Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “It was awful.” Mom toys with the cross necklace dangling from her veiny neck and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that always accompanies her insults. “But we appreciated the effort, didn’t we, Noelle?”

  “A for effort. F for making us eat frozen pizza for dinner that night because all the grocery stores were closed.” Noelle kicks me under the table.

  Funny how we’ve taken on these roles over the years. We protect each other. When one’s the target of my parents’ deflected frustration, the other steps up with a funny quip or distracting story.

  It works like a charm . . . most of the time.

  “How’s the old ticker?” Noelle asks my father.

  He places a fist across the left side of his chest and knocks twice. “As good as new.”

  “Conrad,” Mom yell-whispers. “Don’t do that. Your pacemaker.” She turns to the two of us. “And he’s lying. He’s not as good as new, he’s got a long road to recovery. Any minute of any hour, he could have another episode.”

  Her chin wrinkles for a fraction of a second and then she straightens her shoulders.

  “I’m not ready to be a widow yet.” Her hand flies to his. To anyone else, this would seem like a tender moment.

  We know better.

  Susan Forrester doesn’t want to be a widow because then she’d have no one to boss around, and she’d spend the rest of her years on this earth resenting him for selfishly leaving her all alone to handle the business and all the less pleasant and tedious parts of life, like paying car insurance and renewing their country club membership.

  Our server returns. “Are we ready to place our order yet?”

  She says “our” like she’s one of us. Like we’re just one big happy family. Conrad. Susan. Noelle. Crew. And the mousy little pipsqueak who already looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

  It’s going to happen.

  By the time we finish this lunch at this quaint little Italian bistro, this little lady is going to be bawling her eyes out into the apron of some sous chef in the back kitchen who doesn’t have time to care.

  We go around the table, my father, Noelle and myself placing simple orders. My mother, however, orders the most complicated dish on the menu and requests it sans olives, tomatoes, mushrooms, and capers. My father tells her she may as well order spaghetti marinara at this point, and they argue while Noelle and I sneak a peek at our phones under the white linen tablecloth.

  No text from Calypso. So that’s good.

  I’d much rather be with her and Emme.

  And at some point, I need to personally apologize to Emme for her grandparents. Even if she doesn’t understand it yet, I feel like I need to put it out there.

  “I’m sorry your grandparents suck, Emme.”

  I smirk to myself.

  It’s a shame. She’ll never have the doting kind who spoil her rotten and smother her in kisses. Mine were pretty great. Guess we can’t all be that lucky.

  Two Thanksgivings ago, my cousin brought her baby over. My mother flounced around like she was excited to be a “great-aunt.” She made a big fuss over the chubby-cheeked baby and carried her on her hip from room to room as guests arrived.

  As soon as the timer went off on the oven, she shoved the baby into her brother’s arms. The first thing she did was run a hand down her cashmere sweater, examining each pearl button and picking off any crumbs or hints of drool. Her mouth was downturned, as if she’d been holding a smelling, shedding alley cat and not a little boy.

  She didn’t give that kid another look the rest of the day.

  My mother’s kindness and excitement are only ever for watchful eyes. Never genuine. Never without an agenda.

  “We need to discuss Easter.” Mom reaches for her glass of water, the one she hasn’t touched since the server brought her a fresh one. She closes one eye and squints into the top of the glass, only to take a sip when she’s absolutely positive there are no fucking lemon seeds. “Your father and I have decided we should spend a long weekend in Lake Tahoe at the lake house. It’ll be relaxing and good for his heart. You’re both required to be there.”

  Required.

  I hate that fucking word with a passion.

  It denotes a lack of choice.

  She doesn’t need to say required. I’d go there anyway. Not because I want to, but because I know Noelle will, and someone needs to be there to save her from my mother’s incessant henpecking.

  “I’ll have to check my schedule,” I say.

