Who knows? Maybe this little trip into the boonies might be good for her. Maybe I’ll actually be able to have a conversation with my daughter that consists of more than grunts or a screaming match. One could always dream, right?
I throw open the bathroom door to discover that it is not much better than an outhouse. There is a small sink angled into the corner and a toilet with a faux wooden lid huddled practically on top of the sink. The shower isn’t much larger, tucked into the opposite corner with a ratty shower curtain drawn across the front. I can feel the cold seeping in through the wood the second I open the door, despite the steam that is dissipating from my daughter’s shower. I can actually hear the wind howling outside, shaking the tiny window in the corner of the room. It is still pouring and the rain is hitting the panes of glass. I shiver as I close and lock the door behind me.
Allie have better left some hot water, is all I can think as I strip down to my bra and underwear and pull back the shower curtain. I reach for the knob to turn the water on and promptly let out an ear piercing, bloodcurdling scream.
Within seconds, the doorknob clatters to the floor and the bathroom door flies open, revealing Agent Harding with his gun poised midair. He glances from side to side, looking for the perpetrator, the reason for my hair raising screams.
I snatch a towel from the rack and cover myself quickly. How embarrassing, two undercover agents see me in my underwear in one day. What are the odds?
“What happened?” Agent Harding asks suspiciously, eyes still darting around furtively. “Was there someone in here?”
I grip my towel tightly with one hand and with the other, stick out a shaking finger towards the faucet. “There…” I stammer.
Agent Harding whips his body and his gun around towards the shower. And then, he discovers the source of my distress. “Awww, shit,” he groans as he lowers the gun. “Are you shitting me?”
“Get it, get it!” I squeal as I step back farther into the corner. The golden colored daddy long legs is crawling up the side of the shower at a rapid pace.
“Shit,” Agent Harding repeats as he holsters his weapon and slides over to the shower. “It’s not bad enough I gotta do this at home for my wife and daughter, I gotta be on spider patrol on the job?” he grumbles as he opens the window, grips the spider by one of its ginormous legs and tosses it out the window in one swift motion. “What am I? Freakin’ Spiderman?”
He stomps out of the room, leaving the window open and my dignity shattered. I quickly close the window before I freeze to death and attempt to lock the bathroom door, only to discover that Agent Harding broke the doorknob to get in. I stare at it as it rolls around on the floor, stirred up in the agent’s wake. Sighing, I push the door so it is practically closed. Well, at least I know he is protecting me. Even in his sleep. It eases my mind slightly, but not enough to make up for the fact that I now have to shower with the door ajar.
Shivering, I timidly reach for the faucet. I glance around suspiciously, on the look-out for Mr. Spider’s family members to come crawling down the water spout at any moment. The words to Itsy Bitsy Spider come to mind and I swallow hard, trying not to think of Evan. He giggles like a lunatic whenever I sing it and creep my fingers up his cubby little belly.
I step into the shower stream to find that indeed my daughter has used up all the hot water and I won’t be getting any. I shiver as I quickly soap up, eyes darting around nervously for arachnid friends. I reluctantly stand under the freezing water that is hitting my body like little ice pellets and rinse off as hastily as humanly possible.
Screw my hair; I’ll wash it later, I think as I turn the water off. There are goosebumps erupting all over my flesh and I want warm, dry clothing immediately.
Grabbing for the towel that I had previously wrapped myself in, I step out of the shower and onto the ice cold bare floor. Shuddering, I tuck the towel firmly around my body before emerging from the bathroom. Cautiously, I scan from left to right down the hallway, not wanting to bump into any of the DEA agents that might possibly be running around the house. With my luck, I would probably drop the towel.
I dash into the bedroom and quickly get dressed, the chill permeating through my body all the way to my bones. Still shivering from my frigid shower, even after I am fully dressed in clothing that is way too large for me, I head out the bedroom door and down the hallway.
