Family Game Night and Other Catastrophes

by Mary E. Lambert

  Then I notice that Drew’s name is there, in the list of recent messages. I tap on it.

  “Hey Belles,” it says, and I get a little flutter somewhere between my heart and my stomach. A nickname. He’s calling me a nickname. “Miss seeing you at school. Text me when you get this. There’s something I want to ask you.”

  He’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend. I know it. With Dad gone and the house caving in around us and Mom waging World War III against Grandma Nora, I needed one good thing in my pathetic summer. He’s it. This is my one good thing.

  I tap out a quick reply and hit send before I can second-guess myself. Then I sit there and stare at my phone, willing an answer to appear. It doesn’t. When I’ve stared at my phone for nine endless minutes, I tell myself to stop being a loser.

  I take a long shower and list all the reasons that Drew hasn’t replied yet. After all, I didn’t see his message for an entire day. He could be watching TV, or playing video games or, maybe, his mom is making him mow the lawn. When I get out of the shower, he still hasn’t answered. I spend forever getting dressed. Because I can. And because I want to look really, really cute if today is the day an awesome, amazing, adorable guy asks me to be his girlfriend. Okay, I’m making even myself sick. I have to stop.

  I braid my hair in a fun, new way that Rae taught me, sneaking fewer glances at my phone than I did before. Then I tiptoe to my room and do a quick sweep. There isn’t time for the entire ritual: I don’t want Grandma Nora to come upstairs and catch me digging around under the mattress. She might get the wrong idea about me. I do not want to give her a reason to think I need fixing. Like my mom.

  But I do manage to check if my room is any more cluttered since I last looked. It’s just something I have to do. Have to, have to, have to.

  Once I determine that my room is in decent condition, I grab the book Amanda loaned me and my phone. Then I stop by the linens room to snatch an old quilt. We only have about a hundred and fifty of them. Finally, a plus to living in my mom’s house. Outside, it’s perfect. All my problems feel less problematic out where the sun is shining and the sky is bright and the trees are whispering in the breeze.

  I settle into a comfy spot on the blanket with my back to the second-biggest cottonwood in our front yard, then I crack the book’s spine and lose myself. It’s a process. A little bit like falling asleep. Sometimes it’s hard to find that happy otherworld, but other times you can slip right into it. Like those nights when you close your eyes and you’re asleep in a moment. This book is really good, and it’s not long before I’m hanging out with royalty and dragon slayers and would-be poisoners. I’m a million miles away from mint-green muumuus and spiky red hair and dads who don’t call and boys who don’t text back.

  I have no idea how much time has passed when I finally stand and stretch. I’m hungry and I need a bathroom. I start back toward the house, leaving my stuff by the tree. Unless I can get Grandma Nora to take me to a restaurant in town (like she offered the other night), I’m going to come back out here and read away the rest of the day. Halfway to the house, I realize it’s been hours since I looked at my phone. I almost go back for it, but decide to play it cool. It’ll still be there after I’ve gone to the bathroom.

  I leave the front door wide open. A little fresh air and sunshine aren’t going to kill anyone in the family crypt. I stand just inside the entryway, at the foot of the stairs, and peer into the linens room, straining to see the time blinking on the cable box. I could just walk over to it, but that seems like a lot of effort. I’ve just decided that it’s 2:49 p.m. when Grandma Nora comes down the stairs. She pauses on the second-to-last step. Her red spikes are fuzzy and unkempt. I notice her fingers are missing some of their rings.

  “There’s my girl,” she says.

  “Hey, Grandma, how’s it going?”

  She shrugs. “Your mother finally agreed to throw out the egg cartons with odd-numbered expiration dates.” She sighs and plops down on a step, patting the spot next to her. I take the hint and sit down.

  Now that I see her up close, I swear there are circles around her eyes that weren’t there before. She looks like she could use a vacation, and she’s only been here since Sunday. Welcome to my life, Grandma Nora. Welcome.

  “We took them out to the recycle bin this morning,” she says.

  “What are the chances they’ll still be out there tonight?”