  Noelle shoots me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen in our twenty-four years together on this earth. Ever since my father’s heart started breaking down on him, she’s been glued to his side. Every family function, every spare minute, she’s calling him, texting him, rushing from work to sit in the waiting room until he gets out of surgery.

  She’s a tough broad, and I can say that because she’s my sister, but I’m one hundred percent positive she’s nothing but fluffy marshmallow on the inside. The hard exterior only functions to protect that.

  “Do you remember how to get to the lake house?” Dad peers down his nose at the silverware, flipping it back and forth before lifting it to inspect for dried food remnants. “It’s been a while.”

  “Of course,” Noelle says. “It was our favorite vacation spot growing up.”

  She’s lying.

  She says that to make my father feel better. It was his favorite spot. We dreaded it. Once a month, from eighth grade until our senior year, we had to make the drive to Lake Tahoe, to the expansive cabin equipped with everything teenagers might possibly need to have a good time . . .

  Like fishing poles.

  Tackle boxes.

  Campfire rings.

  Butterfly nets.

  Binoculars.

  And bugs.

  My father liked that we took a break from technology once a month. Said it recharged us. My mother liked the fact that we were temporarily cut off from outside influences of the friend variety. She never liked a single acquaintance of ours she met. Still doesn’t.

  “We’ll be there,” Noelle says. “I’ll ride with Crew and we’ll meet you there.”

  “Three-day weekend.” Mom lifts a finger in the air. “We’re making it a three-day weekend. Arrive Thursday night and stay until Sunday.”

  Dad pretends to read a drink menu. We all know he doesn’t drink. His entire Promise Makers empire would crumble if anyone caught him enjoying so much as a wine spritzer.

  “Can’t wait,” I lie.

  T minus four weeks until my life implodes in my hands for the second time.

  ***

  “Thanks again for watching Emme.” I scoop my daughter from Calypso’s arms. I waited hours for this. Lunch with my parents only solidified the fact that I’d much rather hang out with a toothless, drooling, dirty-diaper smelling mini human than Conrad and Susan any day of the week.

  “Any time.” Calypso runs her hand along Emme’s back and steps away. She won’t make eye contact with me, and her hands can’t decide what they want to do. She touches her face, then her hair, then her hip. She tugs at her shirt before ambling toward a stack of mail at her kitchen able and rifling through it.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  Calypso drops the mail and rests her palms at the small of her back. Her lips spread wide, but her smile is forced.

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  I don’t believe her. I’ve been playing poker too long, and I’m well fucking aware that people tend to wear their thoughts on their outsides more than they realize.

  “No, something’s up. I can tell.”

  I bounce Emme in my arms. The constant movement is soothing and silences my mind as I try and get a read on her.

  Calypso’s face scrunches as she stacks books. It takes me a few seconds to see she’s putting them in alphabetical order. Gone is my easy, breezy Calypso. I want to ask if she’s on something, but I don’t want to offend her.

  “You can talk to me,” I say. “You know, if you ever n
eed to.”

  She nibbles the inside of her lip. I wonder how raw and red it is. I bet she’s been doing it most of the afternoon, judging by how high-strung she is.

  “Presley called earlier. There’s a situation at the store. I need to go in. Been trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with it.” Her speech is choppy. But it makes sense. Her store is her life.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Loose, sandy waves fall in her face as she shakes her head and insults me with another phony smile.

  “Okay . . .” I slip Emme’s diaper bag over my shoulder and show myself out.

  Noelle is still at my apartment when we return.

  “Holy shit, Crew. What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” She’s been dying to have this conversation all afternoon. And we kind of already did. Silently. We don’t need to talk to know we’re on the same page.

  “I don’t know, Noelle.” I spit my words. “Obviously haven’t thought that far yet.”

  “You’re lucky Calypso saved your ass. Seriously.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  She takes Emme from my arms and squeezes her. “I hate that Mom and Dad aren’t going to love her as much as we already do.”

