensive tone in her voice, and took a deep breath. “I just got here.”

  “You haven’t eaten a single olive,” Josie pointed out. “You weren’t even listening when Delaney said she’s having twins.”

  Summer’s attention snapped over to Delaney. “What? Really?”

  “No,” Delaney said, laughing. Josie laughed too, and said, “But you practically just admitted you’re distracted.”

  Summer sighed.

  “Plus,” Delaney said, her expression becoming serious, “you never talk about your mom. I mean, like, ever. So it’s weird that you were thinking about her.”

  Well, that just slipped out.

  “I know. I think it’s because I’m about to give birth.”

  “Lies,” Josie said. “You’ve never mentioned her before when you’re about to give birth. What’s really going on?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Lies!” Josie said again.

  “Stop sounding so gleeful,” Summer said. “I’m just stressed, okay?”

  Tears threatened again, rising pressure against a closed door.

  Delaney gripped Josie’s arm. “She’s upset. She’s going to cry,” she whispered.

  It was as if someone had turned the doorknob and flung that door open. Summer couldn’t contain the tears, and she found herself wailing, her forehead on the table.

  “It’ll be okay,” Delaney said, over and over, while Josie rubbed Summer’s back.

  Even though she was steeped in emotion, Summer didn’t miss the silent conversation going on between her friends. They were worried—understandably so. She knew they meant well, but neither of them had the mental space to take care of her right now. She had to take care of herself, just as she had always done.

  ***

  Summer cried all the way home after Happy Hour, purging herself before the kids attacked her as she walked through the door. She would walk in, and Derek would be there, dueling with the boys, lightsabers slashing through the air and Hannah strapped to Derek’s back like a little Yoda. Sarah would be sitting on the couch with a book, undoubtedly rolling her eyes at the shenanigans, acting as the formal timekeeper as bath time approached.

  Derek had become Summer’s buoy during junior year of high school, when they were seventeen. As Willow’s alcohol threatened to drown Summer, Summer clung to Derek, the nerdy leader of the chess club, with the kind of desperation (disguised as devotion) that would have made even Josie blush.

  Not that he minded.

  They met on the second Monday of that school year. Summer, seeking an excuse to stay at school rather than going home to Willow, decided to join the chess club. She didn’t know how to play, but she could learn. Eyes downcast and feet shuffling, she made her way into the activities room and sat at the table closest to the door.

  Derek approached her cautiously, like a person would approach a rattlesnake. He introduced himself.

  “I don’t know how to play chess,” she blurted out, and he laughed.

  “No offense, but I didn’t peg you for a chess player. Why are you here then?”

  “Just wanted something to do,” she said, but what she was really thinking was that she wanted to stay away from home for as long as possible.

  “Okay,” he said slowly, and then he smiled. “I’ll—I mean, we’ll—teach you.”

  His grin, toothy and spontaneous, had her smiling back. Just like that, they became friends.

  The memory of their first encounter bolstered Summer’s mood as she arrived home after Happy Hour. When she opened the front door, the scene was pretty close to how she’d imagined it, only Hannah was running around from one brother to the other with a makeshift lightsaber (was that a broken sword, or a piece of PVC pipe?), shouting, “Take that!” on repeat.

  Derek was on the couch next to Sarah, engrossed in his own book. He looked up at her and smiled.

  “How was it?”

  She wanted to say so many things to him, in that moment. She wanted to say that Happy Hour was okay, but she’d really wanted to be home with him. She wanted to say that he was the one person she loved more than anything, and together they could get through Luke’s illness. She wanted to say that she was scared, scared to lose her perfect little boy.

  But instead of saying any of those things, she just smiled back.

  “It was good,” she said. “I’m glad to be home.”

&nb
sp; Sometimes she felt like he could read her mind. He didn’t question her, but he stood up, took her hand, and pulled her close so they were standing side by side. He kissed the side of her head.

  “I’m glad you’re home, too,” he said.

  She leaned against him, feeling his stubble against the side of her forehead, inhaling his aftershave, absorbing his warmth. Sarah broke the spell when she said to her brothers, “It’s bath time, you inferior beings.”

