Family Game Night and Other Catastrophes

by Mary E. Lambert

  The whimpering turns into choking sounds. I can’t just sit here and watch this. I click on the lamp and reach out to stroke Leslie’s hair. “Ssshhh, it’s okay,” I say in my softest, least-Annabelle-like tone. In the dim lamplight, her cheeks are damp. “Ssshhh.”

  But things only get worse, as they are prone to do around me.

  Leslie wakes up. But it’s not calm or gradual. It’s sudden and violent. She bolts upright, knocking my hand away from her face with both arms. She’s breathing deeply. I’m not sure if hyperventilating is the right word, but it’s something close to panic. She continues to sputter and gasp.

  “Breathe, just breathe,” I say, making circles on her back. She’s so little. I can feel her shoulder blades and her spine sticking out through the cloth of her nightgown. Then she’s up and out of the bed, stumbling through the mess. “What are you d—” I start to ask, but the question is answered before I can finish asking.

  She dives for one of the black bags and shoves her entire head inside. I hear her gagging. She emerges a minute later and limps back to bed, where she asks for her cup of water. I grab it from the nightstand.

  When she’s done drinking, I ask, “Do you think you have the stomach flu?”

  This is normally the part where I freak out, where I run to the bathroom, hop in the shower, and demand that the person who may or may not have the plague stay at least sneezing distance away. But a horrible suspicion is sinking over me. Pukey the Porpoise.

  “How often?” I ask, leaning toward her. “How often do you wake up sick?”

  Leslie shrugs and passes me her cup, which I return to its spot between the alarm and lamp.

  “How often?” This time it’s not a question. It’s a demand.

  “Not much.” She’s a terrible liar.

  Her skin is almost translucent in the half-light, and it could be my imagination or it could be the shadows, but I see thick dark circles under her eyes.

  “Once a month?” I guess. “Once a week?”

  She shakes her head and lies back down, snuggling deep into her pillow. “Not that much. Just if I’ve been really, really upset about something.”

  Like anxiety because her sister tried to abandon her? Like stress because her crummy dad ran off and didn’t bother to call?

  I prop myself on one elbow and stare down at her. Leslie doesn’t want to talk, but I can’t help it. I have to ask. I have to know what kind of dream makes a person so upset that they wake up and puke.

  “What was your dream about?”

  “I was trapped underwater and drowning and I kept trying”—she takes a long, shuddery breath—“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to go back to sleep … Will you—will you hold my hand a little while?”

  I hold her hand and watch her face relax. When her breathing is deep and even and I’m sure it won’t bother her, I slip my hand from hers, grab the bag, and tiptoe out. I can’t stop her whimpers from echoing in my head. I can’t stop watching her leap for the trash bag. I can’t stop thinking how pale she looked. Guilt, guilt, guilt. I thought I would feel better after coming home, but I feel worse than ever. I haven’t helped Leslie, and now we’re both stuck here and there’s no one to turn to.

  I sneak downstairs and set the trash bag outside the back door.

  There’s a light in the kitchen. Grandma Nora is on her hands and knees with a massive sponge, scrubbing the floors. The part of the floor she’s cleaning is at least three shades lighter than the rest of the tile. I watch her work. I know where there’s a mop, and I think about going to get it for her, but I change my mind as it occurs to me that this chance to talk alone with Grandma Nora couldn’t be more perfect.

  After what just happened upstairs, I know more than ever before that I’m in over my head. And this is an opportunity I can’t pass up. Maybe Grandma Nora can actually help Leslie. Maybe she can do something to make the bad dreams stop.

  “Grandma Nora,” I say.

  “Oh, Annabelle,” she says, looking up from the floor and grabbing her shirt with a soapy hand. It leaves a big wet spot on the fabric. “You startled me. What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “I just needed someone to talk to.”

  Grandma Nora tosses her sponge into a container of dark brown water. It’s so filthy that I wonder how it’s making the floor cleaner. She sits back on her heels and gives me a long look.

