The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 12

"If there's anything you'd like to talk about, maybe about Serena, I'm here. Okay?"

"Okay." Connie forces a smile but it quickly breaks so she turns back to the table. She carefully pours the b.u.t.ter mixture over the dumplings, aware that Madeline is watching her. A second later, she hears footsteps as Madeline heads to her bedroom.

Connie reaches for the Mountain Dew and cracks the lid open. There's a hiss, then the soda bubbles up, fizzling and threatening to spill over. Connie feels dread, can picture herself mopping up the mess, the apple dumplings ruined since she doesn't have any more Mountain Dew. The rest of the evening will be off, Connie always a step behind, one thing going wrong after another.

But the soda settles and sparkles, waiting. Serena calls out again and Connie lets out her breath. She pours the soda over the apple dumplings, then slips the baking dishes into the oven. She sets the timer for thirty-five minutes and tidies up, then picks up the bucket filled with apple skins and heads toward the backyard.

Noah's kindergarten teacher, Miss Howe, is on the phone, her voice rushed and despondent. "Mrs. Latham, I'm so sorry to bother you, but one of Noah's cla.s.smates, Baxter Pickett, is celebrating a birthday today and somehow the guinea pig got into the cupcakes while we were at recess."

Ew, Frances thinks, but instead says politely, "I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Yes," Miss Howe says. "The kids were upset and Newton needs to go to the vet. So I was wondering-would you mind picking something up for Baxter's birthday? His mother is at work and can't get away. You're at the top of the list for parent helpers this week."

Inwardly Frances groans-she doesn't want to leave the house. She's a mess, for starters, still in her pajamas and robe, peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly smeared on her sleeves. Brady is glued to the television, has been for the past three hours. Frances even let him eat his snack there.

Because what does it matter? These small details of life, the pockets of good moments here and there, the excitement of a cla.s.s birthday party, the softness of a guinea pig, the snuggle of your young son. It's wonderful, but is it enough? Now, as Frances is on the cusp of seeing a lifelong dream slip away, she wonders what's worse: not experiencing it at all, or having had the opportunity only to lose it altogether.

She and Reed have had endless discussions about Mei Ling, have shed tears, have argued the pros and cons. They've talked to other families who made the decision to adopt a child with extreme medical challenges like Mei Ling. Each story is a stab in Frances's heart. There are parents who say that as much as they love their child, they weren't prepared for the degree to which it's impacted their lives. The financial strain, the emotional toll, the attachment disorder that often accompanies these adoptions. Marriages falling apart, children who can't be consoled and lash out at anyone around them-siblings, parents, teachers, healthcare workers.

There are families who've had to find new placements for their adopted child, who knew they were in over their heads and sought another solution that would work in the best interest of everyone. These stories are the saddest for Frances, and she knows it will devastate her if she were ever faced with that same dilemma.

But this isn't that dilemma. She knows Reed is trying to cut this possibility off at the pa.s.s, to make sure they don't end up another sad statistic, but it's too late because Frances already feels attached to Mei Ling. She's seen a whole future with this child in their lives, whatever that might mean. Yes, there are worst-case scenarios, and Reed has already gone through each and every one of them. Frances, however, isn't going to go there. And because of this she and Reed are now distant, separate. The two of them have taken positions on opposite sides of the river and there is no in between, no common ground.

"Mrs. Latham?" Miss Howe's voice calls her back to the situation at hand. The cla.s.s birthday party, the first of the year, the one Noah couldn't stop talking about before leaving for school this morning.

"I'll stop by the store and pick something up," she hears herself saying even though she really wants to crawl back into bed. She can pick up two dozen cupcakes from the Pick and Save, drop them off at the school, and be home within the hour.

"Oh, thank you!" Miss Howe's relief is so huge Frances almost feels guilty. "We'll do our celebration after lunch. His mother had made special cupcakes but I know that's too much to ask at this late hour. Baxter is gluten intolerant so regular cupcakes or cookies are out of the question, I'm afraid. Maybe pick up some fruit or cheese?"