  Grandma Nora gives a dry laugh. “I’d say about fifty-fifty. For someone so stubborn, your mother sure is wishy-washy when it comes to getting rid of things.”

  We sit in a companionable silence for a couple of minutes. I’m trying to think of a tactful way to invite myself out to dinner on Grandma Nora’s dime, but I must have a strange look on my face, because Grandma Nora cocks her head to the side and asks: “Something on your mind?”

  “I heard you and my mom talking yesterday.” I’m caught off guard by my own words.

  Grandma rubs a hand across her forehead. “What?”

  “Out on the porch.”

  She drops her hand and looks me in the eye. “About the will?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No, you were talking about being broken.”

  “Oh.” Grandma Nora relaxes a little. The crease between her eyebrows disappears. “What about it?”

  “Well … ” I say. I thought I had pushed that worry down, but here it is popping out of my mouth first chance it gets. “I was just wondering … what you said yesterday; you didn’t mean it, did you?”

  Grandma Nora leans back with her elbows resting on the step above her. She tilts her head to the side and appears to be trying to remember the conversation. After a longish pause, she says, “I meant every word.”

  “But that stuff about everyone being broken, you were just saying that to make Mom feel better. Right? ’Cause she’s messed up and we’re not.”

  “Nope, I’m afraid I meant it. All of it.”

  “But you don’t actually think you’re broken, do you?”

  “Annabelle.” She says my name like it’s a sigh. “When I stop long enough to think about it, to really think about it, I might just be the most broken person I know.”

  “Why?” I ask in disbelief. Mrs. Fix-It? Mrs. Independent Woman? Is this even my grandma? Or has the real Nora Perkins been abducted by little green aliens and replaced with this disheveled stranger? I just stare at her.

  She blinks at me. Then she shakes her head. “Mistakes.” She shakes her head again. “I’ve made so, so many mistakes. I’ve been cruel when I should have been kind. I’ve been greedy when I should have been giving. I … I didn’t treat your mother very well after Grandpa George died. I was so consumed with my own grief that I didn’t see how she was hurting or how I was hurting her. They’re the kind of mistakes that chip away at you and leave you broken, and the only thing you can do is hope and pray you’ll find a way to make it right again.”

  And then my mouth is moving, blurting out more of the things I thought I had tucked carefully away: “But—but you don’t think everyone is broken.”

  “Actually, I do. Some mistakes are worse than others, but we all carry chips in our souls from the wrong we’ve done.”

  She’s scaring me. Adults aren’t supposed to talk like this. They’re supposed to be sure and certain, confident and reassuring. Instead, she’s freaking me out.

  So I insist: “Not me. I’m not broken.”

  Grandma Nora smiles indulgently, like I’m a child. Like she knows something I don’t. “You’re so young, so sure of yourself.” Then, still smiling, she adds: “Sometimes you remind me so much of your mom. You two are so alike.”

  Something inside me snaps. I jump to my feet. “I’m nothing like my mom! Nothing like her. Don’t ever say that again.” I realize I’m shouting the words, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. “I’m nothing like her. How could you even say that?”

  I hear a choking noise and look in the direction of the sound. Mom is standing a few feet away, on the other
side of the Beanie Baby Banister. At some point during our conversation, she must have walked out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the linens room, toward the stairs where I’m towering over Grandma Nora.

  “Wh-what’s going on in here?” Mom says.

  I should apologize. Stop screaming. Sit down. But I can’t. All the thoughts I’ve been so carefully boxing up and pushing away are popping up. I thought I could ignore them. But here they are. From my place on the stairs, I turn my total attention to the woman who’s made my life a misery.

  “I’m not like you!” I shout at my mom. “I’d rather die than grow up to be anything like you.”

  “Annabelle—” Her voice is choked. “Stop. Don’t say things like that.”

  “Like what? That you’re dirty? And lazy? And—”

  “Stop. Please, stop it.” It’s not a command. It’s a plea. She’s begging, but I can’t stop. And her next words—in that same desperate, begging voice—only fuel my rage. “I’m your mother. You shouldn’t talk to me like this.”

