Carole Page - Rachel's Hope

As he sipped his cola, David watched several teenagers swaying to a rock tune, their limber bodies graceful as velvet sashes strung in the breeze. His son, Brian, was a teenager now. One day a child you could wrestle with and jounce in the air. One day a child, and the next…Now Brian was reaching into another world. Perhaps he would be swept up like all the other kids his age, forced to join and conform or to test and try the limits. Most likely, he would attempt to defy the established order of things. It was expected these days.

Still, it startled David to find himself massing his son with all the others—the rebels, the freaks, even the majority of good kids who still experimented with one thing or another. Morals were like that now. Everyone saw what he wanted to see, even David. He did what he pleased, stretched the limits and rearranged the boundaries. Brian would be no different—no better and no worse.

“Are you coming back soon?”

“What?”

Kit was sitting across from him in the booth, beaming, a peculiar half smile on her polished red lips. “I said, if you don’t come back soon from wherever you’ve wandered, I’m going to steal your dill pickle and carrot sticks.”

“Be my guest.”

“Where were you?”

“Thinking about Brian.”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?”

David grimaced. Not as much as I am. “No, not at all,” he said with a note of defensiveness. Why had he even mentioned Brian? Now he felt compelled to assure Kit everything was fine. “He loves eighth grade. He’s doing well. No complaints from anyone, as far as I know.”

“Well, then?”

David hated being put on the spot. “I was—I don’t know—just imagining him being like these kids. They’re a whole new breed.”

“And it’s hard to picture Brian being one of them, right?”

He shrugged. “He’s my son. I love him.”

“He’ll do okay. From what you’ve told me, he’s a great kid.”

“He is,” David agreed, shaking steak sauce on his sandwich.

“I wish I could meet him.”

David glanced up, startled. He felt his neck muscles tighten. “I wish you could, too, Kit. But it’s just not possible. You know that.”

Kit flushed. “David, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. It was just an idle remark. I’m not trying to push you. Really, I’m not.”

“I know, Kit. I’m sorry. I get wound up sometimes and shoot off my big mouth.”

“But I know I don’t make things any easier for you.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s just the way things are.”

“For what it’s worth, David, I adapt easily,” she said. “If a friendship is it—just what we have now—fine. If more comes, that’s fine, too. If not, I understand. Do you know what I’m saying, David?”

“I know what you’re saying, Kit. And I know you understand. I guess that’s why I like being with you so much. But relationships aren’t static. They grow and change. They take on a life of their own,” he added, thinking about his own marriage as much as his friendship with Kit.

She traced a water ring with one long, polished nail. “Like you’ve said before, we’ll just take our time…and see what happens.”

The late October sky was rain swollen and color streaked. It had not started to storm yet, but it would, and soon. As Rachel aimed her teal green sedan homeward through late-afternoon traffic, she tried to imagine how the evening would be. After two weeks of guarded silence, tonight she would tell David about the baby. Before he arrived home, she would toss a salad and put in potatoes to bake. Then she would cook fresh broccoli and broil the porterhouse steaks she had just purchased at a special butcher shop. She had forgotten to pick up sour cream, but she could whip up David’s favorite cheese sauce, and there were fresh mushrooms in the refrigerator. Perhaps they could even eat by candlelight, or was that considered gauche now? She would decide later.

Once dinner was started, Rachel thought she would change into something else, perhaps one of her long gauzy skirts that David liked so much. She hardly wore them lately. She would wait until they had eaten—probably wait even until Brian was in bed—before telling him about the baby. She would be calmer; so would he. They would discuss things intelligently. Perhaps it would not really be so bad. Perhaps a baby would not be a catastrophe after all.

But on entering the condo, Rachel felt an immediate surge of irritation. Brian was home, sprawled on the sofa, staring impassively at the six-o’clock pro football game on television, his heavy hiker boots propped on her glass coffee table. And he was scarfing down greasy potato chips, the crumbs scattering all over her rose velvet sofa. His straight, light-brown hair spilled over his high, ruddy forehead, shading his heavy-lidded hazel eyes. He was wearing a striped rugby shirt and baggy jeans. He looked up from the flickering screen and must have sensed her displeasure, for he swung his feet to the floor and moved the bag of chips to the coffee table.

She forced the irritation out of her voice, inquiring, “Have you been home long, Brian?”

His wide, chiseled mouth settled into a pout. “Yeah, a little while.”

“You came right home from school then?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rachel set down her purse and removed her suede patchwork jacket, her annoyance lingering. “I thought maybe you’d be out with your friends.”

“Naw, they got soccer practice.” It was still a sore point that he hadn’t made the team. He hesitated. “I was wondering though,” he began, a sudden lilt in his voice. “I met this guy at school today, Ronnie Mayhew. He’s ahead of me—in the ninth grade. He’s a real cool guy, Mom, and I wondered if he could come over tonight? He’s going to bring some of his CDs.”

“You want someone over tonight, Brian?” Rachel’s mind raced. Tonight had to be special, and there was still so much to do. She stalled. “This is a school night, remember?”

“Yeah, but Ronnie’s mom said he can come if it’s all right with you. He found this cool chat room on the Internet, and—”

“You know I don’t like you surfing the Internet. You don’t know who’s out there.”

“Come on, Mom, it’s totally safe. Would you rather have me out on the streets, hanging out or something?”

She stared him down. “I’d rather have you here in your own room doing your homework. Especially your algebra.”

“It’s done, Mom. No lie! I did it in my free period. So can Ronnie come over?”

“Oh, Brian, please!”

“Listen, Mom, most of the time ninth graders don’t even want to hang out with guys in eighth grade.” Her son sat up, leaning forward, his neck and arms angular, his shoulders taut, as if somehow he had to impress upon her physically the importance of his request. She chose to ignore it.

“Brian—Brian, not tonight, please. Maybe tomorrow. Ask him for tomorrow night.”

The boy scowled. “Yeah, sure. He probably won’t want to come then.”

“Then he’s not much of a friend.”

“Aw, Mom, come off it.”

“That’s enough, Brian.” Rachel wasn’t winning this one at all. She didn’t want to contend with Brian now when there was so much on her mind, so much to do, to plan. She had already endured a couple of weeks of morning sickness, hiding out in the bathroom until David left for work so he wouldn’t guess the truth. She’d finally had enough of covering up her condition. She was determined to tell David tonight. But should she take Brian into her confidence? It might help to have him as her ally. She looked at him, searching his face, and wondered for a moment just who her son was now.

Last year, when Brian was twelve, he’d seemed small to Rachel; his face was plain and round, unmarked, still sweet, a child’s face. His body was still child-like soft and smooth. Young girls and boys seemed alike, all soft and smooth. They all had untouched faces, open and wide and wondering.