Frances makes a face but agrees. It takes her a minute to change, anxious to get this out of the way. Brady is zoned out and easy to move into his car seat. Frances hands him a juice box and they drive over to the Pick and Save.

Standing amid the fruits and vegetables Frances is gloomy. What kind of birthday celebration is this going to be? Throw in the cheese sticks and it's nothing more than a glorified snack time. She wants to lob the apples into the aisles, scatter the red and green grapes onto the floor. Why does it have to be so hard? Why does everything have to be so d.a.m.n hard?

"Frances?"

Frances turns and sees Hannah w.a.n.g coming up behind her, pus.h.i.+ng a shopping cart. "Oh, hi, Hannah."

Hannah smiles. "It's good to see you again! How are you?"

Frances is about to lie and say she's good, but she can't. Instead her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh," Hannah says. She fumbles through her purse for a tissue.

"No, that's all right," Frances says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffing. "Mei Ling's medical report. We . . . we got the wrong a.s.signment. They gave us the wrong child." The words ring false in her ears. "Mei Ling has a serious heart condition along with other medical challenges. We have until tomorrow to respond but Reed wants to turn it down, wait for another child." The tears come again. Brady is facing forward in their shopping cart that's fas.h.i.+oned after a boat.

"I'm so sorry," Hannah says.

"And now I'm supposed to pick up fruit and cheese for a birthday party-a birthday party!-at my son's school. The kid, Baxter, is gluten intolerant but Newton got into the gluten-free cupcakes and now he's sick and I'm here picking up fruit and cheese instead. Fruit and cheese!" She's practically hysterical.

Hannah's eyes widen. Frances is on a roll.

"Why can't they have cupcakes? I want to bake them cupcakes but I have no idea what a gluten-free cupcake is and I don't have enough time to figure it out. But what kid wants FRUIT on their birthday?" Frances gestures to the fruit around them. Brady cranes his neck from the front of the boat to take a look at what's going on. Frances catches her breath, blows it out. She slumps against the handlebars. "I'm sorry. It's been a hard couple of days. I just wish everyone could have what they want, you know?"

"I know. I'd like that, too." Hannah looks at the bananas in Frances's cart. "Did they ask you to bring fruit?"

Frances nods. "Baxter's mother had made gluten-free cupcakes but they don't sell them in the bakery. I think Noah's teacher thought it would be easier to make a fruit salad. Which I'm sure it is." She picks up a cantaloupe and gives it a halfhearted thump.

"How many kids?" Hannah asks.

"Twenty-two. Plus Miss Howe, the teacher."

"Cutting up fruit for twenty-three people isn't going to go a whole lot faster than baking two trays of cupcakes," Hannah says. She lifts a slender wrist and checks her watch. "I'd be happy to help, Frances. My mornings are slow since most of my cello lessons are after school or in the evenings."

"That's a nice offer," Frances says, "but I don't know anything about baking gluten-free cupcakes."

Hannah smiles. "I do." Her eyes cloud with concern for a moment. "But tell me first: Who's Newton and is he okay?"

The next two hours are a blur-Hannah efficiently leading them through the store, picking up ingredients as she explains how her neighbor is allergic to gluten but loves baked goods. At the Latham home, Hannah doesn't seem to notice the mess, the evidence of this morning's breakfast still on the table, the piles of laundry that need attending to. The recipe is quick and simple-b.u.t.ter, sugar, gluten-free flour, eggs, milk, and vanilla extract-and while the cupcakes are baking they whip up a homemade b.u.t.tercream frosting. With Brady's help, they frost and top each cupcake with a generous handful of colorful sprinkles that Frances always keeps on hand. They don't talk about Mei Ling, about how Frances's life feels like it's falling apart at the seams. Instead they talk about food, about her boys, about the cello, even Jamie. Frances can tell they're in love and it makes her think about Reed and the chasm that's grown between them because of what's happened.

When Frances drops off the cupcakes she receives a heartfelt cheer from Noah's cla.s.s. Noah is beaming with pride and Baxter is thrilled to be having a proper birthday after all (Newton was sadly absent having been rushed to the vet). As her middle son gives her a grateful hug, Frances feels something inside her s.h.i.+ft. It's subtle. While she wouldn't call it a happy decision, she knows that it's the right one, at least for now.

