Heidi Willis - Some Kind of Normal

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Published by NorLightsPress at Smashwords

Copyright (C) 2009 by Heidi Willis

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To Todd

I love you more today than yesterday...

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I ain't one to bash being healthy, but it sure takesthe fun out of living. My motivation to be the perfect mom startsabout six a.m. when I swing my legs over the bed and ends fifteenminutes later when I stumble into the kitchen to make coffee andfigure out what I can cook for breakfast that won't kill noone.

It wasn't always like this. I followed my own mama'sfootsteps for years, laying out a spread that included all fourtypes of meat, and grits with cream and brown sugar if Travis waslucky. But during Travis's mid-life physical, his doctor told himmy daily ham with sausage gravy on biscuits was driving him to anearly grave. He slid the lab results across his desk at me,claiming Travis's LDL numbers were higher than a crackhead's. Isaid if a crackhead had my sausage gravy he'd give up the crack andrather die of plugged arteries. He didn't laugh. We switched toeggs and toast.

Then when Logan was young enough to run aroundbare-tushed, he developed hives and a tendency to up-chuck. Hispediatrician pointed to the milk we poured on his Cocoa Crispieseach morning. Whothe Sam Hill is allergic to milk , I asked. We switched toPop Tarts and apple juice anyway.

But now Travis's doctor don't want him having the fatin the pop tarts, and all Logan wants is Coke and Twizzlers, andAshley can't make it downstairs in time to eat anything. So everymorning I stare bleary eyed at the pantry wondering what to feed myfamily that won't kill them, and all I come up with is bagels andorange juice.

'Course, they're white bagels, not those whole wheatones with all those grains in them, and I slather them in butterand honey 'cause they ain't got no taste otherwise. And the orangejuice is really Sunny D, which I know is mostly water and cornsyrup, but it's got all that vitamin c in it so it must be somekind of healthy.

"Ashley," I yell, walking down the hall tossing a PopTart package on Logan's bed as I pass. "Time to get up." I knock onher door. No answer. I know she's not in the bathroom because I canhear Logan drumming on the sink in there with his hairbrush andcomb. I knock again, but there's no answer. I do the thing no momof teenagers should do: I open the door without invitation.

She's dead asleep, a bottle of water and a stuffedarmadillo she got at the state fair last year tucked under hercovers. "Jiminy, Ash, the bus is going to come in less than half anhour." I pull the covers off her but she don't move. I got no timefor laziness this morning. I shake her hard. "Get up."

She moans and rolls over. I'm not sure why God sawfit to give morning people like me and Travis a child who can'tfunction like a human being until past ten. I grab her ankles andpull them over the side of the bed. "This is ridiculous. You werebetter when you were a baby."

"That's 'cause I slept twenty hours a day," shemutters, and I know she's awake.

"Get dressed. You can eat breakfast on the bus."

"I'm not hungry. I think I'm still sick."

"You're over the flu two days ago. The doctor said.Time to get back into the swing of things," I say over my shoulderas I leave.

When I check on Ashley twenty minutes later, she'sdressed and sitting in front of her mirror brushing out her longhair very slowly. Her eyes are barely open. "I got you a bagelready," I say. "And some Sunny D. You want it now?"

"Just water," she answers, holding out her emptybottle. I hesitate. "You need something more than that, Ash. You'reshriveling up into almost nothing." She gives me a look thatwithers. I hold up my hands in surrender. "Okay. Water now. Bageland juice for the bus." Who the Sam Hill drinks water forbreakfast?

She turns back to the mirror and goes back to thebrushing, her arm weighted like the brush is too heavy to holdeasily. I try to see her for a minute like the little girl I knewso well, but she's not there anymore. This girl has sprouted upfaster than a chain link cactus, the tallest twelve-year-old in herclass, and I hate puberty for causing my baby to become this youngwoman I don't know. I go back to the kitchen and spread butter andhoney on the bagel, sun starting to filter in through the frontwindow.

Travis pops his head in the doorway. "I'll take Loganon to school," he says, clipping up his overalls over his flannelshirt. "I gotta get to the construction site early." I nod over mycoffee and hear the back door slam shut. The truck growls loudlyand I can see them pull out of the driveway, Logan happily munchingon a Twizzler. I finish off the coffee and go back to check onAshley.

She's trying to get her hair in a ponytail and actinglike her arms weigh a hundred pounds. I take the brush and finishfor her. She don't complain about me doing it, which strikes me asodd. "You that tired?" I ask.

She shrugs. It's her new favorite communication.

I sigh. That's mine. "Okay. Tonight it's earlier tobed. Let's go or you'll miss the bus."

She almost makes it out the door on time except sheruns back to go pee. "You're gonna be late," I say through thedoor. "You wouldn't have to pee so much if you didn't drink thirtygallons of water every morning." She gives me a look as she opensthe door and pushes past me. I don't think I've gotten ten wordsout of her this morning.

I hear the bus honking at the end of the drive asshe's shoving her algebra book in her bag and flinging it over hershoulder. She tries to drain the rest of her water on the way outthe door, but I grab it from her and hand her the bagel and SunnyD. "It's healthier," I say.

"I'm not hungry," she protests.

"I ain't sending no child of mine off to schoolwithout something in her belly." I press it into her hand and shetakes it, but not happy.

She scowls at me and half-jogs down our long drivewaywhere the bus is honking again. I yell at her to remember her flutelessons after school, but she's already too far to hear. I see herslow down before she gets to the bus, the jog becoming a walk, thewalk becoming a stop as she leans over panting. And then shetopples over. Just like that.

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By the time I huff and puff my way down the driveway,the bus driver has already called 911 and is alternately kneelingby Ashley like he might CPR her and trying to keep the other kidsfrom getting off the bus. Some pull the windows down and lean out,their faces mostly pinched up and worried, although some look justcurious.

I kneel down and pat her face. It's purplish and paleat the same time. "Ashley, darling. Wake up. It's Mama, now. Ifyou're that tired you can stay home." I know this is stupid. Itisn't as if she just decided to lie down and take a nap in thedirt.

"I don't know what happened, Mrs. Babcock. She wasfine, then she fell over."

"I know. I saw."

"The ambulance is coming." He looks awkward, glancingback and forth between Ashley and all her friends, trying not tolook at his watch; I know he's worried he'll be late to school. Iwant to tell him to go on, get the other kids out of here, butTravis is already at work and Logan left for school a half hourearlier, and I don't know what to do. I silently curse Travis fortalking me out of that nice suburban house and into thisranch-in-a-hay-field.