“Unless,” he goes on, “you think it’s a bad idea? We can put the binky away. It’s your call.”
Margaret grabs a novel from the bag seated beside her. “She’s quiet. I’m happy.”
The plane rumbles again and my seat shakes. “Omigosh. Is this normal?”
Nevaeh wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Tiff, it’s normal. Hey, let’s play a game.”
“Okay.”
“This game is called...‘tell me something I don’t know about you.’ You go first.”
“My, uh, middle name is Major.”
“Really? That’s so cool!” Nevaeh squeals. “Hey, Dad, did you know Tiffany’s middle name is Major?”
“No,” Anthony replies. “I did not know that.”
“I totally get what your mom did there with the Minor and Major and I love it,” Nevaeh exclaims.
“What do you mean?” I reply.
“Did you not know?” Heaven cuts in. “Dad’s middle name is Minor.”
I could be imagining it, but Anthony’s eyes look red. Is he about to cry?
Nevaeh takes the final bite of her granola bar and crumbles the wrapper in her hand. “You’re the Major chord. Dad’s the Minor. Holy cow, so clever! Hey, Mom and Dad, how come you guys didn’t give me a clever middle name to go with Dad’s name. Like Treble Clef or something?”
Heaven snorts. “Nevaeh Treble Clef Stone? That’s the dumbest name ever.”
The plane shakes again and I squeeze Nevaeh’s leg. I feel her wince a bit, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, my turn,” Nevaeh exclaims. “I love the rain.”
I turn to her. “Really?”
She nods. “Oh, yeah. I love it. It makes me happy for some reason. And the sun kind of makes me sad. But I don’t know why.”
“You know, there’s a name for that,” Anthony interrupts.
“I think they call it weird,” Heaven replies.
“They call it seasonal depression.” He bounces Pumpkin on his knee. “But for most people it’s opposite. The rain and colder months make them unhappy. That’s cool to know, Nevaeh. I’m the same way. Maybe we can take a vacation to the tropics in the rainy season.”
“I like rain, too,” I add.
“You do?” Nevaeh beams. “Of course you do! We’re sisters. I bet we have tons of other things in common, too. I can’t wait to find out.” She lays her head on my shoulder. Her curly ponytail brushes against me, tickling my face. I lean my head on top of hers.
Sisters. It does have a nice ring to it.
Speaking of sisters, London is sitting by herself, staring out the window. She hasn’t said a word all morning and she’s wearing a terrifying-looking black dress that reaches all the way to the floor, as if she’s in mourning or something.
“Hey, why is London Bridge falling down?” Nevaeh whispers. “She looks a mess.”
“PMS probably,” Heaven replies, and Nevaeh nods.
At this point, PMS would be all kinds of awesome for London.
Dear Life, please, please, please send some good, old-fashioned PMS to London.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see the male flight attendant kneeling beside us. “We’re approaching. You guys need to put on your seat belts.”
“Will you look at that?” Nevaeh says. “Tiffany, you survived!”
I click on my seat belt. “Tell me that when we’ve landed.”
* * *
The Mirage hotel in Las Vegas is pretty rock star. Our ginormous suite is overlooking the Vegas Strip with bright rays of morning sun bouncing off all the colorful hotels, restaurants and shops. Heaven and Nevaeh are happily chasing Pumpkin around the room. London is hunched over, staring at a magazine, a look of pure misery plastered on her pretty face. Anthony and Margaret seem like they’re pretending to be happy, but I sense the sadness and tension between them. It’s my fault. I’ve ruined their happy home. I’m the one that’s got them looking like the forlorn-faced farmers in Grant Wood’s American Gothic painting. But then again, London deserves some of the blame for their misery. A broken purity vow would bring sadness to any parent’s eyes.
And Pumpkin’s a handful. She’s an adorable nightmare. Definitely her fault, too.
And Nevaeh talks...a lot.