What I spy when I round the corner to the living room stops me in my tracks. Allie and Sean are both kneeling on the floor, crouched over a dented and lopsided box sitting on the coffee table. Allie is riffling through it as they both peer inside.
“Oh wow, what about this one?” Allie squeals as she pulls something from the box. It looks like…a record?
“Okay,” Sean agrees and they both clamor to their feet. I step back behind the wall a bit so that they won’t catch me watching them.
What I thought was a cabinet/ table the previous day, turns out to be an old fashioned radio and turntable. Allie lifts the lid and a pang of nostalgia hits me as I am instantly reminded of my grandmother’s similar record player. She used to let us play her records on it whenever we slept over. Sometimes, we even remembered to bring our own records and Sesame Street always sounded so much better on the large speakers rather than our dinky Fisher Price turntable.
Sean removes the record from its sleeve and drops it expertly onto the turntable. Allie lifts the needle arm and places it gingerly onto the record.
How the hell did she learn how to do that? We certainly haven’t had a record player in our house since she’s been born. Curious to find out what they’ve chosen, I inch forward to hear the music playing. I recognize the song right away. It’s “Piano Man” by Billy Joel, who was one of my favorite artists growing up. It seemed to be just about the only thing my mother and I could agree on as a teenager. We would spend hours listening to his tapes. And then afterwards, we’d spend hours arguing over ridiculous minutiae.
“I love this guy,” Allie gushes as she sways along with the music. She does? This is news to me. I smile. Maybe Allie and I do have a common ground after all. Maybe there was something we could bond over. Why, I could introduce her to some of my favorite-
“My friend Victoria is like the biggest Billy Joel fan,” Allie explains to Sean. Uh, what? No she’s not! I am! I’ve even seen him in concert. I bet Victoria can’t say that!
Allie is still boasting about Victoria, the President of the Billy Joel fan club. “She totally turned me on to him, like, months ago. I’ve downloaded all his songs onto my ipod.” I highly doubt that, Allie. His collection is like a bazillion songs.
She leans her elbows on the cabinet, propping up her chin with her hands as she gazes at the record going around and around, music piping out of the speakers. Sean is silent, but he follows her lead and they are both leaning there, staring. “It’s so awesome that they have these old records here since we have nothing else to do.” Allie starts singing and I am surprised that she actually knows the words. I have the urge to join her and sing along, but I am afraid if she thought I liked something that she did, she would run for the hills.
“I like the Eagles,” Sean remarks in a soft voice. He does? Did kids these days even know who the Eagles were?
Allie scrunches up her face, thinking. “I never heard their music but I think I saw an Eagles record in the box. Let’s look. I’d love to listen to them.” She gingerly takes his arm like he is an invalid and leads him back over to the coffee table where they start riffling through the records again.
I pull my body flush against the wall so that they don’t see me because I certainly do not want to interrupt this touching scene unfolding before my eyes. I am impressed, not only with Allie’s taste in music, but how kind she’s being towards Sean. Gone is the demanding and selfish Allie I have grown accustomed to over the last few months and in her place is a considerate and thoughtful Allie. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have her phone and her Facebook and her Twitter and all her bitchy friends surro
unding her, but I like what I am seeing, even if it’s only temporary. It means that she has the ability to be a kind person.
I spin on my heel and head back to the bedroom. With nothing to do, I’m just as bored as the kids. I stare longingly at the bed, wanting to crawl underneath the covers and drift off to sleep. I’m starting to get one of those nagging headaches, right behind my eyes, probably from not getting enough sleep. A nap would be fantastic, but I can’t just take a nap in the middle of the day.
Well, why the hell not, Amy? You have nothing else to do. No endless piles of laundry, no diapers to change, no toddler to chase after.
I feel a sob choking up in my throat. I miss the other kids tremendously. Bizarrely, I am aching to have them around me. How many times in the last thirteen years have you wished for just this, Amy? Solitude, with no distraction? Peace and quiet? A day to just relax, no housework to do? No chauffeuring around, no schedules to keep? And here it is, staring you right in the face and you’re not even taking advantage of it.
