Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “. . . we were counting on her to stay with the children this weekend—”

  “Wait, what’s happening this weekend?” I take a noisy slurp off the straw in Zane’s mojito glass, making sure I get every last drop before switching over to the new one the waitress just set down.

  “Christopher’s wedding, in Brooklyn! Are you even listening to me?”

  Oh, that’s right. Chris, Pilar’s brother-in-law, is getting married up north where Ford (Pilar’s husband) hails from. It’s a big family to-do, and I think Ford is co-best man, along with the other Fordham brother, Danny.

  “Yeah, I’m listening.” Not really. “I was just wondering what your babysitter issues have to do with me.”

  “Well, I need someone I trust to come stay at the house and watch the kids while we’re out of town.”

  I don’t like where this conversation is headed. No way am I spending my weekend out in the ‘burbs, cooking, cleaning, and entertaining small fry. This chica ain’t no Mary Poppins! I need to steer Pilar toward someone else who has a maternal instinct unlike me. I guess our mamá does, although that “instinct” translates into her being a smothering, bossy pain in the butt most of the time. Unfortunately, she’s not an option right now because she and Papá are off on some old fogies’ cruise with their friends and they won’t be back for another week. So, that leaves . . .

  “Just dump them off at Ana’s. She’s already got so many kids running around her house; she won’t even notice two more.” Seriously. The inmates are running the asylum over at Casa Castillo. Ana lost control of her brat pack (four boys ranging in age from first-to-eighth grader) a long time ago.

  “Nate and Gabi have school on Friday morning and Ana can’t cart them across town when she has her own kids to worry about. I really need your help with this, Izzy.”

  “Ooooo, sorry, I’d love to, but . . .” My eyes dart around the table, frantically looking to my friends for a legit excuse as to why I can’t come to my sister’s aid.

  Seeing my panicked expression, Nacho jumps into action, miming that he’s clutching something in his hands while Topaz starts to hum the wedding march. Yes! How could I have forgotten about that stupid bridal expo? Thank you, fugly, sequin-sprinkled bridesmaid dresses! My apologies for dissing you earlier.

  “. . . I have a job this weekend.”

  “Can’t you get out of it? Please! I am really desperate and I hate to bring this up, but you do owe me since you haven’t paid rent on the bungalow the last two months.”

  The old guilt trip maneuver. Nice one, Pilar, but your shrink-y mind games aren’t going to work on me. In fact, I’m going to turn this around on you.

  “Which is why I’m debasing myself by working this lame event this weekend. I need that paycheck so that I can pay you.” A big, fat lie. I’ve already earmarked that money for a keratin treatment (I can’t have my hair losing its smooth, glossy sheen!) and paying off the overdue balance on my phone bill, but my landlord/sister doesn’t need to know that, does she?

  “How about this? If you take care of the kids this weekend, I’ll forgive your back rent.”

  “I don’t know . . .” I pretend to vacillate in hopes she’ll sweeten the pot.

  “You don’t have to pay next month’s rent either.”

  Now we’re talking!

  “Those terms are acceptable,” I say, trying not to sound too pleased with myself for brokering a deal that mostly benefits me. “Nice doing business with you.”

  She exhales with relief. “Thank you. I mean it. I would have been really upset if I’d had to stay home and miss Christopher’s wedding. Ford and I have been looking forward to a few days away together, too.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” I wiggle my eyebrows at Topaz and Nacho, and they smirk into their mojitos.

  “Stop that!” Pilar chuckles with embarrassment, and I can imagine her blushing on the other end of the line. “But now that you mention it, I do have this black lace babydoll I’ve been saving for a special occasion . . .”

  “A few nights alone in a hotel room with your hunky, although a little too buttoned-up for my taste, hubby definitely qualifies as a special occasion, so I say, pack that lingerie and unleash your inner vixen on him.”

  “I might just do that. And for the record, Ford isn’t at all buttoned-up in the bedroom. He’s very passionate and creative—”

  “Ew, ew, ew!” I interrupt my sister before she can give me any more intimate, and unwanted, details about her sex life. “Why’d you have to go there? Now, I’m going to have nightmares about the two of you getting freaky.” I shudder with revulsion.