  Poor Grandma Nora. In the dim light, her wrinkles appear deeper and darker than they do in the middle of the day. Maybe she’s just not wearing any makeup, and her hip hair spikes have devolved into fuzz. Her head looks like a red baby chick exploded. But the thing is: She’s here. And right now I need someone.

  I say, “I’m worried about Leslie.”

  She nods. “Me too.”

  I cross the kitchen, trying to step only in the dry spots. I wonder if Grandma Nora knows about Leslie’s nightmares. I wonder if, in the few days she’s been in the house, Grandma Nora has noticed what the rest of us have missed—that Leslie is so anxious about the house and the mess and the tension she’s making herself sick with it. Before I can ask, Grandma Nora adds, “I’m worried about you, too, Annabelle.”

  “Me?” I stop in a large dry spot, standing only a few feet from Grandma Nora. “Why? I’m fine.”

  I’m strong. I don’t cry. I don’t have nightmares.

  “This isn’t a healthy environment.” Grandma Nora waves a dripping hand at the kitchen. “We’ve been working for days, and it’s still filthy. I’m starting to realize that I can’t fix your mother, but maybe I can save you and Leslie.”

  A little shiver runs down my spine—she’s giving up on the rest of the family?

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Aunt Jill and I have been talking about it, and we think it would be best if you came to stay with us. Neither of us has much spare room, but I could take Leslie with me, and you can stay with Jill. Her place is only about an hour across town. So we’ll be able to get together on the weekends.”

  I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Is Grandma Nora really sitting in the middle of a partially cleaned floor at 3:45 a.m., calmly proposing to stash me at Aunt Jill’s house? I barely know the woman. How can she even suggest splitting me and Leslie up?

  Any plan that involves tearing apart our family is a terrible plan, and I tell her so. “That’s a terrible plan. You can’t split up me and Leslie. She needs me.”

  Grandma Nora shakes her head. “Leslie needs a healthy home, and so do you. I know it’s not a perfect plan, but it will have to do for now. It’s certainly better than if CPS or the government end up involved.”

  I take a step back. I don’t think Grandma Nora means to sound like she’s making threats, but it sure sounds like she just warned me she would call CPS if we didn’t agree to her plan.

  “But what about Chad? And my dad?” I ask, taking another step away from her.

  “Well, Chad is practically an adult. He’ll be leaving for college in another year. And your father … ” She sighs again. “If he’s willing to leave your mother, then of course, you can live with him. But you can’t stay in this house.”

  “So you want us to move out and leave Mom here?” I ask.

  My mind sends me a mental image of the Death Files. And suddenly I’m sure of it: If I leave with Grandma Nora, I just know I’ll open a newspaper someday and see my mom in the headlines. We can’t abandon her to this house. One of her collections really will crush her to death. Mom is collapsing under the weight of the house, and Grandma Nora wants us to run out on her?

  Grandma Nora just keeps shaking her head. “Look, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t truly think it would be for the best.”

  My world is toppling faster than a newspaper tower.

  I can’t tell Grandma Nora about Leslie’s nightmares now. She’ll call CPS, and we’ll be living a thousand miles from our friends and family before Dad even bothers to pick up a phone. I thought not leaving
with Rae would make things right. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to run away ever again. And now I might not be running, but the one person I thought I could turn to wants to help Leslie by breaking up our family. I choke back the knot that’s forcing its way up my throat.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, and sprint from the room before I do something disgraceful. Like cry. In my rush, I don’t see the industrial-size tuna can that never made it to the pantry. It’s lying in the middle of the half-cleaned floor, and I whack my toe on it. As if Grandma Nora needs the universe to help prove her point that our house isn’t “healthy.”

  “Annabelle, are you okay?”

  I don’t answer, and I don’t slow down until I reach Leslie’s room. I stumble back into her bed without further injury, but waves of pain that have nothing to do with my stubbed toe press down on my chest. I love my sister and my brother and my dad and my friends. I love the mountains and the cottonwoods. I can’t imagine—don’t want to imagine—my life without them. I even have trouble imagining my life without seeing Mom every day.

