Family Game Night and Other Catastrophes

by Mary E. Lambert

  I’m already sliding the glass door closed when it occurs to me that Rae has been strangely silent, almost pouty. Well, she was the one who wanted to have other people over. It’s not my fault if she doesn’t like the conversation.

  Mrs. McKinley spots me crossing the living room. “Hey, Annabelle,” she says, “will you remind Rae that I’m going to need you two to help with the windows after Jenny and Amanda leave?”

  I nod.

  “Thank you, dear.” She whisks away, leaving me to wonder: What am I doing here? Washing windows? When I never do that at home?

  Like a prayer, I start reciting my list of reasons for leaving. I have to remind myself that it’s not optional. It’s a necessity. If I stay, I’m going to go crazy. And it’s not wrong to save yourself. Even if it hurts someone else. Is it?

  I trudge down to Rae’s room, where we left my bags. I sit on the floor and dig mindlessly through my luggage. I need a reason to stall. I need some time to sort myself out. My arm is almost completely in my bag when something fuzzy brushes against my hand. It’s tucked away in the bottom corner of the bag. I don’t remember packing anything that feels like this.

  My hand closes around the furry object, and I pull out a matted, dirty stuffed animal. It’s Miss Ears. I can think of only one way she would have gotten into my suitcase.

  When I was in preschool, Miss Ears went everywhere with me. In the car. To Sunday School. The grocery store. The park. I even dragged her to the first day of kindergarten, where Bobby Jones said, “You’re a baby. Only babies bring stuffed animals to school with them.”

  Miss Ears has sand in her bottom. It weighs her down and makes her sit up without tipping over. It also makes her really good for hitting people. You can grab her by the ears and wallop someone pretty hard with her sand bottom.

  So on the first day of kindergarten, when Bobby called me a baby, I whacked him with Miss Ears. Turns out, Bobby Jones was the real baby. He sure cried like one. After that Mrs. Patterson said Miss Ears would have to stay home when I was at school. I started carrying Miss Ears around less and less, but she kept her place of honor on my pillows. For years, I still hugged her when I cried and slept with her tucked under the blankets next to me. Until one day, I threw Miss Ears out the window.

  She belongs to a different time—a time when my family was different, when Mom was happier. When Miss Ears was new and her fur was unmatted, we acted like a family. Now she’s old and dirty and worn, and I can’t stand seeing her, knowing Leslie hid her in my suitcase after I tried to get rid of her again. Leslie is holding on for me, even when I’ve been too tired to hold on for myself.

  It hurts somewhere deep inside in that place that refuses to stay boxed up or shoved away. I want to throw Miss Ears out another window or toss her in the nearest garbage can. Instead, I find myself hugging her, clutching her in a death squeeze so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if her seams burst and the sand in her bottom drained all over Rae’s freshly vacuumed carpet. I have no idea how long I sit there, clutching Miss Ears to my chest, lost in unhappy thoughts.

  Quiet giggling pulls me out of my trance.

  “What are you doing?” Rae asks. She and Jenny peer into the room, and I realize they have just caught me sitting alone on the floor, hugging a stuffed animal. I toss Miss Ears back into my duffel bag. My face is in flames.

  “I was just looking for my hairbrush,” I say.

  “That’s not what it looked like,” says Jenny, her eyebrows raised. There’s a funny expression on her face. I can’t tell if it’s from concern or trying to hold back more laughter.

  I don’t say anything. I yank my hairbrush out of the bag in an awkward, jerky motion and start tugging it through my hair. Jenny and Rae watch from the doorway like I’ve lost my mind.

  After a minute where the only sound is the brush pulling through my hair, Rae says, “You’re acting really strange. Are you okay?”

  I look at them and shrug. That’s when I notice Amanda is hovering behind them. I wonder if she was giggling, too.

  “Is this something about your mom?” Rae asks.

  “Rae!” I say.

  “What?” She looks surprised.

  “You promised you wouldn’t say anything.” My voice is loud, louder than normal.