I grab my stomach. There’s a new sensation there. Like I’m coming down with something. The flu or the black plague or cholera. I wish I had my pills. I’m behind three pills. By tonight it’ll be four. Anthony’s gotta come to his senses...if he has any. I don’t want to rock the boat any more than it’s already rocked, but this is not okay. Still... I can wait till we get home to make him give them back to me. That is, if we survive the flight back. Another freakin’ flight.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: You’ve survived two flights.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: Ain’t no way you surviving three!
I scratch my head. Uggh. This weave itches! I hate weaves. I want my braids back.
I can’t help but wonder what the natural disaster is here in Vegas. In Chicago, it was crazy, wild thunder and lightning storms, and tornadoes. In Southern Cal, of course, it’s earthquakes. But what does Vegas have? Instant death from extreme heat?
I move into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. There’s a bathtub in here. I remember the moment I thought Margaret was drowning Pumpkin. That was so awful! What would it be like to drown? You’d inhale water and then what? You’d just black out? Or would you suffocate? Drowning sounds like the worst way to die. I’d rather burn to a crisp. At least it would be quick.
A knock at the door startles me out of my fantasies.
“Tiffany?” Anthony’s muffled voice says from the other side. “Room service before we head down to the show. You want anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
* * *
Third row center at Cirque du Soleil and I’m feeling like bugs are crawling all over my skin, but trying my hardest to act cool, calm and collected. Thankfully, everyone’s completely engrossed in the Playbill and not paying attention to me as I scope out the exits to this theater. If something happened, like one of those mass shootings where some crazed killer comes in with semiautomatic weapons and shoots up the place, I’d need to know which direction to run. But the theater is packed. Not an empty seat in the house. If that happened, it would be utter chaos! I’m not exactly dressed for mass hysteria. Black ankle boots, blue chiffon dress with a black suede belt and suede jacket to match. And it’s not like Anthony’s dressed for a rescue. White dress pants, pale pink shirt, brown leather shoes. How’s he gonna drag me from a pack of screaming people in brown leather shoes and a pink shirt?
“Check this out.” Nevaeh leans over, showing me the program. “Paul McCartney has come to the show before. Coolness!”
“Mmm. Nice,” I say.
Please stop talking, Nevaeh. For the love of your Jehovah God. Stop talking!
The lights flicker and I jump.
London squeezes my leg. “That means the show’s about to start. You okay? You seem on edge.”
“I’m good. I’m great.”
I look over my shoulder. There’s another exit. Whew. Lots of ways to get out of this joint. Always gotta be aware.
The lights dim and the show begins.
* * *
Uggh, this show. I scowl. This show is what I’d describe as the Beatles music meets the circus from hell. It soothes my soul to hear the smooth stylings of the best boy band in the history of boy bands. But these freakishly frightening images? Pumpkin shouldn’t be watching this. I’m no expert on autism but I am an expert on weird shit. Too weird for me, let alone an autistic two-year-old who’s scared of water getting in her ears. Contortionists, trapeze artists dressed like ghosts, people spinning on their heads. Clowns? This is spine-chilling. An awful idea for a show.
When i
s halftime? I mean...intermission. Oh, I feel nauseous. I keep closing and opening my eyes, and each time I open them, fresh images of horror are on the stage. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gymnasts on bicycles, trapeze artists soaring through the air to the tune of Beatles hits and men and women with painted faces who could easily pass for demons or devils and will surely haunt my and Pumpkin’s dreams, the curtain closes on the freakishness that is Cirque du Soleil and the houselights come up for intermission.
“What do you think?” Margaret whispers to us, holding a sleeping Pumpkin on her lap.
I hate it. Hate it! “It’s nice,” I reply with a fake smile.
“So cool, Mom,” Heaven and Nevaeh exclaim in unison.
“It is cool, huh?” Margaret gives her signature polite tilt of the head for the first time today. “I’m in awe of the acrobats. The things they can do. Astounding.”