  “You were the one who introduced the subject,” she reminds me.

  “And I regret it. I’m hanging up now so that I can toss back this mojito and hopefully erase this conversation from my brain.”

  “Don’t erase the part about babysitting. I need you here Thursday afternoon at five. Ford and I have a flight that leaves at seven-thirty and I’ll need some time to go over instructions with you—”

  “What instructions? ‘Keep these nose-pickers alive until we get back.’ I got it. Don’t worry.”

  “My children do not pick their noses!”

  Who is she kidding? Nate may have outgrown that stage, but Gabi is knuckle-deep every time I see her. That’s just one of the many gross things kids do (throwing food at each other across the dinner table, playing with their privates, and making poop art on the walls are a few others, all of which I’ve seen Ana’s devilish spawn do at one time or another).

  “My bad. Your children are perfectos angelitos,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “And I’m sure they won’t give you any trouble this weekend. Just be here on time please.”

  “Six o’clock,” I grin gleefully when I repeat the wrong time back to her. “See ya then.”

  I hear her shout, “Five, Izzy! I said, FIVE!” as I disconnect the call.

  Hee hee! I really do have fun messing with my sister.

  * * *

  “You’re late,” a frazzled-looking Pilar accuses after she flings open the large white door of her Mediterranean-style house. She didn’t even give me a chance to knock!

  “Just a few minutes. No biggie.” Using my teeth, I tear off a piece of the Red Vine that came from the opened package I found in the bottom of my purse on the way over. I think it’s been there since the last time I went to the movies, which was a couple of weeks ago, but it’s still edible. Gotta love preservatives!

  “It is a biggie. I told you that Ford and I are on a tight schedule. Will you please put that licorice away? If the kids see it, they’re going to want some and I’m trying to keep their sugar intake to a min—”

  “¡Tía!”

  I’m almost knocked over when a chubby, little body slams into my legs and gives my knees a bone-crushing hug. “Hey, Gabi.” I pat her on the head, which is covered with long, wavy hair the same caramel color as Pilar’s.

  She looks up at me with big, hazel eyes (also just like her mother’s), but doesn’t release her hold. (I now have some idea of what it feels like to be in the clutches of a boa constrictor!)

  “Mamá says you’re going to sleep over, and we’re going to play games, and go swimming, and watch movies, and . . . is that licowish?”

  I freeze in the middle of trying to shove the rest of the Red Vine between my lips.

  “Licowish is my favorite!” Gabi shrieks with excitement and starts jumping up and down.

  I remove the half-chewed piece of candy from my mouth and make a face. “You don’t want this. It’s stale and really hard to chew.” Before my niece can protest that she doesn’t mind losing a few baby teeth on the candy, I toss it back over my shoulder. Pilar gives me a dirty look when the licorice decapitates one of the orange marigolds lining the walkway to her house’s portico.

  “It died for a good cause,” I say, with a shrug. “Hey, Gabs, you know what I brought for us to play with?”

  “A
puppy?” She’s been begging Ford and Pilar for one of those since she could talk. My sister is usually a big pushover when it comes to the kids, but on this one issue she has remained adamant and I don’t blame her. Bad enough she has to clean up after two (soon to be three) munchkins, adding a pooping/peeing/shoe and furniture-chewing furball to the mix would make her life an utter misery.

  “Better! I brought glitter nail polish! In three different colors—pink diamond glitz, blueberry fizz, and silver pixie dust. I thought we could give each other mani/pedis.”

  “Yay!” Gabi does her pogo stick impression again. “Can I paint each of my fingers and piggies a different color?” she queries breathlessly.

  I nod my approval of her creative thinking. “Of course you can, and I will, too. We’ll have the disco version of rainbow-colored nails! Why don’t you go get the bag off the front seat of my car? The polishes are in there.”

  Gabi tromps off to retrieve the bag while Pilar crosses her arms over her newly bodacious tetas (they always seem to double in size when she’s pregnant!) and frowns at me. “You’re using a four-year-old as your bellhop now?”