She stops at Reed's office on the way home. It's too important to wait until dinner, and she doesn't want him unmoored any longer than he has to be. She spies him through the gla.s.s wall of his office, talking with a coworker, and is struck by how much she loves him. It makes her decision even more certain.

Brady is the first to call out. "Hi, Dad!"

Reed looks up, surprised. "Brady," he says, striding over to them. He lifts Brady from her arms, pulls Frances in for a kiss. He buries his face in her hair. She inhales him, this scent of her husband. It's only been a couple of days but she's missed it.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry about Mei Ling. It hasn't been easy for me but I can only imagine how difficult it's been for you."

"I know," she whispers. He guides them back to his office, closes the door. Brady is instantly taken by the stapler and tape dispenser. Reed hands him some scratch paper.

"Let's talk about it more tonight," he says.

Frances shakes her head. "I think we've said everything that needs to be said."

Reed looks sad. "I know. But are you okay with it?"

She gives a small lift of her shoulders. "I don't know that I ever will be," she admits. "But I don't want to make a decision as big as this unless we're both on board and feeling confident. Really confident. And I accept that we're not there, as much as it breaks my heart. But our life is good. Really good. And I'm grateful for that."

Reed nods. "Me too."

Frances takes a deep breath. Her voice is shaky. "So I think we should let the agency know that we're turning down the referral."

Reed is silent.

"I also don't think I can go through this again. Maybe adoption isn't for us-for me, at least. I don't feel right bringing another child in when I'll be thinking about her and what could have been."

There's a doubtful look on his face. "Are you sure about this, Fran?"

She stares at him, her heart racing for a moment. "I'm sure. Are you not sure?"

He hesitates but then he says, "I'm sure enough."

They stare at each other. Frances takes her husband's hands, accepting his decision and her own even though she wishes it could have been different. This is still good, and she has to remember this and not let it tear them apart as it has other families. "I love you, Reed," Frances says simply.

"I love you, too, Fran." He leans toward her, kisses her gently.

"I'll call the agency in the morning," she says. "I want to be the one to do it." She feels her heart clench but there's a sense of renewed determination. "And then I want to get our life back to normal."

"Normal?" Reed chuckles as he gives a wry shake of his head. "No such luck. We left normal years ago." He brushes his hand along her cheek and Frances can tell he's sad, too. "I know you've been pus.h.i.+ng yourself, and it's been a rough week. And I'm sorry that I have to leave tomorrow for Arizona."

"It's only a couple of days," she says. "I'll be fine."

Reed watches Brady as he pulls out the last of the Scotch tape, having successfully taped Reed's chair to his desk. "Hey, why don't you take a break from everything tonight? Call a girlfriend or go see a movie? I'll watch the boys."

Frances considers this. She's out of her pajamas, after all, so she may as well make the most of it. She doesn't want to bug Hannah who's already been so generous with her time today, but it's the second Thursday of the month and most of the moms she knows already have plans. The idea of being alone holds little appeal. "Thanks, but no one's available tonight. Everyone's been sc.r.a.pbooking these days, and there's a meeting so they'll be going to that. They have a potluck dinner and then sc.r.a.pbook for a few hours. It'll be late by the time they're all done."

"Why don't you join them?" Reed suggests. "That sounds like fun."

"Maybe." There are so many things that she should do first-clean the garage, pack away the summer clothes-that she feels a bit guilty at the thought of sticking pictures on paper.

"It'll be good for me, too," Reed says. "I miss hanging out with the boys. Maybe I'll take them to the arcade, challenge them to a couple rounds of air hockey."

"That sounds like the perfect activity right before bedtime on a school night," Frances says, but it makes her smile.

"I'll get them to bed, so you don't have to worry about it. Go to this sc.r.a.pbooking meeting, Fran. Sound good?"

Frances looks out the window. Maybe the change of pace will do her good, help her get her mind off things, steel her for the difficult conversation tomorrow. She went to one meeting a couple of years ago and it was fun. "Okay," she agrees. "That does sound good."