Astoundingly awful. People are scooting past us to get to the aisle. People are so annoying and impatient. Why are they touching me? “London, can I borrow your phone?”
She hands it to me and I stand. “Bathroom?”
“Yeah. Me, too.” London grumbles like she’s about to graduate from sad school in her sad black dress.
I don’t wait for her. I scoot down the aisle and move out of the theater as fast as I can.
* * *
Standing in line for the women’s restroom is literally painful. My feet are throbbing in my heels and my stomach is killing me. Why do I have this foreboding? Maybe it’s Marcus. Maybe I’m becoming psychic after meditating for twenty-seven seconds the other day and I know he’s dying. I whip out my phone and send him a quick text: Are you alive? It’s Tiffany, texting from London’s phone. Please tell me you’re okay?
Marcus: The better question is, are you okay?
Me: Oh, thank God you’re all right!
Marcus: What’s wrong?
Me: Flew into Vegas this morning. Flying back this evening. Am I okay to make the second flight?
Marcus: What do you mean?
Me: Do you think our plane will land? Or crash? Can you meditate on it for me? I have this bad feeling it’s going to crash. Use your meditation powers to check and see if our plane’s gonna crash.
Marcus doesn’t text back right away. The line inches forward. I’m almost next. C’mon, Marcus! Text me back. C’mon! I hear a toilet flush and the line moves forward again. It’s my turn. Shit. I stuff the phone in the pocket of my jacket and move into the stall.
* * *
The lights are dimming, the second half of the not so greatest show on Earth is about to start and Marcus still hasn’t texted me back. What is wrong with him?
“Tiffany?” London settles into her seat beside me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Can I have my phone back?”
I turn to her as the lights fade to darkness. “Huh? I’m fine.” Her phone buzzes in my pocket. Yes! I pull it out and check the message as the curtains open slowly and the blaring sound of guitars fills the theater space. I read the text from Marcus.
Tiffany...call me.
Oh, no. He knows. He knows the plane is set to crash tonight when we fly home after the show!
I stand. “Excuse me, please.” I scoot out of the aisle and race out of the theater. I push open the doors and rush into the vestibule, dialing Marcus as I pace back and forth.
A moment later, Anthony pushes through the doors and steps out into the vestibule.
“Tiffany? What is going on?”
“I need to talk to Marcus. Something’s weird.” Crap. Voice mail. What the fuck! Who tells somebody to call them and then doesn’t pick up the phone?
“Tiffany? Tell me what’s wrong. Right now.”
“I can’t do it! Please don’t make me get back on that plane. I can’t do it!”
“Oh, not this again. You did good. We landed. We’re fine.”
“I feel it in my gut! Something bad is gonna happen after the show. I think it’s the plane!”
One of the ushers is staring at us. Anthony glares at the man. “Do you have some business to tend to, so you can get out of ours?”
The usher scoots away.
“It’s the same feeling I had before Mom told me. I didn’t feel right. And—” My eyes burn as tears spill down my cheeks. “She came home and—” It’s getting harder to breathe.
“It’s okay, Tiff. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“She came home and—and she told me she was going to die. But I knew we could pray. I had faith we could fight it! And I prayed. I swear I prayed so hard! But it didn’t work!” I cry. “She still died. So how do we know what to do? Who helps us?” I pause to catch my breath. “I’m so scared.”
I’ve never seen a deer standing in front of approaching headlights, but I imagine that deer would look something like Anthony looks right now. Eyes wide and filled with horror. A desire to run but not sure which way to go.
“Please don’t make me get on that plane. I can’t do it.” He wraps his arms around me. I can feel his heart racing. Sense his confusion. Or maybe it’s my racing heart and my own crazed confusion. “I don’t wanna die. I’m scared to die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“Yes, I am! Why does everyone keep saying that to me? I will! One hundred out of one hundred people die. Everybody dies.” I sob. “She died. Why did she have to die? What’s the point of living, if all we do is die?”
