Landscaping

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong. How long are you willing to wait before we call the cops?” 

“We’re not calling the cops.” 

“She’s my daughter, babe. Don’t you understand that?” 

“Greg, she’s our daughter.” 

“You’re acting like she’s not. You’re acting like you don’t even care!” 

“She’s on a date.”

“She was! She was on a date. One that was supposed to end at 11 pm! But look where we are now,” Greg takes two steps away from the window towards his marble-topped nightstand. He taps his iPhone, then continues, “11:22 pm! And she still hasn’t responded to any of our texts.”

“Greg, she’s on a date,” Michelle repeats, thumbing her iPhone.

He ignores her and stations himself back at their bedroom window. He’s looking at their front yard and driveway and has a perfect view of the limestone path that leads to the curb used for pickup and drop off. The path is framed by two twenty-foot evergreen trees and tons of recently mowed grass. The trees are Victorian Box with wavy, sharp leaves, and their canopies are gorgeous, like two giant organic broccoli florets. To their right is a gravel driveway, perfectly manicured. Their Mercedes's are in the garage, behind the white carriage house doors. This bedroom window displays everything Greg and his wife could have asked for in their dream home. 

Greg gestures to the front yard with both hands, “None of this matters if Avery’s dead.”

Michelle slams her phone on the mattress, “Jesus Christ, Greg! She’s on a date.”

“Men are dogs.” He barks,” They’re evil creatures, and their whole mission is to take advantage. The worst thing about it is most of us don’t even know it.” 

Michelle uses her thumb and forefinger to massage the sides of her shaking head as her eyes remain closed.

“I’m just saying,” Greg adds.

“Will you please come to bed?” 

Michelle’s exhausted. She pulls the gold-finished chain of her nightstand’s swing arm wall lamp. The room goes dark. All she sees is her husband’s shadow; its lower half is shimmering because of his silk pajamas, which catch the moonlight. She can tell he’s unsettled, so she tries to change the subject.

“I love that window.” She says.

There’s no response. 

She tries again, “Babe, don’t you love the window?” 

The shadow of Greg’s head snaps in her direction. He’s turned to her so she can see his eyes, “You know what I love? Avery alive and sleeping in her bed.” 

“Jesus Christ!” Michelle throws up her arms, then turns away from her husband and curls under the covers. 

“Don’t talk to me anymore. You’re losing it.” She says, “I’m glad she’s seeing that boy. It’s good for her to find out what type of guy she likes at a young age.” 

“She’s fifteen, babe. What are you talking about?” 

“She’s a young adult figuring out life. We should be supportive.”

“I am supportive! Did you see how excited I acted when she cut off her hair? I told her three times that it looked amazing! You were the one who was whispering no and crying.”

“Greg.”

“What kind of reaction is that? Crying and whispering no? Yea, that’s going to make her feel great about the haircut.” 

“I used to braid that hair,” Michelle says from under the covers, her back still to her husband. 

Silence follows. Exchanges like this are common, but she knows Greg’s only teasing. They give each other grace when they really need it.

Greg’s staring out the window again. Michelle can hear his fingers scratching the stubble on his face. She thinks about how distant Avery’s been; they haven’t watched their shows together for several weeks, and whenever they have a chance to talk, Avery’s on her phone. Michelle hopes her daughter’s neglect is just part of her being a teenager. Then, she thinks about the clothes Avery’s been wearing. They’re baggy, oversized, and better suited for a boy than a girl. She hopes that’s a phase too. In a perfect world, Avery’s date night will nudge her back on the right track, so tomorrow, she’ll want to talk to Michelle to get advice from her about dating men. 

“She’s not going on another date for a long time. I’m talking years,” Greg says, breaking the peaceful silence of the night, “These god damn guys are complete scum bags. He has no regard for curfews. What’s his name, babe?” 

Michelle almost acts like she’s asleep but responds with his name, “Spot.” 

Greg nods, “Scott.” 

Michelle corrects him, “Not Scott. Spot.”

“Spot?” Greg repeats with a furrowed brow, “Babe, Spot? Do you think there are parents out here naming their kids Spot?” He laughs.

Michelle smiles, “I’m telling you, it’s Spot.” 

“He’s not a Dalmatian,” Greg says. 

“Couldn’t he be? You said all men were dogs.” 

“Ah, good one.” He says before a rush of adrenaline courses through him. He sees headlights out the window.  

“Holy shit, they’re here,” he says, watching as a gray Honda CR-V rolls into the driveway, “He’s driving on my gravel! This son of a bitch.” 

Michelle’s already spun herself out of bed and is at her husband’s side to get a look for herself. They don’t say it, but they’re both thinking that the garage doors probably cost more than the Honda, which stops in an excellent position for them to see into the front seat. 

“This is insane,” Michelle says. 

“If this guy tries to get to any of the bases tonight, I’m going down there.” 

“You’re not going down there.” 

“I will for sure go down there. On my momma, I’ll go down there.” 

“What?” 

“Shit. Is she looking?” Greg says.

They both drop to the floor as Avery’s face completes its turn towards the window.

