Chapter 5
Chapter five
The next morning, I am curled up in the window seat of our kitchen with a pot of tea and our cat Willow purring contentedly on my lap.
Ginger and Marmalade are in their usual spot by the woodstove, curled up like two peas in a pod, and Max is spread out on the floor below me, hoping for crumbs even though I’m not eating anything.
I’m feeling too jumbled up inside to eat or sleep, which was why I got up at five this morning to milk Mabel, when it’s a job I’m usually happy to leave to Josh or William.
It’s Saturday, and nobody’s going out to work, although I imagine we will have a busy day at home with all the projects Josh has planned.
It’s as though he’s in a race with Mike to become completely self-sufficient, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to lose, but at least he’s giving it a good shot.
It’s peaceful here, watching the first pink fingers of dawn light creep over the tops of the trees and across the yard.
Everything is stirring to life—a red-breasted robin hopping from tree to tree, which are just coming into leaf, the chickens emerging from their coop to cluck and peck at the dirt, the goats starting their methodical chomp of the fresh spring grass in the meadow, the freshly tilled fields damp with dew.
Even this baby inside me gives a little morning kick hello.
All of it would be more than enough to make me feel completely contented with my world…
except for Bethany. Why has she not told us she’s planning to move out?
Wasn’t it something she should have discussed with us first?
Yes, she’s nineteen and technically an adult…
but back in New Jersey, I have friends who are still making dentist appointments for their twenty-year-olds.
We might be homesteading, but we haven’t moved into Little House on the Prairie territory quite yet, married at nineteen and a mother at twenty.
I rest one hand on my bump as our little girl kicks again. Am I overreacting? Bethany hasn’t said anything about marriage or babies, but then I recall her and Ben laughing at little baby Anna, the way she laid her head on his shoulder… and now this. Why didn’t she at least tell us?
With a loud, jaw-cracking yawn, Josh wanders into the kitchen, still in his pajamas and sporting an impressive case of bedhead.
“Good morning,” he greets me sleepily. “Thanks for getting up for the milking… coffee?” Already, he’s making a beeline for the French press I left warming on top of the stove.
He pauses mid-pour, press in hand, to turn to me. “What’s wrong?”
It’s a credit to my husband that he knows me so well. I haven’t said a word, but maybe that’s why he knows.
“Nothing really,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Nothing somewhat?” he surmises, and I sigh.
We didn’t have a chance to talk about what Miss Barbara told me last night, what with getting home so late, then having to settle all the animals and kids.
Chores on a homestead never seem to end.
And, truth be told, I was considering whether to talk to Bethany before I mentioned it to Josh, but since he’s here and we’re a team, it feels right to say something.
Besides, he’s clearly not going to let me prevaricate.
“Miss Barbara told me something last night,” I begin, and his eyebrows shoot higher.
“Miss Barbara?”
“Yes, about Bethany.”
Josh’s look of surprise morphs into a frown of concern. “Okay,” he says cautiously, and finishes pouring his coffee.
I wait until he’s joined me by the window seat, Max stirring from his sprawl on the floor to sniff around Josh’s feet hopefully for a few seconds before flopping back down again with an audible groan. He’s eight years old now, and he’s clearly feeling—and looking—his age.
“Well?” Josh asks, taking a sip of coffee.
“Miss Barbara offered her house to Bethany,” I say, and Josh looks as confused as I felt when she told me last night.
“What?” he asks, clearly not understanding.
“To live. She wants someone to keep an eye on the house, and she thought Bethany could use the space.” I think about mentioning Ben, but I don’t want to send Josh into a rage.
My husband is very even-tempered, but he also can be kind of impulsive.
I haven’t forgotten the time when I told him that William was being bullied in fourth grade, and the next day, he was at the bus stop, glowering at the kid in question and telling him he’d better back off… or else.
William was thrilled and mortified in equal measure, and I was worried the parents were going to sue us for threatening their son. At the very least, I expected them to call the school, but thankfully, the incident passed unnoticed… and it worked. The kid did back off.
I’m not sure what would happen in this situation, but I do know that the thought of Bethany and Ben potentially spending a lot of time together alone in Miss Barbara’s house would be enough to make Josh’s blood pressure skyrocket.
Mine, too, in all honesty. It was only last summer that I came upon them smoking oregano in Miss Barbara’s living room.
I thought it was cannabis, Bethany thought I was hilarious, and we managed to move on.
But herb-smoking aside, this feels more serious. Bethany and Ben feel serious, and she’s still so young.
“Bethany hasn’t mentioned this, I take it,” Josh says, scowling into his cup of coffee.
“No… I was hoping to talk to her about it today. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t tell us it was something she was thinking about.”
“Because she knows we’d refuse?”
“Josh,” I say gently, “I don’t think it’s in our power to refuse. Bethany is nineteen years old. An adult.”
“An adult who lives at home is under our health insurance, cellphone plan, and Netflix subscription,” he retorts in a near growl.
I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re bringing out the big guns with Netflix,” I tease. It’s unusual for me to be the laid-back one in any conflict or crisis—not that this is either yet—and in truth, I’m not all that laid-back right now, but Josh is looking like he’s ready to spit nails.
“I’m just saying, in many ways, she’s still a kid. I don’t think she’s ready to live independently.” His scowl deepens, the lines on his forehead crinkled into rivets. “And where does Ben fit into all this?”
I knew he’d get there, eventually. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But she’s an adult when it comes to her relationships, too.” Even if that thought makes me all the more anxious.
“Emmy and Ed Wilson will have a fit if Ben and Bethany shack up together,” Josh warns me.
I nearly choke on my coffee.
“I wouldn’t use that phrase with Bethany.”
“They would with Ben.”
I let out a reluctant laugh. “Probably true. But why don’t we approach this a little more calmly and just ask her what’s going on?”
“Ask who?”
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 a My Little Pony t-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 did chat mean 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, she sounds angry.
This really is not going well. “Anytime you guys want to sit down and chat, it’s because I’m in trouble or I’ve disappointed you or something.
” 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 been disappointed in 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— talk to you about something, okay? So, pour yourself some coffee and sit down. Please.” Okay, now, despite my best efforts, I’m sounding 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 are really starting 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?”