by Josie Brown
Still, if Aunt Phyllis is going to sub in for me, she’s got to look at least presentable. “Shouldn’t you wear a pair of pants with that jersey?” I drop my eyes pointedly to her bare legs.
“Can I help it if they’re short-shorts?” She raises the jersey, revealing matching trunks that she has raised above her stomach.
I give up. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” I sigh.
Now that Jeff’s in high school, there are some battles he has to fight for himself.
The parking lot is already filled when we pull up to Hilldale High School’s gymnasium. The bus for the opposing team, the Mira Costa Mustangs, is right behind us.
While Aunt Phyllis and Jeff hustle to join his teammates, Trisha and I climb the bleacher steps. Penelope Bing, who’s there with Tiffy and Hayley, does a double take. Her nudge to Tiffy elicits a gasp from her BFF. When she sees where Penelope is pointing—at me—she squeaks in surprise.
As Hayley follows their eyes, she declares “Mother of God!” It’s not this blasphemy that causes her to make the sign of the cross. It’s seeing me alive.
Frankly, I’m glad we’re not in church. Otherwise, she might feel the need to drown me in Holy water.
I wave at them, but I’ll be darned if I sit anywhere near them. I’m sure she’s dying to hear the details of my miraculous recovery.
Ain’t happening.
There’s no better reason for me to park myself right in front of her soon-to-be ex-husband and his current arm charm in the hope that she’ll be too intimidated to walk over.
I’m sure it grates on Penelope to have him back on her turf with his current squeeze, a winsome beauty who, from the looks of her, is at least a decade younger than his wife and barely a decade older than their brat, Cheever.
Well, what do you know? Penelope and her momtourage are on their way over anyway. Could it have something to do with the ever-present cameraman who’s always within a few yards of Peter? Or are they curious as to why I’m up and about, cavorting with the living?
My guess is the latter, despite Penelope’s blunt exclamation, “You survived?”
I grace her with a smile. “Why, hello to you too!”
Tiffy pouts, “But…we were told you were at death’s door!”
“By whom?” I ask.
“That nurse,” Hayley replies. “What was her name again? Oh, yeah—Nancy.”
I click my tongue. “Ironically, it’s Nancy who’s no longer with us.”
“She died?” Tiffy’s eyes open wide.
Penelope eyes me suspiciously. “You didn’t have anything to do with that—did you?”
I shake my head. “In jail. Attempted murder. Mine.”
“Too bad she got caught,” Hayley mutters. Glancing at Penelope, she shrugs her disappointment.
As if reading her mind, Penelope snickers. Then, turning to me, she innocently explains, “What Hayley means is that she seemed so nice.”
“By the way, even if Nancy had succeeded, you’d have been the last person Jack would ever date,” I inform her.
Penelope’s jaw drops practically to her surgically enhanced chest. She recovers quickly enough to growl, “Which one of these loudmouths told you that?”
“Neither,” I assure her. “I heard you say it myself.”
“Impossible!” Penelope retorts smugly. “You were dead as a doornail—well, almost.”
“In other words, you deny that you called Jack ‘the hottest DILF in Hilldale?’”
Tugging on my T-shirt, Trisha exclaims, “Mommy, does that mean Daddy knows how to bake a cake too?”
“Trisha, why don’t you help Aunt Phyllis hand out the Gatorade?” I suggest sweetly.
Trisha winks. “And if there’s any left over, we can have it with Daddy’s cake!” She skedaddles in the direction of my aunt.
I’m about to follow her when Penelope grabs ahold of my arm. “Hey, not so fast,” she growls suspiciously. “What else did you hear?”
I grab her wrist and fling it away. “If you’re asking if I heard you telling your besties here about the spyware you coerced Cheever into planting on Peter’s computer and iPhone when he was at his father’s house, then, yeah, that also came in loud and clear."
Just as loud as I am speaking now, in fact—which is why Peter quits his canoodling with Arm Charm to glare at Penelope. “You had our son put spyware on my stuff?”
