“Aunt Lala is making her reservations to go home as we speak,” says Eric. “Uncle Fred called her cell phone while we were in the car. Our cousin Marci dyed her hair purple and is threatening to get a tattoo.”
“Let's face it Eric, Louise wasn't exactly a huge help to begin with. When she's not at school or cheerleading, Louise is off with her friends. She's always despised baby-sitting. You know that. And … and …”
“And what?” asks Eric.
Only his frustration at this recent turn of household events keeps me from saying it—that maybe it's better, at least for her. And that if Louise were a boy we might not even be having this discussion: Would a brother be expected to completely change his life in order to help care for younger siblings?
“Dad would kill her if he were here.” Eric states the obvious. “Living with some guy and she's not even sixteen.”
“Three more weeks,” I say. “Besides, from the conversations I've overheard it's safe to say that Brandt's more interested in string theory than sex.”
“Well, Mom is going to have a fit about this when she's better, and I only hope she doesn't blame us,” continues Eric. “Don't say anything when you go to visit her!”
“I won't. But I'd better leave now if you're going to catch the bus at four. I mean, Aunt Lala …” I roll my eyes to indicate that she's not exactly able to keep track of the entire brood on her own. And we don't even bother to mention big gruff Uncle Lenny in the context of child care. He drinks three beers with every meal, which is apparently nothing, because according to Uncle Lenny, every sailor in Admiral Nelson's navy was issued eight pints of beer a day by law. The moment Uncle Lenny drains a can he crushes it in his hand like a Dixie cup, shouts, “Tide's gone out!,” and pops open another. Meantime he tells the kids to eat their broccoli because “it will help to grow hair on their chests like stalks of rhubarb.” In fact, with that wild white mane and walrus whiskers I'm surprised they didn't try to keep him at Dalewood. Retired seaman or local madman? A close call on the basis of looks alone. And when he starts talking about cooking up some snake and pygmy pie for lunch, it's anybody's guess.
“I'll be back in time to take you to the bus station.” I grab my coat and keys. Darn it, I was hoping Louise could stay with the kids this afternoon so I could pick up my car at school. There are probably a hundred parking tickets stacked under the windshield wiper by now. Maybe Bernard and I can make a quick trip to get it over the weekend.
“Is there anything to eat?” asks Eric. He's bulked up even more during his second year on the football team, if that's possible, and eats four huge meals a day.
“Bernard and the church ladies left lots of food in the refrigerator.”
He grunts in acknowledgment of this statement. And suddenly I feel as if we're some old married couple complaining about the kids and wondering what's for lunch.
TWENTY-THREE
IT'S ONE OF THOSE BRILLIANTLY SUNNY WINTER AFTERNOONS, THE kind where people oftentimes can't make out the color of the traffic lights, and so you have to be extra careful at intersections, especially since they're already banked with four feet of snow. Everything glistens as the snow begins to melt, and when the temperature drops tonight the roads and sidewalks will turn to a sheet of ice. No doubt tomorrow will be a perfect day for breaking hips, just like the first big storm always means Heart Attack City as overzealous retirees head outside with their shovels.
I don't know if it's the bright white landscape or because it's the first time in days I'm completely alone that the ride has such a surreal feeling. Or if it's the fact that I'm going to visit my mother in a mental hospital for the first time. Last I saw her she was taking down the Christmas decorations and fretting that the tree had become so dry it would set the house on fire.
The grounds at Dalewood are attractively landscaped around some very old oak and maple trees with plenty of benches, walkways, and even a duck pond. The main structure is dark gray stone with small windows, rather than the red or white brick of a modern hospital, and unfortunately on a dreary day this serves to give the place more than the suggestion of being a haunted house. In fact, you could go so far as to say that in a thunderstorm it wouldn't exactly be ruled out as a location for shooting Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights.
A young man at a school-style desk signs me in, hands me a visitor's pass, and points in the direction of room 232. The corridors are painted an institutional pale green and chrome bars line the walls. The old building has some nice touches, like wood molding along the ceilings and cornice pieces. Pleasant paintings are arranged on the walls, with little gold plaques indicating that the pieces were a donation from someone, which is clearly not your typical doctor's office crap.
Several people shuffle down the hall wearing their own bathrobes. A young woman in a white blouse, white pants, and white clogs pushes a man in a wheelchair. None of the doors are closed, and so I can hear televisions inside the rooms. The place smells like a combination of disinfectant and your grandmother's parlor on a rainy day.
