Rebecca Coleman - The Kingdom of Childhood

He drained the macaroni and ladled the concoction into a bowl. She sat up in bed and smiled at him when he entered the room, her black hair in its clip slightly askew.

“It’s the best I could do,” he said, apologizing in advance. “It’s the organic version, though. It’s not Kraft or anything.”

“It’s fine, Zach.” He handed her the bowl and pulled over the chair from the corner of the room, turning it around before sitting to rest his arms and chin against its back.

“How’s school going?”

“All right. We’re reading Dante.”

She made a murmuring noise of approval. “How do you like it?”

“I don’t. I hate it, as a matter of fact.”

She restrained her laugh, chewing macaroni, but her shoulders flexed with amusement. He continued, “But Spanish is fun, and choir’s all right. Ohio was really fun.”

“That’s good.” Knitting her brow in mild concern, she added, “You seem to be making new friends here. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Temple’s pretty cool.”

“And Fairen? You seem to like her.”

Again he shrugged, this time looking away. His mother took the hint. “We’ll make a trip back to New Hampshire next summer,” she promised him. “The baby will be six months old by then, sitting up and everything. Can you imagine? And you’ll be able to see your old friends then. Jacob and Arne and Sam, all of them. You can call them anytime you want, you know. We’re not worried about the long-distance bills.”

“They have their own lives,” he said. “I’m out of the loop now. And guys don’t talk on the phone like girls do. You know that.”

“I do know that.” She put her hand over his. “I never intended to uproot you in the middle of high school, sweetie. I’m sorry we had to do that. But your dad’s business is doing much better here. He’s got so much work now, he needs to hire three more full-timers.”

“Yeah,” said Zach, and his voice sounded abrupt even to him. This was not the subject he wanted to talk about. The more his parents took the time to explain why they were in Maryland, the more it all felt like a ruse. For all he knew, it might have been the truth; maybe it all came down not to paternity, but to carpentry. Yet trying to believe that forced him to consider the possibilities more than he already did. He just wanted to accept his circumstances and get on with his new life. That new life, after all, offered enough dramas of its own without him dragging in theoretical ones from New Hampshire.

The doorbell rescued him from further musing. “Rhianne’s here,” he said. “I’ll let her in.”

The visit was perfunctory. She listened to the baby’s heartbeat, dipped the little test strips into her urine, and told Zach’s mother to get a glucose tolerance test, which caused Vivienne to balk.

“You know I’d rather not have any of those sort of interventions,” Vivienne told her.

“This isn’t an intervention, this is a diagnostic,” Rhianne explained. “Your sugars are a little high. It’s a good idea to get it done, in case you’ve got gestational diabetes.”

“It’s probably just carbs from the macaroni and cheese I just ate.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll find out. It’s not the first time you’ve tested high.”

Vivienne held her open hands on both sides of her waist—or where her waist used to be, in any case—and asked, “Do I look like someone who’s prone to gestational diabetes?”

“You’re forty-one years old,” said Rhianne, “and your sugars are higher than normal. It’s up to you, if you’re not concerned about delivering an eleven-pounder.”

Vivienne grimaced. Rhianne patted her knee and said, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. I’ll leave the paperwork on the dining table.” Then she beckoned Zach to follow her to the door.

“Is my mom going to be okay?” he asked in the foyer.

“She’ll be fine. It’s a routine test. She probably had it done with you.”

“She probably didn’t.”

Rhianne smirked and offered him the drawstring bag. He reached in and pulled out a whole handful.

“Whoa,” she said. “Fun to have them around, huh?”

He responded with the broad bashful grin of a guy caught being most impressive, and crammed the freebies into his jeans pockets.

“Is this a new development in your life?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “It’s safe and all. I’m covering up. And she’s on the Pill.”

“Good, but there are other things that matter, too. Mutual respect, emotional maturity, things like that.”

“Yeah, I got that stuff, too.”

Rhianne laughed. “Are your parents aware?”

He felt his expression go instantly serious. “No. And don’t say anything to them, all right? They’ve got enough going on. They might freak out.”

“Not a problem. You can trust me to keep your confidence.” Her smile was tight-lipped but warm. “And whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”

The chances he would ever discuss Judy with Rhianne were exactly zero, but nevertheless, her kindness touched him. “Thanks,” he said, and opened the door to hurry the conversation to a close. “Well, seeya.”

On Friday I took a half day to visit Maggie at college, now that she was all settled in. The drive up to St. Mary’s took two hours each way. Past Baltimore the roadside landscape of metal poles broke to real trees, the hills grew higher and higher, and my thoughts began a tug-of-war between Maggie and Zach.

In her most recent phone call—which had been a while ago, come to think of it—Maggie had told me she had decided for sure on a major in biology. High time, I thought, given that this was her second year of college. But Maggie had always been a bit perplexing to me, a bit apart from what I had anticipated. She had been an even-tempered child, quiet and cooperative and easy to please—yet as far as I could discern, she had no passion. Nothing set her off, worked her up, put her in a state to argue. This bewildered me, for how could Russ and I—two people who could be not just enthusiastic, but fanatical about our few interests—have produced such an indifferent daughter? As she grew older it had been a struggle to find ways to relate to her. I had thought she would come to confide in me more when boys entered her life, but Maggie moved through her preteen years still scornful of the opposite sex, settling into indifference as high school wore on. Once again I considered myself, and Russ, and wondered: where on earth had that gene come from?

Still, it was none of my business, a fact of which I constantly reminded myself. Maggie was old enough to do, or not do, as she chose. And I was, after all, carrying on enough for the both of us. Given how negligible my judgment could become where sex was involved, perhaps it was for the best that Maggie cared little about it. At her age I had fallen for Marty, gone to bed with him, and all too quickly watched him become jealous and controlling, his teasing sense of humor turning manipulative and mean. But as young as I was, and as naïve, it had been difficult to know how to end it. If Maggie could be spared the heartache of that, I would be glad of it.

I turned off the exit ramp, rolling up the window against the thundering wind. Maggie would be waiting for me at the front door of her building, and was probably already there. I turned up the collar of my jacket, and tried to focus on her alone.

“You missed Parents’ Weekend,” she said.

I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and frowned. “What?”

“It was two weeks ago. I thought you were going to be here.” Her bottom lip looked petulant and her thick brown ponytail fanned across her shoulder like some sort of Roman helmet decoration gone askew. She had gained some weight around her chin. One doesn’t become immune to the Fresh man 15 just because one hits the thirty-credit mark.