  I’m so upset that I don’t notice at first how my reaction is only making everything ten times worse … and ten times more interesting. Jenny’s and Amanda’s eyes are glued to us.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Rae asks. “I didn’t say what her issues are. I just asked if you were acting all weird because of her.”

  “No. This isn’t about that,” I say. “If anything, it’s about my sister.”

  “Your sister?” asks Rae. “She’ll be fine. Leslie can survive without you for a few weeks. You told me yourself that you were practically her age when you took care of your room.”

  It’s weird to hear Rae repeat my words. I’ve told myself the same thing. I’ve even said it to Leslie. But when I hear someone else say the words, I can hear how harsh and unfeeling they are. And that’s when I know.

  My decision is slow in coming. I think it through carefully, weighing what I’m about to say before I say it. I don’t want to give up freedom and sunshine and three weeks of sanity. I look from Rae to Miss Ears and then back to Rae again.

  “But Leslie shouldn’t have to do it herself,” I say. “Not if I can help her.”

  The words are slow to leave my lips, and my tongue feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

  “Fine,” says Rae. “You can help Leslie when you get back.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t leave her. Not now. It’s a really bad time.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny,” Rae says, as if she’s waiting for me to say, “Gotcha!”

  “Rae, I think she’s serious,” Amanda says.

  “I am,” I say. “I can’t go to the lake with you. I have to go home.”

  “I can’t believe you want to go back there,” says Rae. “You told me what it’s like.”

  Jenny looks like she’s about to shout, “What’s it like? What’s it like?” Rae and her big mouth. She’s about to give away everything.

  “That’s why I have to go,” I tell Rae, trying to explain without really explaining in front of Amanda and Jenny. I’d ask them to leave, but Jenny’s not going anywhere. She looks like the only thing she needs is a bucket of popcorn. “I can’t leave Leslie to deal with it,” I say.

  “But it’ll be so boring without you.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could go. I was planning to. I really, really wanted to … but something reminded me of why I have to go home. Please understand.”

  Rae looks at me carefully for a minute. Her gaze locks on Miss Ears, then she huffs, but to my surprise, she stops arguing. “Whatever. I guess I’ll just go tell my mom you’re not coming.” Rae leaves without waiting for my response. Jenny trots after her. In the hallway, I can hear her ask, “What’s wrong with Annabelle’s mom?”

  There’s a pause.

  I hold my breath, waiting for Rae’s answer. For one horrible moment, I think she’s going to betray me, to punish me for ditching her. But then Rae just says, “Never mind.”

  Amanda stays behind. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go with Rae?”

  “Ye-es?” I say, stretching the word into two syllables and making it more of a question than a statement.

  “Everyone needs to run away sometimes,” Amanda says.

  The words are a slap. Amanda doesn’t mean them that way, but they are. Because she’s right. It’s exactly what I was trying to do; I was trying to run away. Like Chad and Dad.

  I was trying to get away from my family like it’s an old and broken and worn-out stuffed animal. But Miss Ears isn’t as nonessential as I thought, and it’s time for me to stop watching and start doing something.

  “Hey, Amanda,” I say, “do you think you could drop me off at home? When your ride comes?”

  I want to cry when I say goodbye to Rae. It feels
like days instead of hours since we were eating watermelon by the pool. Rae barely stops talking with Jenny to wave me off, and I have to push down a little twinge of jealousy. And I also have to wonder if I’ve done the right thing. Should I be leaving? I’m questioning everything. I’m even questioning if I should I have stopped Rae from telling Jenny and Amanda about my family.

  I told Rae my family’s secret, and she was way nicer than I thought anyone would be. She didn’t make fun of me. She tried to help. I’ve kept silent for so long that it’s a habit. But I’m starting to think that I haven’t helped anyone by hiding the mess at home. Maybe the silences have even made things worse—allowed the problems to fester and grow. Maybe it’s time to stop keeping everything secret.