  “You never act like a real mom. You just lie around and say you’re tired and obsess over your stupid collections and I am nothing like that. Nothing. You’re ruining our family, and I hate you for it. I hate you.”

  “Annabelle, that’s enough.” Grandma Nora’s voice is low and harsh. I look down at her, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring straight ahead—a ninety-degree angle to my position on the step. I follow her gaze and, for the first time, I notice that three more figures have joined our little party. They stand silhouetted in the front doorway. My first thought is to wonder who will show up next. Santa Claus? The Easter Bunny? The Grim Reaper? Then my eyes adjust to the backlight, and I see who they are.

  This is so much worse than my mom walking in on my conversation with Grandma Nora.

  Leslie is positioned in front. Her face is pale, drained of all color, but I hardly spare her a thought. Because one of the people behind her is the last person in the world I want to see at my house. The last person in the world who should see me like this: standing on a staircase lined with Beanie Babies in a house that stinks like rotten milk, screaming that I hate my own mother.

  The Five-Mile Radius has been smashed to pieces.

  Drew is on my front porch.

  How much did he hear? How much can he see?

  The questions circle round and round in my mind. I can’t focus. I can’t speak. I can only stand there. Someone should alert WebMD: The first death by embarrassment is about to happen. My cheeks burn, but my hands feel cold. I can’t quite seem to remember how to breathe. My stomach has disappeared. And my brain keeps going back to the one thought.

  How much did he hear? How much can he see?

  At some point, I realize I am frozen with my finger jabbing out toward my mom. I slowly lower my hand and swallow. I try to think. Do I apologize? Pretend it was a joke? Try to laugh it off? Explain things? Tell the truth? Confess the secrets I’ve been keeping? I don’t think I can.

  How much did he hear? How much can he see?

  The awkward silence stretches on and on. Why doesn’t somebody say something? Why doesn’t one of the adults do something? What good are they if they can’t take control at a time like this? I swallow again and feel that my throat has gone tight. Great. Just great. Even if I did know what to say, I wouldn’t be able to say it without bursting into tears—the one thing guaranteed to make this horrible little situation even more horrible. I try to swallow again.

  “I guess we better go.”

  It’s not an adult who finally breaks the awful, awful silence. It’s the only person I don’t know. For the first time, I concentrate on the third figure in the doorway. He’s young. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about Leslie’s age, but he looks a lot like Drew.

  My brain unfreezes, and it all comes together in one catastrophic flash.

  Dylan, the new kid from Leslie’s class, whose cousins were coming for a cookout. Drew’s cousin who just moved near us. How could I have missed it?

  Of course Dylan is Drew’s cousin.

  Of course my life would unfold like a tragic coincidence from a Shakespeare play.

  Of course Drew wasn’t asking me to be his girlfriend. He probably wanted to ask the same thing that he asked on Sunday: Can he stop by my place?

  Five-Mile Radius. Five-Mile Radius. Five-Mile Radius.

  “Thanks for walking me home,” says Leslie in a quiet voice.

  “No problem.” Drew speaks for the first time. “Good to see you, Annabelle.” He gives me a little nod. I don’t respond. I just stand there and wonder if he thinks I’m a terrible person and what he will tell other people and what if everyone finds out about our house and what if someone calls CPS or forces us to split up?

  When I fail to show any sign of life, Drew doesn’t say anything else to me. He turns to Leslie and says, “Later.” Then he and his cousin hightail it off our porch as fast as they can without breaking into a run. I’ve heard speed walking is an Olympic sport. Drew and his cousin should join Team USA. I think I could guarantee a gold, as long as they thought they were fleeing from something horrifying … like me screaming at my mom in a house full of garbage.

  I watch them go and feel my hopes slipping away. Drew has seen me at my worst. And he’s seen our house. No more boyfriend. No more friends. He’ll say something to someone who will let it slip to someone else who will tell someone else. By the time school starts, everyone will know I’m the kind of person who gets made fun of. Or who everyone feels sorry for. Or both. I’ll be lucky if Rae or Melanie or even Amanda is still willing to be seen with me in public.