  “Do we really need to beat a dead horse, Noelle? I fucking get it. You don’t need to remind me over and over and over.”

  Heat creeps from my neck to my ears, and my fists clench.

  “Jesus, Crew. Don’t take it out on me.”

  “You sound like a God-damned broken record. It’s annoying as hell.”

  Noelle covers Emme’s ears. “Baby ears.”

  I roll my eyes. Sometimes I can’t take it when Noelle switches gears like that. One minute she’s grating on my last nerve; the next minute she thinks she’s a fucking stand-up comic.

  “I’ll help you figure something out,” she says.

  “It’s not your problem.” My words are a low mutter.

  “Oh, hey, first you should do that DNA test thing,” she says. “Just to be sure. No sense in giving dad a heart attack if she’s not yours. I mean, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure she’s yours, but you need to know for sure.”

  “Already handled it,” I say.

  Her brows lift. “Wow, you’re on top of something that isn’t a fake-breasted bimbo for once?”

  The other day I took Emme with me to check on a project. I did the swab in my truck and shipped it off ten minutes later after swinging by the post office. Should have results in four weeks or less.

  Just in time for Easter.

  “God,” she says. “What if Dad has a heart attack at the lake house and we’re twenty minutes from the nearest hospital?”

  “Dad’s not going to die.”

  Noelle huffs. “Don’t be so naïve. You don’t work in a hospital. You don’t see what I see. Life and death is very real, Crew. We can’t all live in the moment and walk around all invincible.”

  “Maybe we should. Better than living in a constant state of doom and gloom.”

  Her eyes flutter to the back of her head.

  “If Dad’s doctors say they don’t want him around stress, we have to respect that,” she says.

  “How do we know his doctors are saying this? What if it’s just another way for Mom to control us? Keep us walking a straight line so we don’t do anything to disappoint him since his poor heart couldn’t take the stress?” I say that last bit the way my mother would, mimicking her haughty tone and nasally voice.

  Noelle laughs . . .

  . . . until a knock at the door cuts her off mid-chuckle.

  Our eyes meet, our expressions sobering in tandem.

  “Maybe it’s Calypso? Maybe she forgot something?” Noelle says.

  I shake my head. She wouldn’t forget something. Emme went to her place today. Nothing of Calypso’s would be over here.

  I peek through the peephole, heart galloping in my chest.

  “Who is it?” Noelle whispers.

  “Calypso.”

  I yank the door open. “Hey.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. For a split second I think she’s come to apologize for her erratic behavior earlier. “I can’t find my keys. I think I might have accidentally put them in Emme’s diaper bag. Can I check?”

  I widen the door and usher her in. She falls to her knees and practically empties out the contents of the bag on the floor. Noelle and I exchange looks. Even Noelle notices something’s off.

  “Hello, hello!” Two little words suck all the air from the room and stop my heart from beating altogether as my mother stands in the open doorway.

  Her faux smile fades in slow motion as her eyes dart toward Emme and then to Calypso and back to me.

  “I . . . I can’t find my sunglasses. I believe I left them here?” She steps past me and between Calypso and a coffee table, keeping her arms squeezed in tight as if she’s afraid to touch anything in the process. Anything being Calypso.

  I can imagine the ugly thoughts going through my mother’s head. The hippie girl in the flowing dress with the unkempt waves and the strong scent of lavender wafting around her is the last kind of person my mother would want associating with her pride and joy, Ivy league-educated offspring.

  Calypso pulls a set of keys from the diaper bag. “Found them.”

  She rises, meeting my mother’s curious stare.

  “And who might you be?” Mom extends her hand toward Calypso, though it’s almost at an angle, as if she expects Calypso to kiss it. “Forgive my son for not introducing me. He can be rather rude at times. Too much time in the city, not enough time back home, I suppose. Susan Forrester. How do you do?”

  “Good, thank you.”