“Holy shit, she’s going to hate us,” Michelle says.

“We’re allowed to do this. We’re her parents.” 

“We should let her live her life. It’s just a boy.” 

“Are you out of your god damn mind?” 

“Don’t talk to me like that.” 

“Babe, you’re fine with our daughter hooking up in our driveway right now?” 

“When you put it like that, no.” 

“Exactly!” 

Simultaneously, Greg and Michelle make the short crawl back to the window. The oak hardwood flooring would usually kill their knees, but the excitement of the moment makes it bearable, and the sheepskin rug beneath the window brings them relief when they get to it. They put their hands on the windowsill and inch their heads higher and higher until they see Avery in the car. She’s making out with her date.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Greg laments. 

“Greg, they’re teenagers; calm down.” 

“This is ridiculous! The disrespect of this boy is substantial.” 

Greg gets up to his feet while Michelle pulls his arm, trying to stop him. It doesn’t work. He’s up and ready to go downstairs. 

 Michelle still has her hand on his arm and tells Greg, “Hold on. Just wait and see. It could be a good-bye kiss.” 

Greg moves his face close to his wife's and puckers his lips.

Michelle closes her eyes and leans in for a kiss. Greg gives her a peck, which she lets linger with her eyes closed. That was a mistake; when she opens her eyes, he’s already out of the bedroom.

“Greg!” She shouts. 

“That’s a good-bye kiss!” He screams from the stairs, “You don’t make out!” 

“What are you going to do?” Michelle yells, running after him.

***

Greg bangs on the CR-V’s window with the back of his fist. Michelle’s only a few steps behind him. The sudden loud knocking startles Avery, and she and Spot pull away from each other. When Avery’s eyes land on her dad, they become so wide that for a second, he worries there’s a bear behind him.

“Greg!” Michelle says, grabbing above his elbow and pulling him towards the house. 

“Dad, what the fuck?” Avery asks, stepping out of the car.

“Don’t cuss.” Greg replies, “It’s past your curfew. Why didn’t you respond to my texts?” 

“Because I’m on a date!” Avery shouts.

 Avery’s breathing heavy and glances at her mom, who mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”

Greg looks to the driver’s side of the car to get a better look at the creature who’s been tonguing his daughter. The first thing he notices about Spot is the trendy haircut and high cheekbones. The second thing he notices is Spot’s not a boy.

“Are those silk?” Spot asks from the driverside of the car while pointing at Greg’s pajamas. 

Greg’s shocked and looks down at his pants, then back up at the girl, then at Michelle, who looks like she’s seasick. 

“What’s going on here?” Greg asks, pointing to his daughter and Spot. 

Avery’s face is beet red, and she’s holding both her hands to her temples like blinders. 

“I can’t believe this is happening right now.” She says, her voice cracking from holding back tears.

Greg goes on the offensive, “Avery, nothing’s happening. It’s all good.” He pauses for a moment, then, without any transition, asks, “So you’re gay?” 

Avery’s hands completely cover her face. Greg looks to Michelle for some help, but she still looks sick.

“Babe, are you alright?” Greg asks her.

Michelle nods her head unconvincingly as she stumbles closer to her daughter. 

“This is more entertaining than the movie we saw tonight!” Spot says. She’s standing on the door frame of her CR-V and holding onto the roof rack so Greg and Michelle can only see her modern mullet and septum piercing.

Greg’s about to tell Spot she’s funny when Michelle asks, “Are you gay, Avery?” 

Michelle can’t help but think how her daughter looks like a boy because of her short hair. She kicks herself for not seeing this coming.

 Avery doesn’t respond.

“Avery, baby?” Michelle coos, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Avery drops her shoulder, so Michelle's hand slides off, “I don’t know, mom.” 

“How can you not know?” Michelle asks too quickly.

The question feels combative and pushes Avery over the edge, “It’s a spectrum!” She shouts before looking at Spot and apologizing, “I’m sorry. I’ll text you.” 

Greg watches as Spot winks at his daughter. If Spot were a boy, he’d want to smash his head in, so it's surprising to him that he finds the wink she gave amusing. He’s elated that his daughter isn’t dating men. 

Avery retreats on the limestone path towards the front door. 

“Honey!” Michelle says, chasing after her.

Spot has a mischievous grin on her face like she’s just performed a magic trick. Greg expects her to say something to him, but she doesn’t. She just stares at him with that same teasing grin. It’s all a game to her.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“Sixteen.” 

“You look Eighteen.”

“Thank you,” Spot says.

Michelle hears her husband speak to Spot. He’s a hypocrite because if this were a boy, he wouldn’t be trying to make friends; he’d be scolding the kid. Before she closes the front door, she hears Greg ask, “So, is your name really Spot?”

***

In the Kitchen, Avery’s distressed. Even the way she’s pours herself a glass of water displays her internal suffering. Michelle’s not helping. 

“Avery, honey, talk to me.” She says. 

A Carrera marble waterfall island separates the two of them in the beautiful kitchen, which is only lit by the under-cabinet LEDs. They can hear Greg saying something inaudible from the driveway. 