  The next day (or technically later the same day), I have a hard time focusing on the job. Leslie and I are working on the Square Things, which are really in more of a wall than a pile, but it feels pointless. It’s not enough. So what if we get her room clean?

  Leslie isn’t going to be here to enjoy it. Grandma Nora will see to that. And since Mom didn’t have a say in Project Catacombs Extraction, she’ll restock it first chance she gets.

  And even if we do get her room clean and stay here, it’s still not enough. Leslie needs more than that. She needs to not have nightmares. She needs parents who notice that she’s making herself sick. She needs help. This whole family does.

  Leslie pulls an Easy-Bake Oven from the pile. “I remember when Mom bought this for me!” she says, perhaps a little too brightly. “We were at a garage sale. I was too little to use it, but Mom said I could have it when I was older. Do you think I’m old enough now?”

  If anything, she’s getting too old for it. She can use the real kitchen if Mom or I help her (or Grandma Nora, if she drags us to another state), but I don’t mention that. I just say, “Put it in the Keep Pile.”

  “That was a good day,” she says. “The day we bought the Easy-Bake.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I’m not really listening. I am wondering if I am being selfish if I try to stay here with Leslie. Was it wrong of me not to tell Grandma Nora that my sister’s nightmares are making her sick? I don’t want to live with Aunt Jill, but maybe it is better for Leslie. Maybe she should go with Grandma Nora, and I can stay. After all, my room is clean. But then Leslie and I would live a thousand miles apart. And even if I am here to save Mom from becoming a File o’ Death statistic, I might end up legitimately insane from the mess.

  Every possible solution I come up with is worse than the last.

  I am holding a plastic woolly mammoth in my hand, a stray Happy Meal prize from yesterday’s Choking Hazards. The woolly mammoth says three different catchphrases when you press the button on its back. It still works, so I don’t think I should throw it away, but why should I put it in the giveaway pile? Who would want it? (Other than my mom.)

  Leslie is still chattering about her Easy-Bake Oven. She doesn’t have the faintest clue that Grandma Nora is scheming to take her a thousand miles from everything she knows and loves. She wants to know what I think she should make and where do I think she can find the mixes? I don’t answer. I’m frozen, like a computer that’s locked up, staring at the mammoth: Throw away or keep? Throw away or keep? Throw away or keep?

  I think I’ve lost trust in my own judgment.

  “Want some help?”

  The unexpected sound of Chad’s voice startles me. I drop the woolly mammoth. It lands on its back button and says, “Modern architecture. It’ll never last.” We all ignore the mammoth.

  “Chad! What are you doing here?” Leslie skips over to him.

  Chad looks uncomfortable. He jams his hands into his pockets and says, “I thought I’d see if you needed another pair of hands. Just for this afternoon. I have to work tomorrow, but I’m off today.” He takes a couple more steps into the room. “Yech, this place is a mess.”

  “You should have seen it before we started,” says Leslie, skipping in a little circle and further confirming my fear that a cheerleading uniform is in her future.

  “So, can I help?” Chad asks, but he’s not looking at Leslie. He’s looking at me.

  “Do you mean it?” I ask.

  He nods.

  It’s unreal. It’s like my brother actually heard what I said to him yesterday. I told him we wanted him around more, and now he’s here, offering to help.

  Leslie is saying: “Of course you can help! You’re so nice. Come look at the Easy-Bake Oven I found.”

  It might be too little, too late. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to stop Grandma Nora from splitting us apart, but I ask anyway. “Can we use your truck?”

  “What for?” Chad asks.

  “I want to get this stuff out of here before Mom can stop us.”

  He nods. “But how are we going to get it past her?”

  “I have an idea,” I tell them.

  Actually, I have two ideas. But I only share the first idea: We’ll use the window. It’s worked before, so I don’t see any reason why it won’t work again.

  So Chad and I sneak downstairs and do some reconnaissance while Leslie keeps sorting. Mom and Grandma Nora are distracted in the linens room, arguing over a holey pillowcase, so Chad heads out to move the truck alongside the house. He expects me to go back upstairs, but I don’t. I sneak into the den. This is my second idea.