Trick McGaughy, 52

On-Air Personality and Radio Host,

KAVL 94.5 FM.

"This is Trick McGaughy and you're on KAVL 94.5 FM, Avalon. What's your question?"

"Hi, Trick. My mother-in-law is driving me nuts. We have a five-year-old boy and she keeps buying him toys and candy even though we tell her not to. It drives my wife crazy, which in turn makes me crazy. What should I do?"

Trick leans in to the microphone and steeples his fingers together. "How long have you been married?"

"About seven years."

"And your boy-how's he? Good kid?"

"Yeah, he's great. We don't want her spoiling him with stuff we don't agree on."

"Huh. Well, I think I have an answer to your problem. Ready? Here it is: GET OVER IT. She's doing exactly what a grandma's supposed to do. Consider yourself lucky that she's involved at all. Let's move on to our next caller . . . this is Trick McGaughy and you're on KAVL 94.5 FM. What's your question?"

"Hey, Trick. Just want you to know I love your show and your straight-shootin'-tell-it-like-it-is advice. It's helped me with each of my three divorces, and I appreciate it." The man's voice is gravelly and he coughs.

Smoker, Trick decides. Fifties or sixties. Probably got a paunch around his belly. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he says, pleased. "What can I do for you today, sir?"

"Well, I haven't had much luck with the ladies, as you can probably guess. But there's this new gal at work and I think there might be a spark . . ."

"Whoa, let me stop you right there. I think we both know how this is going to turn out."

The man protests, "But I'm telling you, this gal is different, Trick."

"She might be, but you're not. I don't think the problem is with the ladies, my friend. I suggest you take a little alone time, maybe pick up a hobby or two. What about fis.h.i.+ng? You like fis.h.i.+ng?"

"Not rea-"

"I suggest you spend your money on a good reel and learn to do a little catch-and-release. That's where you let the fish go after you catch them. Might be a good lesson for you to carry into your romantic life-I'm not so sure you want another divorce under your belt. It shortens your life span. Next caller, you're on the air with Trick McGaughy . . ."

Trick has a one-hour slot including the occasional commercial, so he takes his time listening to the rest of the callers and doling out his sage advice. It's the same old thing-boyfriends who won't commit, bosses intimidating employees, stressed out babysitters, love affairs gone awry, wives catching husbands watching illicit videos on the Internet. The problem across the board is relations.h.i.+ps, which is why he's single and has been for a long time. He'll take loneliness over drama any day.

His producer, Damian Moon, taps his watch and points to the board. One caller to go and then they're done. Easiest job in the world. He'll head home, throw in a frozen pizza, watch a little TV.

". . . and you're listening to KAVL 94.5 FM with Trick McGaughy. Ask me your questions, I'll tell you no lies. What's your question?"

"I would like to know what your credentials are for giving people advice!" comes a snappy voice over the studio speakers.

Trick looks at Damian who shrugs his shoulders. "Just this thing between my ears called a brain," Trick says. "I try to use it when other people can't seem to find theirs. Most people have too much therapy-I'm their quick and easy alternative to a better life." Ha, take that, lady!

"A better life? Quick and easy? What planet are you living on? I don't think it's a good idea for you to trivialize people's issues!"

"Hey, they call me, I don't call them. And I don't hear anyone complaining." In fact, Trick has a stack of fan mail that says the opposite.

"I'm complaining, young man! A woman in my sc.r.a.pbooking club called you, quite distressed about a debate she'd been having with her husband over a new car. They're retired, they have no debt, and you told her to stop being a tightwad and to loosen up, that life's too short. Well, I'll have you know that she took your advice to heart and cashed in one of her IRAs so they could buy this new car. Which her husband drove straight into a tree because the man is as blind as a bat. Thank goodness he didn't hurt himself or someone else!"

Trick vaguely remembers the caller, maybe two or three months back. "Lady, I am not a financial a.n.a.lyst and I don't work for the DMV. I tell it like it is. I'm giving out my opinion, that's all. And you should probably consider the fact that since the car was new, it might have saved his life. If they'd bought an old clunker, it might have folded up like some old accordion." Damian gives him a triumphant thumbs-up and Trick grins.