  The drive home is quiet. I’m lost in thought, and Amanda seems to sense that I’m not in the mood to chat. As we near the house, I discover that I’m not quite brave enough to let them see it. I ask Amanda’s mom to drop me off at the end of the driveway, where Rae and her mom picked me up hours ago. I might be rethinking my silences and the Five-Mile Radius, but I’m not quite ready to give them up yet.

  I wave goodbye to Amanda and her mom. More than halfway up the driveway, I set down my duffel bag and backpack, stretch my arms wide, and try to let the rightness of coming back settle over me. The sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy, and the trees lining our drive flutter in a little breeze. I pretend they are welcoming me home. I pretend Rae isn’t getting ready to go to the lake without me.

  “I came back,” I say.

  As usual, the universe is more interested in punishing me for my misdeeds than it is in rewarding me for my good ones. The words are barely out when the breeze turns into a full-blown gust. A bunch of driveway dust flies into my wide-open mouth.

  I try to spit it out, but that doesn’t seem good enough. So I dig through my suitcase until I find the mouthwash. I’m gargling and spitting when Chad walks out of the garage, holding a wrench in one hand and a greasy cloth in the other.

  “What are you doing, weirdo?”

  I spew a minty blue patch on the gravel and walk toward him. “Do you think Listerine kills hantavirus?”

  “Probably not.”

  I throw the bottle cap at his face. He catches it.

  “Leslie said you left. Aren’t you supposed to be with Rae’s family or something?”

  “You mean you actually talked to Leslie?”

  His forehead scrunches together. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh never mind.” I take another swig of Listerine, gargle, and spit. I gesture for him to hand back the bottle cap. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him as I close the Listerine.

  “Les will be glad that you decided to stick around.”

  “I know,” I say. I’m not quite ready to break my silence with all my friends, but I decide to try it with a family member. “Just like I’d be glad if you ever stuck around.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chad seems genuinely surprised. “I never get to go anywhere.”

  “Yeah, but you’re never home either.” I’ve sat back and watched him leave every day for weeks and weeks, but I’ve never really said anything before. Why haven’t I?

  “I didn’t know it bothered you,” says Chad. His forehead hasn’t unscrunched yet.

  “Well, it does.”

  I start lugging my bags to the house. Chad is frozen with the same confused look on his face and his mouth half-open like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t know what. He should probably close his mouth before he swallows a bunch of dust and hantavirus.

  Once inside, I hear a commotion in the den. Grandma Nora and Mom. From the sound of it, they’re in the middle of the same unending, exhausting argument. I can’t handle it right now. So I ignore them.

  I walk straight to Leslie’s room, hoping she’ll be there, and I’m in luck. Her back is to the door and she’s sitting in a pile of plastic toys. There is a black bag on one side of her and a box on the other side. She looks so little and alone. I drop my bags.

  “Chad? Is that you?” she says.

  “I’m back.”

  “Annabelle!” She dashes across the room, dodging toys and trash bags. She throws her arms around me. I hug her back tight and force myself to say the words before I chicken out or convince myself that they’re not needed.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  It’s easier than I would have thought.

  Leslie drops her arms and looks up at me. “You’re not leaving again, are you?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Then why are you sorry?”

  I should have known Leslie would come up with something like that. I have so much to apologize for that I don’t even know where to begin. “I guess I’m sorry for … ” For trying to run away. For leaving when I said I’d help you clean up. For blaming you that Drew saw me screaming at Mom. For letting you live in a room that gives you nightmares. “… for everything.”

  “Grandma Nora says it’s stupid to apologize for things that aren’t your fault.” Leslie grabs my arm and drags me to sit with her on the bed. “Anyway, the important thing is that you came back.”

  “I shouldn’t have tried to leave.”

  She shrugs. Like it’s no big deal. “Dad and Chad do it all the time.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s the problem. We have to stop leaving every time things get hard.”

  “I thought you said Mom was the problem,” Leslie says.

  I flop back on her bed, so I’m lying flat and I won’t have to look at her while I admit it: “I think I might have been wrong.”

  Leslie flops back next to me. “I knew everything would be okay.” And I promise, if eyes could light up, her Bambi eyes would be shining like stars.