“You guys are so embarrassing.” She says. 

Michelle’s not beneath selling out her husband, “It’s your father,” She says, “You know I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that.” 

Avery rolls her eyes. 

“Can we talk?” Michelle asks. 

Avery screams, “You asked me if I was gay on the fucking driveway!” 

“Avery, it’s a fair question. And don’t cuss.” 

As Michelle watches her daughter's face contort into resentment, she feels like a terrible mother, like the fifteen years of experience she’s gained taught her nothing. Her daughter stands before her as a different person with a new voice. These unfamiliar waters are challenging for Michelle to navigate alone, and her husband is still outside. She never imagined her daughter would be gay, so she never thought about this conversation. She doesn’t know best practices. 

“Avery, let’s talk.” She says, “Tell me why. Why Spot?” 

“Spot?” Avery repeats. 

“That’s the girl's name, right?”

“Mom! Spot? Her name’s not Spot. Jesus, why would you even think that?’ 

“I thought I heard you say it.” 

“You thought you heard? Were you listening in on my conversations again?”

“I was walking by your room. I thought that’s what I heard.” 

“You’re such a stalker.” 

“Avery, I just want to help.” 

“Help? I’m not injured, mom.”  

“That’s not what I meant,” Michelle says. She wants to make eye contact with her daughter, but they keep avoiding it, “Help me know why.” 

“Why what?” Avery fires back. 

“Why, you know,” Michelle stumbles. She senses she’s out of her depth, “Why girls?”

Avery lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes her head. She puts the empty glass in the sink, and it makes a loud crashing sound.

The front door shuts, and they hear the sound of the lock sliding into place. Greg walks into the kitchen in great spirits, “What’s going on in here?” He asks. The tension of the room deflects his words. There’s no response; it's like he said nothing at all.

“Guys, there’s nothing to be upset about.” He says, “This is good news.”

Michelle stops him from going any further, “Greg, we’re in the middle of a conversation.” 

“About what?” He asks.

“Mom wants to know why I’m a freak.” 

Michelle's shoulders drop in defeat. If that’s how her daughter feels, then she’s messed up.

“Now, hold on. Let’s all calm down.” Greg says, getting between them, “Avery’s gay. And so what. It's whatever.” 

“Stop saying that!” 

“Saying what?” Greg asks.

“You’re labeling. You’re calling me gay. Don’t assign me labels.” Avery won’t look either of them in the eye. Her parents can’t read her. They think she could either break down and cry or grab the kitchen knife and fight them both. Avery continues, “You’re both making me feel worse. I feel so gross right now.” 

Michelle reflexively moves towards Avery to comfort her.

Avery shuns her, “Stop! I don’t want a hug.” 

They stand in the kitchen, a threesome, separated by the pristine white marble and everything of the future that is unknown. That familiar silence fills the room, the one all families know. This silence begs for a life preserver. The longer it goes, the more distance there seems to be between them—Avery’s about to walk away.

Michelle tries again, “I just want to say, Avery. I love you, and I’m sorry. You’re my daughter, and I want to be here for you. Please tell us, what can we do differently?” 

“There’s nothing to do!” Avery snaps, “I’ve already ruined your perfect life. With this perfect house and your perfect front yard and your perfect clothes. The only thing that’s not perfect is your gay daughter.”

“Woah, woah, woah. What the hell, Avery? Don’t say that.” Greg says, “We messed up tonight. But, shit, we didn’t know what was going on. You were past curfew. I thought you were jerking off some guy in the car! Of course, I’m going to come out there.”

“Ew, dad,” Avery mutters. 

“I’m serious! And what your mother said is true. We love you. We’re sorry. We’re here for you. Tell us what we can do to support you. That’s all we want to do.” 

Greg’s words have left him with a rush of goosebumps and a fast-beating heart, his reward for being a father. Michelle’s holding on to him and nodding in agreement. Avery finally looks up to meet her parent's eyes. 

***

Back in their bedroom, it’s 12:35 am. 

“This is exciting,” Greg says, walking to the window. 

“It is,” Michelle says.

“I feel like I know her so much more than I did before. Like something’s just clicked.” 

“I know. She’s such a brave girl.”

“I’ll go to a L...B…G….” 

Michelle offers, "LGBTQ.”

“A fucking LGBTQ parade with her.” 

“I know. That was great of her to suggest it.” 

“I love her so much,” Greg says. 

He looks out the window onto his front yard once more. Michelle sees him smile in the moonlight.

“Don’t you love that window?” She asks.

“For sure.” He says, closing the Roman blinds. 

He gets into bed, and they face each other. For several minutes, they talk about Avery and how proud they are of her. They talk about what she was like as a toddler and all of the things she’s done up until this point that make them proud. They think of Avery, their careers, their marriage, their house, and their front yard. They have everything they could ever want. 

Just before they fall asleep, Greg says, “Sprott.”

“What?” Michelle whispers. 

“Sprott’s her last name. Carly Sprott.” 

“That makes more sense,” Michelle says.