Tiffy and Hayley exchange guilty glances.
On the other hand, Penelope’s eyes are on the television camera. The most important thing she learned during her time on the reality show: when the camera’s little red light flashes, it’s show time. “You betcha,” she declares. “And my lawyer is going to make sure your clients and the producers know what you think of them.”
The Bings’ bickering is now so loud that neither notices that warm-ups are over and the game is about to begin.
The Mustangs’ team captain slaps the ball in the direction of his forward, who dribbles the ball down the court at a furious pace. The crowd leaps up when Jeff intercepts the boy’s pass to his teammate and moves back in our direction—
Only to be tripped by Cheever.
Jeff slides across the slippery gym until he slams head first into the nearest wall.
On the other hand, Cheever grabs the ball before it goes out of bounds. He smirks as he heads off with it. He shoots a basket from center court and revels in the crowd’s spontaneous cheer.
I run to my son.
His coach, Mr. Morris, is also running toward Jeff from the other side of the court, all the while motioning the referee for a timeout.
I reach Jeff first. Falling on my knees, I look into his eyes. He’s having a hard time focusing. Frantically, I ask, “Jeff! Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he murmurs sluggishly, but at the same time, he closes his eyes.
Memories flood me:
Of my shock at being shot;
Of my soul leaving my body;
Of my despair at the thought of leaving my family—of missing out on their joys and triumphs in the coming years.
Is that what Jeff is now thinking?
I won’t let him go—ever.
I shout frantically, “Jeff, please! Stay with me!”
By now, Coach Morris is beside us. He helps me prop up my son, murmuring, “Jeff—son, how you are feeling?”
Jeff takes a deep breath before nodding lethargically. “I’m just a bit…dazed. Mom, I'm okay.”
His teammates have gathered around us, including Cheever, who rolls his eyes at the drama surrounding his act of selfishness.
Glaring at him, I exclaim, “My son may have a concussion! Where’s a doctor?” I look around at the stunned crowd in the stands. “Is there a doctor here? Anyone?”
Aunt Phyllis taps my shoulder. “Lila Hanover, the school nurse, is here.” She nudges the woman toward Jeff.
Ms. Hanover takes a penlight out of her pocket. After shining light into Jeff’s right eye and then his left one, she murmurs, “His eyes are following it.” Smiling encouragingly at my son, she asks, “Tell me, Jeff, do you have a headache?”
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
“Where were you hit?”
Jeff touches the side of his head that met the wall.
“Do you mind if I touch it?” Nurse Hanover asks.
Cheever snickers, “That’s what she said.”
I grasp my hands tightly—not around Cheever’s neck, although I seriously believe I could beat a murder rap if the jury were made up specifically of the multitude of other Hilldale parents who shudder when the Bings are in sight.
Jeff frowns at Cheever. Ignoring him, he mutters, “Go ahead.”
Tenderly, she places her fingers on the spot. “Any pain?”
Jeff shakes his head of dark curly hair. “I knew there was an advantage to letting my hair grow out.” He rises slowly.
“Any dizziness or nausea?” Nurse Hanover asks.
“Nope, none,” Jeff assures her.
“Helmets!” I insist. “I’ll never understand why they aren’t used in basketball—”
“Mom—it’s okay!” It's shame, not a concussion, that reddens Jeff’s cheeks. “I was just stunned is all.”
“Sure, okay,” I mutter uncertainly.
Leaning over us, Cheever jeers, “You’ve got two left feet, Stone.”
“My last name is Craig,” Jeff retorts.
Cheever snorts. “Are you sure? You were out cold for a while there. And the way your mom goes through men, she may have already found another daddy for you by now.”
Angered by Cheever’s chiding, Jeff staggers to his feet. “Are you calling my mom a—”
Coach Morris jumps in between them. “Take it out on the Mustangs boys—not on each other.”
Ignoring Cheever’s smirk, Jeff nods reluctantly. “I’ll just sit out the first half. Right coach?”