  “She likes being helpful, and it’s good practice for her if she ever wants to go into the hospitality industry. Mi niña,” I call out to Gabi, “don’t drag the bag. The leather will get scuff marks, then your parents will have to buy me a new one.” I direct a smirk at Pilar.

  “Management is not responsible for any damages to guests’ personal property while they’re here,” she retorts. “You should come in.”

  Pilar takes a few steps back and opens the door wider so that I can enter the house’s spacious foyer, where there are two rolling suitcases, plus a garment bag, sitting in a pile on the polished marble floor, waiting to be loaded into Ford’s sweet ride, a BMW 5-Series sedan in midnight blue. Straight ahead, there’s a magnificent twisting staircase with a black wrought iron railing that leads to the four bedrooms on the second level. The open floor plan gives me a line of sight right into the living room where I can see Nate sprawled out on the couch, typing away on his laptop, and Ford pacing back and forth as he talks on his cell phone.

  “He wanted to check on a patient before we left,” Pilar explains in a muted voice while Gabi dumps my Kate Spade weekender bag at my feet.

  My brother-in-law is in the mental health field like my sister, but he took it a step further and got a medical degree. So, he’s a psychiatrist who deals with tougher cases (e.g. people who are severely depressed, have an eating disorder, or think they’re Joan of Arc). Ford even does pro bono work, counseling veterans who are suffering from PTSD, on the weekends. He’s basically a saint, with endless amounts of patience, which is kind of a requirement when you marry into my loud, opinionated, drama-prone family.

  I raise a hand to acknowledge Ford as I walk into the living room, and he gives me a lopsided smile in return.

  “Nate, are you going to say ‘hello’ to your aunt?” Pilar prompts the boy who has yet to glance up from his MacBook.

  “Hey, Izzy,” he says as his fingers continue to fly across the keyboard and his eyes remain glued to the laptop screen. “Sorry. Can’t talk right now. I’m writing a paper for extra credit in English.”

  “He just finished reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” my sister explains.

  “And I thought it would be fun to explore the theme of superstitious beliefs in the book and how the protagonists use those beliefs as a coping mechanism to deal with the various atrocities they encounter on their travels.”

  Based on that very intelligent and mature-sounding spiel, you would think that my nephew is a college student, or maybe a very advanced high schooler, but nope. He’s eleven, which is junior high age, but he goes to some fancy academy for geniuses that encompasses K-12. (It’s like Hogwart’s without the magic.) Did I mention Nate’s IQ is in the top ten percent of the country? Yeah, we found that out last year when he got tested. Not that any of us needed a test to tell us he has a brain that works twice as fast and efficiently as the rest of ours. I mean, he was fluent in three languages by the time he was ten.

  Nate’s brilliance didn’t come from the Alvarez side of his family, because he’s not actually related to us by blood. Pilar’s his stepmother; Nate’s bio-mom died when he was little. (Car accident, I think. Very sad.) My sister’s been the maternal figure in his life for the last six years, and I know she loves him just as much as if she’d given birth to him. He really is a great kid, even if I don’t understand half of what he’s saying most of the time.

  “Uh yeah, that sounds great.”

  “You can read it when I’m done,” he promises (or more accurately ‘threatens’ since I can’t imagine any reading material I’d be less interested in—literary analysis has never been my thing, probably because I’m not a fan of books . . . yawn).

  “Okay, that’s done,” Ford says as he puts away his phone and joins us. “We really should get going, sweetie. You know we’re going to hit a lot of traffic on the Dolphin Expressway at this time of day.”

  “I’m ready. If you’ll just take the bags out to the—” Pilar abruptly stops speaking, and the color drains out of her face. “Oh, God.” She clutches the sleeve of Ford’s blue Oxford shirt. “The Millers are grilling steak again.” Gagging, she brings her hand up to cover her mouth, and I instinctively back away in case she starts spewing.

  “I’ll get the lemon!” Nate cries out, jumping off the couch and running for the kitchen. Clearly, he’s accustomed to being on citrus duty.