  My mother’s probably having an inner conniption fit because Calypso didn’t say “well” instead of “good.”

  “I’m Calypso,” she adds, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  My mother’s second inner conniption fit is happening right now. Calypso didn’t share a last name, which isn’t a proper introduction in my mother’s book. I see that flash of dark in her grey eyes and the small quiver in her upper lip as she summons all her strength to keep from frowning.

  “This must be your baby, yes?” Mom glances at Emme.

  Noelle’s face washes pale. I’ve never seen her this speechless before. Calypso shoots me a look.

  “Of course,” Calypso, as high-strung as she is, has the wherewithal to think on her feet. She’s a goddamned saint, and I could fucking kiss her right now. “I live next door. I was just stopping by to say hi. Emme and I were on our way out, and I saw Crew’s door was open. This is a really friendly little complex. He’s a great neighbor. Very courteous and respectful.”

  Now she’s speaking Susan Forrester’s language.

  “Oh.” Mom says, her voice lilting. She turns to me, brows raised. “Very good to hear.”

  “Are those your sunglasses on the kitchen island?” Noelle points across the room. “The black Chanels?”

  “Goodness, yes.” Mom throws her hands in the air and claps them lightly against her thighs. “There they are. I knew I left them here.”

  She glides across the room and slips them over the bridge of her nose.

  “All right. I should go. It’s not good to keep your father waiting out there in the car for too long. It’s bad for his circulation.” She gives a polite, yet distant wave and takes one last, discerning look at Emme. On her way out, I watch her give Calypso a final look up and down and struggle to keep her smile from morphing into a sneer.

  I lock the door behind her.

  “Holy fuck, that was close.” Noelle’s jaw hangs open. “Calypso, you didn’t have to do that, but thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” she says, swatting her hand. She steps toward the window overlooking the parking lot and watches for my mother to climb into her Escalade. “Otherwise, this afternoon would’ve been for nothing.”

  I’m grateful for Calypso’s quick thinking, but I can’t
stop thinking about how fucking pissed my mother’s going to be when I come clean about Emme. She fucking hates being lied to. She’s going to lose it.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Crew.” Sometimes I swear Noelle can read my mind.

  “Oh. I hope I didn’t get you into more trouble,” Calypso says.

  “Nah, it’s okay.” I hook my hands on my hips and stare off, lost in thought. I could never be upset at her for coming to my rescue, and in the end, it’s going to be one hell of a mess to clean up regardless.

  “Your parents are gone now.” Calypso points toward the parking lot. “I’m going to head out. See you around?”

  See you around?

  I was balls deep inside her last night, and she leaves me with my own fucking line? See you around? That’s what you say to someone when you have no intention of seeing them again, but you don’t want to sound like a dick.

  “Yeah,” I say. “See you around.”

  TWENTY

  Calypso

  “Why don’t you go hide in your office and work on finishing that novel you’ve been writing for the last year, hmm?” Bryson watches me wash and dry a set of wine goblets for the third time. “You’re encroaching.”

  “I own this place.” Kind of. Not really. Not for much longer. “I can encroach anywhere I want.”

  Bryson rolls his eyes. “How many times are you going to wash those? They’re sparkling, sweetheart. I can see my reflection in each and every one of them.”

  I grab an open bottle and pour a little bit of red into one of the clean glasses, down it in seconds, and dunk the glass back into the basin of soapy water.

  “Girl, Presley said you sounded off earlier, but she didn’t tell me you were this bad.” Bryson pushes his lips out and cocks his head. “That crazy dude from that cult got you all worked up, honey, and I don’t like it.”

  “Nerves, Bryson. It’s just nerves.”

  I’ve been shaking life a leaf all afternoon. I hate that Mathias does this to me. And I don’t even want to be back with him. He could get down on one knee, tell me he made the biggest mistake of his life and that he never stopped loving me, and in the end, I’d dig my heels into the floor of my little bookstore and tell him to hit the road.