Coach Morris’s eyes shift in my direction. My silent plea comes with a firm shake of my head. Reading me loud and clear, Morris shrugs noncommittally. “Let’s play it by ear.”
Jeff frowns. Nope, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Still, he shuffles off to the bench with the rest of his teammates.
Before Cheever heads toward the bench, I tap his arm. “Cheever, darling, may I have a word with you?”
He’s isn’t used to seeing me smile so sweetly. Stymied, he nods.
No one seems to notice when he follows me down the hall toward the locker rooms.
We only make it as far as a utility closet—conveniently out of range from any security cameras. Before Cheever knows what’s happened, I shove him inside, closing the door behind us.
While he’s off balance, I yank his jersey over his head. As he flails around, I grab a jump rope and an athletic sock off a shelf. He doesn’t realize I’ve lassoed his wrists to his ankles until it’s too late. When he does, he opens his big mouth to shout—
But he can’t because I cram the sock into it.
Cheever stumbles when I shove him down onto a large mesh bag filled with soccer balls. He inchworms his way to the wall, but he can’t escape me. I bend down over him and hiss, “I didn’t like what you did to my son. And while we’re having this little heart-to-heart, let me make this perfectly clear: I didn’t like what you almost did to me either.”
“Whah dhoo you meewn?” His words are muffled, but I can make them out.
“In the hospital, you little pervert! Before Jeff stopped you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”
Cheever’s eyes widen. “He…tohl you?”
“He didn’t have to. I saw it with my own eyes.”
This realization startles him enough that he shakes uncontrollably.
Before we both drown in his sweat and piss, I growl, “Now, let me make this very clear to you, Cheever Bing. Unless a gentleman is invited to do so, he should never touch a woman inappropriately. Should you try—and I hear about it because all bullies have to brag about their bad behavior—you will never walk upright again.”
To drive home my point, I kick the bag out from under him. He falls to the floor, but the way I’ve got him tied up, he can’t get up again.
Too bad.
I close the door behind me.
I enter the gym to the clang of the buzzer announcing the end of the first half.
Jeff isn’t one of the players chosen to hit the boards. Scowling, he slumps low in his chair.
Trisha waves me over to the home team bleachers on the opposite end of the stands from the still bickering Bings. They’re mugging so hard for the cameraman that they haven’t even noticed that their son has vanished into thin air.
Not Aunt Phyllis. During the last quarter, she sidles over to me. “Pssst! Where’d you drop the body?”
I shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know—the Bing brat! Creepy Cheever! The Hilldale Hellion!” Eyebrows arched, she leans in. “Where did you plant that bad seed?”
Batting my eyes innocently, I murmur, “Can you be more specific?”
Aunt Phyllis throws up her hands. “The kid who’s been a thorn in our family’s side since you moved into this hellhole of a planned community.”
“Ah, yes—Cheever Bing.” Sighing, I roll my eyes. “I thought it best that we talk in private. I counseled him on ways to ignore any untoward urges to play class clown.”
“You mean class bully,” Phyllis mutters.
“In any event, it worked.”
“Really?” Aunt Phyllis’s tone drips with suspicion.
“Yes. To my delight, he agreed with me that his naturally aggressive nature was hindering the team’s collective vow of good sportsmanship.”
“Ha!” Aunt Phyllis scrutinizes me suspiciously. “So then, where is the little jerk?”
I look around. After taking note he’s nowhere to be found, I say, “Meditating, perhaps?”
Before she can retort, the scoreboard buzzer rings, announcing the end of the game.
Jeff joins his team in shaking the hands of the victorious Mustangs. With the Wildcat’s top two players sidelined, the win was inevitable.
My son’s silence on the drive home is deafening.
I wonder how Jeff will react when I start a school petition for helmet use in all sports?
We pull into the garage. Jack’s car is there.
Evan’s, however, isn’t in the driveway. Perhaps he’s taken Mary grocery shopping. Although I’m home from the hospital, my sweet Mary has insisted on making dinner every night, as she did during those days when I hovered between life and death.