I lower my body onto the bed and pull the covers up around my head. Maybe just a little nap…
~FIFTEEN~
I wake up to a God awful glare created by the setting sun as it streams in through the rain droplets on the window and bounces off the mirror. Shielding my eyes, I push myself up into a sitting position.
I must have been sleeping for a good three or four hours at least because I now feel like a bus hit me. And then backed up over me. Groaning, I throw off the covers and sit on the side of the bed.
If that’s what naps feel like, I’d rather not do that again. No wonder why Evan always fights me about napping. Refreshed my ass.
I stumble to my feet and lumber towards the door. Once I fling it open, I hear voices chattering loudly and pots banging in the kitchen. There is the distinct noise of an oven timer going off and the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing. If I didn’t know better, I would think dinner was being prepared.
Rounding the corner, I have to rub my weary eyes twice. I have been correct in my assumption. Dinner is being prepared. Allie is standing at the stove, large pot of water bubbling in front of her. In her hand, she holds a fistful of spaghetti which she is breaking over the pot.
Sean is at the counter, carefully cutting a cucumber while Agent Harding sits on a stool at the breakfast nook, sprinkling garlic over slices of bread and butter laid out on foil.
What the hell is going on here? They took initiative to start dinner without waking me up? Is this an alternate universe I’ve stumbled upon? Am I having one of those dreams again?? I pinch my arm to make sure I am awake.
“Um, hi,” I call out to the busy little bees as I step cautiously into the kitchenette. “What’s going on?”
Allie turns away from the stove and rolls her eyes. “We’re tap dancing, Mom. Duh.” Ah, snarky Allie is not lost. Only bitchy, sulking Allie is missing. I’m certainly not putting that face on a milk carton.
“Okay…” I carefully rephrase the question. “What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” Sean pipes up, grinning at Allie. She snorts with delight. Did she tutor him in sarcastic comments while I was sleeping?
“Funny,” I reply. “Everyone’s a comedian.”
“Spaghetti and meatballs. It was Allie’s idea,” Agent Harding replies without sarcasm or humor.
“What?” I stare at Allie. “You don’t know how to make spaghetti and meatballs! And it’s time consuming and-”
“Relax, Mom.” Allie rolls her eyes. “There were frozen meatballs in there and jars of sauce. I think I can handle that and boiling water. I took Home Ec, remember? Geez.” She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.
Yes, Allie and I remember you getting a C in Home Ec, I think to myself. Don’t be negative, Amy. She’s trying to help. And she let you sleep! That’s amazing! Don’t be such a control freak. One of your kids is actually helping!
I smile as I join her at the stove. “Need me to do anything?” I offer.
“Can you put the sauce on?” Allie asks as she stirs the spaghetti and blows her wispy multicolored bangs out of her face.
“Uh, sure,” I reply, not used to being demoted to sous chef in the kitchen. I cringe as I reach for the jar of sauce that was sitting on the counter. In all my years as a wife and mother, I have never once made sauce from a jar. Only homemade sauce for my family. There were certain things I deemed unacceptable in my life as a stay at home mother; not many, but jar sauce was one of them. I know, not what you would expect from the woman that orders take out at least three times a week, but I did have some standards.
“And could you put the meatballs in it?” Allie calls out to me as I twist the jar open with a pop. She cocks her neck towards the bag on the counter. Oh dear Lord. Frozen meatballs. My Italian grandmother is rolling over in her grave right now.
We are finishing up the preparations for dinner when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway out front. Agent Harding’s hand flies to his gun and he is crouched down by the window before I can even register the word car. He parts the heavy draperies with the tip of his gun and lifting his head slightly, he peeks through the window.
“Just Collins and French,” he informs us as he stands at full height and strides back into the kitchen, serious expression on his face. “Nothing dangerous, like a spider.”
Allie and Sean let out hoots of laugher as Agent Harding smirks.