Before reaching Mom's room I hear the chirpy young voice of Teddy. From outside the door I can see them sitting side by side on the edge of Mom's bed going through a stack of photos. “That's Lillian's christening party, do you remember, you made peanut butter cookies with M&M's in them? And when it started to rain we had to move everything into the garage.”
“Hi, guys!” When I go around the side of the bed to kiss Mom hello, I'm startled to find her normally cheerful face is practically vacant. The bright brown eyes that always gave off a warm light have turned melancholy, while her head is bent forward slightly and her shoulders are drawn together as if she's trying not to be noticed.
“Hi, Hallie,” says Teddy, the spokesperson for the duo. “We're looking at some photos from Lillian's christening. We just finished the ones of you and Craig going to the prom. You look pretty funny in a dress.”
Meantime Mom is staring straight ahead, not at the photos but not out the window either. She's expressionless. Or perhaps exhausted from grief.
“So Mom … how are you?” I ask.
Only Teddy quickly shoots me a look as if I've used the wrong fork at a White House dinner party.
Mom doesn't respond, or even look up, and so I don't know what difference it makes.
Teddy points to another photograph. “This is Christmas last year and I got a new bike.”
I'm so stunned by what's happening that I just stand there like a patient myself and watch the photo session continue. Eric hadn't prepared me for this! Mom is completely listless. She doesn't talk or move. How does she eat? What does she do all day? Where did she go?
And what about Teddy? He's perfectly fine sitting here for hours talking to a mute woman in her robe and slippers? Teddy was definitely a strange twelve-year-old, no doubt about it. He'd ask a teacher or a person at church his or her age and then say, “Do you ever wonder if the happiest time in your life has already passed?” or “Do you ever think about how long you'll live?” Teddy hardly uttered a word until he was eight years old, and ever since then it's only been the big questions.
A part of me feels like shaking her out of this trance. When I was in sociology class last semester we took personality tests and I came out as a full-blown “activist.” This basically means that when I'm upset, excited, or worried, I have to do something.
Suddenly I feel as if I'm going to lose it. “Teddy, we need to go because Eric has to catch the bus.”
“Why don't you just pick me up after dinner?” Teddy calmly asks.
“Because Louise,” whoops, I stop myself before letting that cat out of the bag, though I don't even know if Mom understands anything we're saying. “Because it's too complicated with all the kids. Come on. Get your coat.”
Teddy places the stack of photos on Mom's bedside table next to a little maroon-covered copy of the New Testament. “ ’Bye, Mom,” he says as he leans over and kisses her cheek. “Tomorrow is Saturday and so I'll be able to stay longer.”
I follow Teddy's example by bending over and kissing Mom on her forehead. As I do it I feel like bursting into tears and so quickly turn and head for the door.
We're silent on the way home. Teddy stares out the passenger-side window, lost in his thoughts. I'm wrapped up in mine. Mom is I don't know where. Sorrow is a solitary road.
TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN WE RETURN HOME I FIND OUT THAT AUNT LALA HAS BEEN able to get a seat on the overnight flight to London from New York. I'll take her to the airport after dropping Eric at the bus station. The next hour is a whirlwind of Eric's draining the furnace in the basement and my assembling some dinner for the kids. Organizing one simple meal in this house is like planning an invasion. How my mother managed three every day is just short of a miracle.
It isn't until Aunt Lala's suitcases and Eric's backpack are in the hall that I realize Uncle Lenny's battered canvas sea bag is not among them. I just assumed he'd be leaving, too. Pulling Eric into the front hall closet, which has become the winter conference center, I say, “You can't leave me here alone with him.”
“C'mon, Hallie, he's a harmless old guy,” says Eric. “Okay, so he's a little rough around the edges. But he's a relative.”
“Eric, we hardly know anything about him,” I say. “He could be wanted for murder in six states! Last night at dinner Uncle Lenny actually admitted that he was forced to leave the country back in the 1980s!”
“You weren't listening—he incorporated his charter fishing company in the Bahamas because the U.S. government was killing small businesses with taxes and regulations.”
“Well, find out when he's leaving,” I say.
“Hallie, that's rude,” says Eric. “Now come on or I'm going to miss the bus and Aunt Lala is going to be late for her flight. Are you sure it's okay to leave Teddy in charge here for a while?”