Evan has been helping her. However, his sabbatical from college ends after this weekend. Cooking together is just one more way they can make the most of their time together before he leaves tomorrow for Berkeley.
Jeff storms into the house, leaving the front door open. The sound of his bedroom door slamming reverberates throughout our home.
Trisha, Aunt Phyllis, and I hustle out of the car just as Jack appears at the front door. “What was that all about?” he asks.
“His team lost,” I mutter.
“Because Donna thought it best that he not play.” By Aunt Phyllis’s tone, I can tell she questions my decision.
I stick out my tongue at her.
“And then Cheever disappeared!” Trisha adds dramatically.
Jack’s stare shifts from me to Aunt Phyllis to Trisha and back again. “Ladies, something seems to have gotten lost in translation.”
I’m about to make my case when Evan’s car screeches into the driveway before lurching to a sudden stop.
Mary is behind the wheel.
Evan is riding shotgun. I don’t blame him for wincing.
But Mary grimaces too when she sees the shocked look on my face.
I storm inside.
The others follow, carrying the groceries.
Considering how I feel right now, the kitchen and its many knives may not be perfect place for this discussion, but it will have to do.
Everyone waits for me to speak. My attempt at civility is in my words if not my icy tone. “Why was Mary driving?”
“Mom, please—don’t be so upset! It’s not the first time I’ve driven Evan’s car.”
I glare at Evan. “Is that true?”
Reluctantly, he nods. “She passed the test for her learner’s permit the day you were”—he pauses—“you know, when you ended up in the hospital. We were going to surprise you.”
Ah, great. One more thing I missed while unavoidably detained by the Grim Reaper. “Mary, let me guess. One of the questions on the test you missed was that you must drive with a licensed driver who’s at least twenty-five. Am I right?”
Mary’s face loses all color. “No. I aced the test, including that question. Still, we felt that your situation was an emergency. With you incapacitated and Dad’s work schedule…” Her voice trails off.
Evan jumps in: “What Mary is trying to say is that having another safe driver in the family might soon
be a necessity.”
“Had your mother…well, let’s just say I’d always be around to pick up the slack,” Aunt Phyllis reminds them.
“But they said, ‘safe,’” Trisha reminds her.
Jack’s grin reflects what the rest of them are thinking.
Why am I the only one who doesn’t find any of this funny?
Angrily, I face Jack. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” he admits. “Nevertheless, as Mary just pointed out, things have been a little hectic while you were away.”
I shake with disgust. “You make it sound as if I were on holiday.”
“Not at all,” Jack says in an irritatingly calm murmur. “Honey, no doubt it was hard to lose those days. But this past week aged all of us—let me say that differently. It matured us greatly.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.
I fling it off. “I don’t think I’m overreacting, Jack! What if Mary had been in an accident? What if, God forbid, she and Evan had been injured? Or worse yet, killed?”
“But they weren’t,” he reminds me. “And they’re smart, trustworthy young adults.”
“What about me? Aren’t I a trustworthy young adult too?”
We turn in the direction of Jeff’s voice.
“Of course you are,” Jack assures him.
“Mom, do you think so too?”
I nod, but I can guess where this line of conversation is going. “Yes, I think you know that.”
“So, when I told you I felt good enough to play ball, why did you ask Coach Morris to bench me instead? You did that—right?”
I shrug. “Not in so many words, but, yes, I suppose that, like me, he realized your health was the utmost priority—”
“I could have played the second half! And maybe I could have turned the game around!” Noting the grimace on my face, he throws up his hands in frustration. “And for Cheever to bail on us too…” He frowns. “When you talked to him, what exactly did you say?”
If Aunt Phyllis thinks that her fake coughing jag will cut the tension between my son and me, she’s wrong. Only Trisha is truly worried about her. After slapping my aunt on the back several times, she reaches into the cooler for a Gatorade bottle. “Here, sip some of this,” she suggests.