“Very funny,” I mutter as I gathered plates from the cabinet, adding two for our returning guests. I am guessing that Agent French is Walter. At least I’m hoping it is. I don’t need any more agents to keep track of.
Jason flies through the front door and storms into the living room. I can immediately see that he is aggravated. He stomps his boots off on the mat by the door and blows on his cupped hands. Puffs of breath emerge from his mouth; it has obviously gotten much cooler since last night. Walter follows closely behind, shutting the door after he enters.
“Just in time for dinner,” I call out to them as I place the plates on the nook. “We’re having spaghetti and meatballs.”
Walter appears enthusiastic about my announcement but before he can join us, Jason waves me off. “We don’t have time for that now.” He crooks his finger at Agent Harding. “Harding, a word?”
Agent Harding, who is already heaping food on to his plate, appears crestfallen. Sighing, he lowers his dish to the counter top and joins the other men at the door. They huddle together, whispering amongst themselves, Jason’s voice occasionally rising in agitation.
The kids and I continue to sit and start to eat, all the while, our eyes glued on the agents and our ears perked up to listen in on their conversation.
Through our slurps of the saucy spaghetti and chewing of the rubbery meatballs, I manage to catch words like, flee, wife, tipped off, bank account and surveillance. And Jason isn’t smiling. Filling in the gaps, it seems their suspect has emptied out his bank account and taken off, possibly tipped off by his wife and now she is under surveillance. This does not bode well for us to return home anytime soon.
And then I hear something that sends chills up my spine. Donoghue.
Holy crap! Do they suspect the senior Jimmy Donoghue?
And suddenly, everything makes sense. Jimmy works in the high school. He’s our neighbor, almost directly across the street from the Sanders or Collins or French family or whoever the hell they are. That’s probably what Jason was looking at that morning that I caught him with the binoculars! Not Allie but Jimmy Donoghue next door!
My pulse quickens as I try to strain my ear to hear more of their conversation, but it is even more difficult to catch the words.
At last, Jason lets out a final sigh of exasperation and Agent Harding pats him heartily on the back. He then turns back toward the kitchen, over the whole meeting and seemingly eager to return to his abandoned meal. Walter trails behind and I leap to my feet to get him a plate. Walter accepts it with a grateful nod. “Haven’t eaten all
day,” he comments.
Expecting Jason to be close behind, I hold out a second plate like a dummy until I realize that Jason has just left through the front door. Placing the plate back on the counter, I feel a twinge of disappointment. The man infuriates me, but I still crave his presence for some sadistic reason. Plus, I’m dying to grill him about Jimmy Donoghue. I hate Cammi so much; how awesome would it be if her husband got thrown in jail? That’s terrible, Amy, I admonish myself.
“Where’s Jason going?” I ask, trying to appear casual as I hand Walter a piece of the Agent Harding invented garlic toast. In my opinion, it tastes like a dish sponge, but Walter doesn’t hesitate to scarf it down.
“Phone call,” Walter mumbles between bites, crumbs flying from his lips.
I nod. Okay, so he’s coming back in. He’s not leaving us alone again.
That cheers me up until my conscience starts to nag at me. Why do you care, Amy? Agent Harding has done a superb job at keeping you and the kids safe this afternoon. Even from spiders. And I’m sure Walter, despite his advanced age, is also quite capable. Is it because you enjoy the eye candy Jason provides you with?
I shake off my prudish subconscious that is taunting me and start to clear the empty plates. The kids have finished their meals and have headed back into the living room to pour over the records. From the window over the sink, I can see Jason pacing in front of the house, cell phone at his ear, talking animatedly and gesticulating wildly. I absentmindedly pour soap into the dishpan as I watch him. His forearm muscles tense as he grips the phone, his clenched teeth accentuating his dimples. After angrily punching the end button on his phone, he stomps towards the house, obviously agitated. He definitely is adorable when he’s mad.
The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell Page 19