  Optimistic little twerp.

  “So what are we working on?”

  “The Choking Hazards,” she says. She sits back up and gestures to the pile she was going through when I walked in. It’s a mess of plastic junk: Legos and Polly Pocket pieces and Happy Meal prizes.

  “Ugh,” I say. I’ve been dreading this pile.

  “I know,” says Leslie. “It’s taking forever.”

  But she doesn’t sound like she minds at all. I slide to the floor and start sorting.

  I feel cautiously hopeful about my decision to come home. I change my mind when Leslie and I go downstairs for a glass of water. We find Mom and Grandma Nora in the den. Grandma Nora stands with her arms full of cans—all different types of corn. Mom is standing in front of the wall of canned goods. Her arms are spread wide like she’s about to take a bullet for the cans or something.

  “You can’t have them,” she’s saying.

  “For the last time, I’m not taking them,” Grandma Nora says. “I’m just moving them into the kitchen.”

  “You finished the kitchen?” I ask, surprised that Leslie didn’t say anything earlier.

  They jerk around to face me.

  Mom drops her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came home.”

  “Good girl.” Grandma Nora beams at me.

  At the same time, Mom says: “Why?”

  I ignore Mom and ask, “Are you really moving the cans into the kitchen?”

  Mom says no at the same time Grandma Nora says yes.

  They go back to their squabbling. Mom tries to snatch a can of creamed corn from Grandma Nora. She fails, but returns to her previous stance—arms spread out, protecting the green beans and sliced carrots with her body.

  “The pantry’s cleared out,” Leslie tells me from her place at my side.

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Come see.”

  I don’t think Mom and Grandma Nora even notice that we leave. I follow Leslie to the kitchen, and I almost fall to my knees. It’s magnificent. Okay, so magnificent is probably an overstatement. It’s nowhere near as nice as the McKinleys’, but it looks a thousand times better than it did before. Newspa
pers are spread all around the breakfast nook, but the other “collections” are gone. No paths, because the floor is clear. Counters are clean. There is empty space on the tops of the cupboards and there are empty shelves in the pantry. Nary a milk jug in sight.

  “How? When?” I ask. I can’t believe the transformation.

  Then Leslie says, “Mom took a nap this afternoon and Grandma Nora got really mad and threw everything away. She made Chad help her load the truck and then she got him to drive it all into town.”

  “Oh.” My voice is flat. All that hopefulness and trying to feel good about coming home crumbles. “So Mom didn’t okay it.”

  Leslie shakes her head. She looks disappointed, too.

  “Then it’ll just get bad again,” I predict, “when Grandma Nora leaves. It’ll end up worse than before. Mom has to want things to change.”

  “I think so, too. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner,” says Leslie. “It’s all for nothing.”

  It hurts to hear Leslie say something so cynical, so—so much like something I would say. There’s a crash in the den. It sounds like a bunch of cans have been knocked over. I close my eyes and try not to think about the trip to the lake. In one sentimental moment over a stuffed rabbit, I gave up my chance for sanity. What have I done?

  It’s hours and hours later when I wake up, confused and disoriented. In the dark, the boxes and bags and half-sorted piles of the Toy Catacombs make horrible shapes. I squeeze my eyes shut and send a request to the universe that Grandma Nora won’t stay too much longer. I want my room back. I glance over at the alarm clock on Leslie’s nightstand. It’s just after 3:00 a.m. Usually—if I’m not in a tent in the backyard—I’m a sound sleeper, a very sound sleeper. So at first, I can’t figure out what woke me.

  Then I hear it.

  Muffled noises come from the pillow next to mine. They grow louder and louder before tapering off again. I roll over, and what I see makes me feel as if my chest is about to crack in half.

  Leslie told me she had nightmares, but seeing this is different. It’s real, and it’s so … sad. I knew she needed me, and I came back. We’re cleaning her room. Leslie shouldn’t be wincing into her pillow and making noises like someone has just drowned a basketful of puppies in front of her.