  The room is much larger and strangely hollow without the cans. I go to Dad’s desk and fumble for the power button to the computer. One of Dad’s spare deerstalkers is lying on the edge of his desk. I plop the thinking cap on my head. It can’t hurt, and it just might help. I close my eyes, trying to decide what to write. It has to be perfect.

  The email feels like it takes forever, which is really kind of hilarious, considering the final draft is only three words long.

  Dad, come home.

  It’s scary to ask him to come home. It will hurt so much worse if he knows we need him and he doesn’t come. Before, he was ignoring everyone, throwing one of his royal tantrums and hiding behind it. But if Dad doesn’t come now, then he’s rejecting me. It’s personal.

  But it’s worth the risk. We’re on the brink of a Major Catastrophe, and unless I can make Mom and Dad see that we have to change, we’re going to be split up for good. I just know it. I can feel it in my bones. They’ll end up divorced. Or Grandma Nora will take Leslie, and I’ll get stashed with The Real Estate Queen of Tulsa. Chad will go off to college, and we’ll never all live together again. We’ll lose everything.

  I go back upstairs and watch, unnoticed, while Chad and Leslie work together to hoist whole boxes out the window. They’re laughing, and I try to imprint the moment on my mind. It feels precious—the way that something you’re about to lose forever is special.

  After a minute, I join them and try to live in this moment. I try not to wonder if Dad will get my email. If he’ll come. If he’ll be able to make it back from England before Mrs. Fix-It puts her latest plan into action.

  Box after box.

  Bag after bag.

  We toss it all out the window. Old stuffed animals and used dolls. Pieces of plastic, choking hazards. Empty shoe boxes. It all rains down on Chad’s truck. Scratch that. Most of it rains into Chad’s truck. A couple of things hit the edges and bounce out. One particularly memorable box whacks the side of the truck and rubber baby dolls, mostly naked ones, explode across the lawn.

  “Whoops,” says Leslie, giggling uncontrollably.

  “Eh, don’t worry about it,” Chad says.

  “Don’t you care that we might dent your truck or something?” I ask.

  “It’s already pretty beat-up,” he says, which is the abso
lute truth. A few more dings or scratches will be almost impossible to pick out. “Makes me look tough.” He grins.

  By the time we’ve tossed out everything that’s already been sorted, we’ve made so much noise that I’m shocked Mom hasn’t come to stop us. Even if she didn’t see the airborne toys, I don’t know how she could have missed Leslie chuckling or Chad shouting “Geronimo!” while he threw ancient Care Bears and headless Barbies into the truck bed.

  When we’re done, we write a note on the Magna Doodle and run for the truck. We’re about to drive off when I pat my back pocket.

  “Wait!” I say. “I forgot my phone.”

  “Seriously?” Chad asks.

  “Seriously. You don’t even want to know what happened the last time I forgot to check my phone.”

  Leslie starts to say, “I’m sor—” I don’t let her finish.

  “Hey,” I say, “someone told me that it’s stupid to apologize for things that aren’t your fault.”

  Chad gives his head a tiny shake. “If you have to have it, hurry up. I want to get out of here without a fight.”

  I sprint for the house. He’s right. We should hurry. If Mom finds out that we’re getting rid of even more stuff without her permission … it’s not gonna be pretty.

  I’m watching my feet so I won’t fall on the stairs, which means I don’t see Mom until I literally bump into her. She’s standing outside Leslie’s closed door, reading the Magna Doodle. Her hands are balled into fists. She catches herself on Leslie’s doorframe. I bounce off her, landing on my rear end.

  “You’re taking a load from Leslie’s room into town?” she asks. She hasn’t opened the door to see what has been taken yet.

  I nod. This is it. We’re in for a big scene. She’ll have a meltdown. Grandma Nora will hear, and Leslie and I will be on a plane for Oklahoma by dinnertime. I just had to have my phone.