  ***

  To a chorus of groans, Summer herded the kids around for their nightly clean-up. Nate didn’t make it more than a few seconds before putting a pair of underwear on his head. Luke, of course, stopped to play with a remote control car someone had left out.

  Sarah directed Hannah in cleaning up her blocks, and Derek sang some cleaning song he’d made up. Summer secretly wished he’d stop singing, but bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. The doorbell rang, and with all the other noise, Summer almost didn’t register the sound.

  “Expecting someone?” Derek said. When she shook her head, he said, “Probably a salesman. Let’s have the kids answer the door.”

  Chuckling, the two of them walked to the door together. Summer pulled it open, and the world tilted when she saw who stood on the other side.

  “Hello, Summer. You look exhausted.”

  Her mother. Willow. Standing on her doorstep after more than a decade and a half of silence. No warning bells, no tingly sixth sense, nothing. Summer felt completely caught off guard, totally unprepared for this interruption in her life. How did the woman even fathom she’d be welcome here?

  By now, the kids had stopped what they were doing, and, happily distracted from their clean-up, they crowded around in the hallway behind her.

  So the first reaction that came to mind—slamming the door in Willow’s face—probably was not the best choice.

  “Hello, Willow. What a surprise.”

  Willow managed to force a hurt expression onto her face. “You’re not going to call me Mom?”

  Derek looked back and forth between the two women, his expression so quizzical Summer almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she inhaled loudly. He grabbed her upper arm. Having kept quiet for their maximum of one minute, the kids began pelting their parents with questions.

  “Who is it?” Nate wanted to know.

  “Is it a Bible thumper?” Luke yelled.

  “Thumper, thumper, thumper,” Hannah sang.

  Sarah had come up behind them. “From the looks of it,” she said, “I’d say this is—”

  “Kids, this is Willow,” Summer said.

  When Willow arched a painted-on eyebrow at her, she added: “Your grandmother.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Summer noticed with an unpleasant start that Willow’s face looked remarkably like her own, right down to the set of her mouth and the shape of her chin. There was no mistaking their genetic connection. It was the only one they had, Summer thought.

  As the seven of them stood frozen in the doorway, Summer recalled that day fifteen years before, when she walked out of their house for good, vowing never to speak to her mother again.

  Summer was nineteen, a skilled chess player and a high school graduate. After three years of working at the local ice cream shop and babysitting on the side, she had saved up enough money to get her own apartment.

  It wasn’t anything fancy, just a one-bedroom near downtown Juniper. Still, she felt beyond excited at the prospect of living on her own. She’d pored over home decorating magazines at the library, and had stopped into a few secondhand shops during the past couple of months to buy furnishings. These she had stacked in Derek’s family’s garage.

  She thought later that her fear of telling Willow probably made the situation worse, but she couldn’t do it over.

  Summer had just finished a shift at the ice cream shop, and came home to Willow laying on the couch, a lit cigarette in one hand and a glass of bourbon on the table next to her. It was nearly impossible to tell whether Willow was awake. Her eyes were closed, but because of the way she’d propped her elbow on the cushion next to her, she managed to hold the cigarette straight up in the air.

  Condensation on the bourbon glass had left a decent-sized ring on the table, which made Summer think it had sat in once place for a while. As Summer stood there, just inside the front door, studying her mother’s face, her lithe body, and her perfectly painted toenails, she felt equal parts pity, satisfaction, and anger.

  She pitied her mom, wished she hadn’t fallen victim to alcoholism and ruined a perfectly good life. She felt satisfied that she’d be moving on, that Willow wouldn’t ruin her own life. And she felt anger that she wanted nothing more than to get away from her own mother.

  Derek had proposed just that morning, and of course, Summer had accepted.

  They planned to marry in a year, which gave Summer time to live on her own, to get her feet under her. But she wasn’t ready to tell Willow that, just yet. She’d undoubtedly make marriage seem like the worst possible scenario in the world. But Summer had seen it work in Derek’s family. She knew what a good marriage could be. She knew what a good family could be. Willow wouldn’t believe it.

  So for now, Summer would just tell her about the apartment.

  “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  “Mom.”