  I hear a rustling noise. I tear my eyes away from the front door in time to see Mom lumbering toward the kitchen. Without a word. After everything, after all that—she’s just running away. She doesn’t even care enough to keep arguing with me. To fight back. To act like she wants to save our family.

  I turn on Leslie.

  “What were you thinking?” Leslie looks at me with big forlorn eyes, but just now the Bambi Thing has no effect whatsoever. “Well?” I say, wanting her to defend herself. To fight with me. Something. “What were you thinking?”

  “I’m so sorry.” She mouths the words. I barely hear them.

  “Like that matters. This is why I told you not to hang out with our neighbors.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “This is all your fault.” My throat is going tight again.

  “Stop it!” Grandma Nora pulls herself up so she’s standing next to me on the step. “Don’t you dare blame Leslie,” she says, poking me in the chest. “If you’re going to act like a spoiled brat, you’d better be prepared to get caught at it.”

  I take a deep breath and try to relax so that I can speak without my voice shaking. “But she knows. She knows I never let anyone from school near our house. We don’t have anyone over. Ever.”

  “I—I tried to stop him,” Leslie says, still very quiet. “I really did.”

  “Don’t talk to me.” I grind out the words and stomp upstairs, away from Doe Eyes and Grandma Nora. I pause at the top of the stairs. I want to go to my bedroom, where it’s peaceful and orderly, but my room is full of Grandma Nora’s stuff.

  I can hear her talking to my sister. “It’s okay,” she’s saying. “It’s not your fault. She’ll get over it.”

  I want to shout that I’ll never get over it. That this will haunt me until the day I die. But it does sound like something a spoiled brat would say, and my throat is so tight I don’t think I can get the words out.

  “No, don’t go after her,” Grandma Nora is saying. “Your mother used to pull this when she was Annabelle’s age, and she always needed time to cool down afterward.”

  I run to the bathroom and try to slam the door behind me. I want it to bang. For once, I’m not worried about causing an avalanche. Part of me is hoping I will start one. Right now, I wouldn’t mind if the entire house collapsed on all of us. But the only thing that happens is that a wad of
junk mail blocks the door and I have to kick a bunch of envelopes out of the way before I can slam it shut.

  I sit on the toilet seat and turn on the shower, so no one will hear me if I cry. I don’t. It takes a while before my throat loosens and I can breathe evenly again. Eventually, the tight feeling goes away without any tears, and I decide it’s safe to leave the bathroom. When I emerge, the house is quiet and gloomy. It’s late in the afternoon, and the sun is low in the sky.

  I wander from room to room. The upstairs is empty. For a minute I think I’m alone. Then I hear a thudding noise downstairs, and I guess that Mom is poking around.

  I try to decide what to do and where to go. I can’t sleep in my room tonight. Or in Leslie’s room. I stumble into Chad’s room, wishing I knew if he’s planning to sleep at home or if he’s going to crash on Will’s futon.

  Chad’s room is almost as creepy as Leslie’s catacomb, with its stacks of exercise equipment and paint cans. That’s when my eyes land on the tent.

  I think of the Glorious Day outside. Fresh air and open spaces. No people. No collections. I scrounge around and find a few more supplies. I lug it all downstairs and pause at the linens room entrance when I hear the TV. Mom is parked on the couch, watching an infomercial. We have a juicer, a couple of food dehydrators, a humidifier, and I know I saw at least three ShamWows up in Chad’s room just now. So much for the cleanup. I wonder what Mom is going to order today for “only five easy payments of $29.99.”

  I set down the camping gear and brace myself for another shouting match, but Mom doesn’t protest when I switch off the TV. She’s asleep. I take the batteries out of the remote so when she wakes up she’ll be that much less likely to order a home rotisserie. If she hasn’t already ordered one. Or five. The phone isn’t next to her on the couch, so I choose to take that as a good sign. There’s an ice pack half falling off her right knee. I move it to the floor before she ends up with frostbite. She should know better than to fall asleep with an ice pack. I leave her there and return to the entryway, where I gather up my camping gear.