  “Here, let’s try the acupressure.” Ford takes Pilar’s arm and presses two fingers to the inside of her wrist. “Izzy, would you shut that window over there?” He indicates the far wall of the room by leaning his dark head in that direction.

  “I’m on it.”

  My nose doesn’t even register the aroma of grilling meat until I’m right in front of the open window, and I have to say it smells pretty damn good. I’m tempted to scoot next door and ask the Millers if they’ll throw another ribeye (or whatever) on for me. I guess that wouldn’t be very sensitive of me, though.

  “This new baby must be a vegetarian,” I joke when I return to find my sister taking deep breaths of a slice of lemon that Ford’s holding beneath her nostrils.

  Pilar manages a weak smile. “I hope not since my cooking repertoire mostly consists of Cuban dishes with meat in them.” She pushes the lemon away and tells Ford, “I’m okay now. Thanks.”

  He places a tender kiss on her forehead. “Are you sure about this trip?” he asks, his blue eyes crinkling with concern. “If you’re not up to it—”

  “No way am I going to let you fly solo at a wedding. You need your pregnant wife there to scare off all the bridesmaids who’ll be panting after you once they see how handsome you look in a tux.” She winks at him, and he chuckles.

  Aw, the two of them are really cute together—even if they are a boring, old, married couple.

  “In that case, we really should hit the road, or we’ll miss our flight,” Ford says. “I’ll take the bags out to the car, pull it up as close to the walkway as possible, and turn on the A/C for you. Why don’t you grab some saltines and ginger ale to bring with you?”

  “I can get that stuff,” Nate offers.

  “Me, too!” his little sister exclaims, and they head off for the kitchen while Ford goes in the opposite direction.

  Pilar turns to me, her brow furrowing. “Guess I won’t have time to go over everything with you like I wanted to, but I’ve left the children’s schedule, along with some step-by-step instructions and a list of important phone numbers, on the kitchen counter. I made a few different dinners and put them in the freezer, so you’ll just have to warm them up in the microwave and put them on a plate. No fast food, and that includes pizza, no soft drinks, nothing too spicy, and no more than one sugary thing a day. Gabi and Nate both get barfy if they overdo the sweets.”

  “Aye aye, captain.” I click my heels together and salute her with the sternest express
ion I can muster, but I’m betrayed by my mouth, which keeps twitching up at the corners.

  “I’m serious,” she says.

  “I know you are, which is why it’s a good thing you’re taking this little vacay.” Putting my hands on her shoulders, I twist Pilar around so that she’s facing the foyer, then I frog-march her toward it. “You need to have some fun and lighten up. And don’t worry about things here. I’m a responsible adult; I’ve got this.” One of those two things is true anyway.

  We’re almost to the door now, and Ford is there, waiting. He pulls his wallet out of the pocket of his nicely pressed navy slacks and extracts a gold card. “Here, Izzy.” He holds out the AmEx. “In case there are any unexpected expenses with the children while we’re gone.”

  I snatch the card out of his hand like it’s the last pair of size seven Jimmy Choo strappy caged sandals at a Neiman Marcus clearance sale. “And what’s your limit on this card?” I inquire casually.

  “That’s for essentials only,” my sister adds the caveat.

  Her idea of essentials probably isn’t the same as mine, but I’m the one who’s in possession of this card now, so . . .

  “Ginger ale.” A returning Nate gives his mother a whole six-pack of the carbonated beverage.

  “Malfeens.” Gabi extends a small hand with a couple of crushed saltines in it. The rest appear to be in her mouth as her cheeks are stuffed and cracker crumbs dribbled out when she spoke.

  “Thank you, baby,” Pilar says, her voice catching in her throat. She gathers the little girl in her arms and showers her head with kisses.

  Oh brother, I hope she’s not going to subject us all to some tearful farewell scene with the kids because she’s jacked up on pregnancy hormones.

  “Nate,” she cups his face in her hands, “you take good care of your sister and your Aunt Izzy, okay?”

  “I will. Don’t forget to bring me back a Yankees’ foam hand.”

  “Me, too!” Gabi squeals, although I know for a fact she does not share her brother’s interest in baseball and she probably doesn’t have a clue what a foam hand is.