  Willow’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Mom!”

  Willow startled and if Summer hadn’t been so nervous, she would have laughed.

  “Jesus Christ, Summer, you scared the shit out of me!”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Well, this wasn’t going nearly as smoothly as Summer had hoped. She took a deep breath.

  “I got my own apartment,” she said.

  A long silence ensued, during which nerves blurred Summer’s vision.

  “Well, isn’t that nice.” Willow lifted the bourbon off the coffee table and downed its contents, then hauled herself to her feet. “How are you gonna pay for that?”

  “I’ve got money saved. I have two jobs. I’ll manage.”

  Willow nodded, and for a moment, Summer thought she’d congratulate her. But she should have known by the way Willow stared out the window towards the street, her eyes unfocused and her lips pressed into a thin line, that congratulations were not forthcoming.

  “You think it’s easy?” Her voice was low and gravelly. With her cigarette hand, she gestured to their surroundings—the trailer with its threadbare pea green carpet and peeling linoleum floors—and said, “You think keeping your own place is easy?”

  Unsure of what to say, Summer didn’t answer.

  “It’s not,” Willow said. “It’s hard. And you’re soft. You’re not cut out for hard, honey. But best of luck to you.”

  Summer felt her mouth drop open, and she snapped it closed before doing an about face and walking out the door, promising herself she’d never let Willow hurt her again.

  ***

  It took Willow fifteen years to come after Summer. For a split second, Summer wondered if her mother had changed. Then she spoke, and confirmed she was exactly the same person she’d always been.

  “Holy shit, Summer. Are these all yours? And another one on the way? Jesus Christ.”

  Summer heard Derek’s sharp inhale and had the insane urge to laugh.

  Now Willow addressed Derek: “You’ve been busy, mister. Are they all yours?”

  “Kids. Bed. Now,” Summer said.

  Sarah, her eyes as round as coins, pried Hannah off Derek’s leg, picked her up and shepherded the boys to the back of the house. For once, they didn’t protest.

  “What are you doing here, Willow?” Summer said when they were gone.

  “I’m your mother. I’ve come to see you. I presume this is your husband?”

  The front door swung closed. Summer couldn’t escape a suffocating sense of doom. Why hadn’t they chosen a house with a larger entryway?

  Derek put one arm around Summer
and extended his free hand. “I’m Derek. Summer’s husband and father to these four—five, if you count this one” (he pointed at Summer’s belly) “little humans.”

  “Wow,” Willow said, her eyebrows waved in a grotesque combination of disgust and disbelief.

  “Would you like to come in?” Derek said.

  Summer wanted to elbow him.

  “That would be lovely,” Willow said.

  When Summer didn’t move out of the way on her own, Derek steered her back to the living room.

  Willow followed them, her arms out as as if she were walking through waist-deep water. “This place is a catastrophe. It looks like Pearl Harbor in here.”

  Willow stood in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle.

  Summer sighed, thinking about the cluttered kitchen counters and smoke-filled living rooms of her youth. For the briefest moment, she looked around her own house as if she were a stranger seeing it for the first time. Against one wall, a gazillion toys sat in a heap. Six empty cups stood on the dining room table amongst dried-on spaghetti noodles and fresh puddles of chicken broth.

  “Well, with four kids—” Derek said.

  “I don’t know why you’d have another,” Willow interrupted. “Or is this one an accident?”

  “Mom, seriously,” Summer said. Hands on her hips, she turned to face her mother.

  “Aha!” Willow brought her hands together in a clap. “I knew it would be no time before you started calling me Mom!”

  Now Summer threw her arms up in exasperation. “Cut the crap. Why are you here?”

  “Oh, honey,” Willow said. “I just wanted to see you, all grown up, that’s all.”

  “You’ve seen me,” Summer said. “Now let me show you the door.”

  “I’ve seen the door,” Willow said. “I’d like to stay a while.”

  “Can you come back another time?” Summer said. “It’s the kids’ bedtime.”

  “She’s inviting me back,” Willow said to Derek. Then, to Summer, she said, “If it’s their bedtime, surely you can talk now.”

  “Actually, I have to help put them to bed.”