He holds me tighter. “Shh. Tiffany, it’s okay. I understand. I hear you.”
I sob onto his shoulder, his crisp pink shirt wet and wrinkled from all my tears. “Please. Please don’t make me fly.”
He lifts my chin gently so that I’m staring into his bright eyes. He wipes away my tears with the back of his other hand. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Forget the rest of this show. We’re going to go to the airport—”
“No!” I wail. “Please, no!”
“Tiffany, wait. Shh. Listen to me. Hear me out.”
I cover my mouth to contain my sobs.
“We’re going to go to the airport...and rent a car. We’re going to drive home. Okay? How’s that sound?”
“But what about Pumpkin? She can’t do long car rides.”
“The rest of the family will fly. But you and me? In a car. On the ground.”
“Thank you!” I lurch forward and wrap my arms around him. My body shaking, heart racing, head pounding. “Am I crazy? Am I like...insane-asylum crazy?”
“I had no right to take away your medication. I had no right. I’m sorry, Tiffany. You need a chance to get better. I’m here for you.”
I lay my head on his shoulder and suddenly realize all those years I spent without a dad I needed one. All the days I’ve been here...I’ve wanted one. “You promise?” I cry.
“I promise.” He holds me tight. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”
* * *
I rub my tired eyes and smooth out my wrinkled dress as we speed down the dark highway.
“Go ahead and sleep, Tiffany,” Anthony insists. “Only a couple more hours left. When you wake, we’ll be back home.”
I could certainly pretend to sleep. But to ensure we make it back okay, I need to remain on task, staring out the window, watching the highway lines race by in a blur.
“You can’t sleep, can you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Whenever I’m driving with Margaret and the girls it’s almost like a contest to see who can get to sleep the fastest. It’s nice to have the company. Hey, let’s play a game?”
My brow furrows. “Is it ‘I spy with my little eye’? Cuz I hate that game.”
He laughs. “I was thinking ‘two truths and a lie.’ Ever played before?”
I have. You give three statements. Your opponent has to guess which two are true and which statem
ent is a lie. “Sure. You want me to go first?”
“Go for it.”
This should be easy, since Anthony basically knows nothing about me. “Okay. I grew four inches the summer before the eighth grade. I was once featured on Sesame Street singing with Elmo. Mom and I got trapped in an elevator for five hours at the Waldorf Astoria after sneaking into a wedding reception to get free cake.”
Anthony shakes his head. “You’re not playing the game fair.”
“Huh? Yes, I am.”
“Nope. The game is two truths and a lie. You just told two lies.”
“No way. I did not.”
Anthony shakes his head again. “Yes, you did. You were once on Sesame Street. But you didn’t sing with Elmo. It was a Word on the Street segment. And it was the summer before the seventh grade when you grew four inches.”
I turn to Anthony. Holy crapoly. “It was the summer before seventh grade. I didn’t mean to say ‘eighth.’” My jaw drops. “How did you know that?”
“Your mom told me.”
“She did? When?”
“We talked for about an hour every day leading up to her death. If I had questions, she’d answer them. And I had a lot of questions. She told me everything about you.”
“Like what?”
“You name it. Your best friend is Keelah. Favorite color is gray. Your dream vacation is Ireland. You like superhero movies, favorite being Wonder Woman. In fact, you dressed up like Wonder Woman last Halloween. You—”
“Wait a minute.” I scratch my head in confusion. “You spent all this time talking to Mom about me? Why didn’t you talk to me? I never heard from you. Except for the one or two phone calls to arrange my flight.”
“That’s because your mom asked me not to contact you.”
“That makes no sense. She knew I was coming to live with you.”
Anthony slowly switches lanes to pass a truck. I close my eyes and grip the side of my door.
“She wanted the last days of her life to be spent in peace with just you and her mom,” Anthony says. “Had I been in constant contact, it would’ve been a distraction. It’s why we both agreed not to tell you about your sisters.”
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 23