“Yeah, the twins are down,” I say. “We'll put Lillian in the car seat.” The way I figure it, any sibling is better than Louise, who was the anti-baby-sitter. For all she cared the kids could turn on every appliance in the kitchen and play restaurant.
As we exit the closet Aunt Lala appears with her coat over her arm. “Hallie, one of the boys is a bit fussy.” She's been too polite to mention that I lost the ribbon on Roddy's ankle and there's no way to tell which twin is which, so we've been circumnavigating the identity issue by saying “one of the boys.”
Ugh. Why can't they get on the same schedule? Aside from when they wake up in concert every morning, one is always dropping off just as the other is coming to life.
“I took the liberty of calling the airport taxi service and they've agreed to drop Eric at the bus station.”
Eric and I both panic at the word taxi, much the way Dad used to shudder at the words field trip. Visions of dollar bills dance before our eyes.
“Don't worry,” she says and smiles. “It's my treat. And I've left some money on the kitchen table to tide you over until the insurance check arrives.”
“Thanks so much, Aunt Lala,” says Eric. “That's very generous of you.” Pride is put aside. Obviously we're in no position to be turning down assistance from a relative.
“I wish it were more,” she says. “Maybe one of these days I'll win the lottery.” Aunt Lala is a fanatical player of lotteries and bingo. Cappy says that lotteries are a tax on people who are bad at math and bingo is a Native American word that directly translates to: She who pays eighty dollars for a lamp worth twelve.
The taxi arrives and we all hug each other good-bye, too exhausted for tears. Uncle Lenny shakes hands with Eric while I look at my brother in a way that clearly states, “If we're all killed and chopped up for shark bait it's your fault.”
TWENTY-FIVE
AFTER DINNER I START PUTTING THE KIDS TO BED, PATROLLING the house room by room and issuing threats like a prison warden. Without Eric around it takes longer to settle things down at night. Previously we could divide and conquer. The other problem is that a few of them are starting to sense that I might not have the control vested in me by sheer size, like Eric, or age, like Bernard. If this were the jungle, they would be the team of smaller but wily animals sizing up their chances of overpowering the larger but single elephant.
Just to be safe, I haul the twins back upstairs so Uncle Lenny doesn't get any ideas about absconding with them during the night. I'll definitely catch hell from everyone if my little brothers end up as cabin boys on a pirate ship in the South Seas. With Louise gone, I can move back into my old room upstairs, leaving an entire floor between us and Captain Ahab.
Exhausted, I finally crawl under the covers and find myself dreading the fact that tomorrow is Saturday. This is quite a contrast to the old days, or at least to a month ago, when the weekend is what I lived for, and Mom was a superhero able to heap dirty laundry in a single mound.
In the bed across from me nine-year-old Darlene is a slight figure with flame-red hair among a heap of stuffed animals, mostly of the feline variety. After the light is out a tiny voice trembles in the darkness, “Hallie … are Mommy and Daddy coming back?”
Obviously I'm not the only one operating in a hurricane of confusion. It would be easier to say that she'll see Dad again in heaven, or that he's watching out for us from up there. Meantime the doctors don't even know what the prognosis is for Mom, other than to say that they're optimistic and we need to give it some time. But when pressed for the definition of “time”—a week, a month, a year—Eric says they simply shrug and talk about the importance of quiet, good care, and hope.
“Daddy isn't coming back, sweetie,” I say, unable to make myself go with the heaven story. “But he loved us a lot and now he's in our thoughts and memories, and that's the important thing.”
There's a brief silence before I hear an ominous series of bass notes coming from the hallway.
“Ahoy there, Hallie, are you awake?”
Oh my God! He's been waiting for Eric to leave and now begins the murderous rampage. I think if there are any weapons in the room, but all that comes to mind is Darlene's baton next to the dresser. While lunging for the baton in the darkness I trip over a step stool and land flat on the floor.
The overhead light goes on, and Uncle Lenny's large figure blocks the doorway. He's wearing an old coast guard sweatshirt and worn white deck pants. “I'm afraid we're taking on water,” he reports.
“Huh?” I shake my head in an attempt to recover from having almost knocked myself out.
“Downstairs,” Uncle Lenny continues without remarking on the fact that I'm lying prostrate on the floor with a step stool for a pillow. “A pipe burst and the basement is flooding.”
“Oh no!” I manage to get up and limp after Uncle Lenny. Sure enough, there's an inch of water covering the basement floor with alphabet blocks and Lincoln logs floating around like little boats.
“What do we do?”
“I've already shut off the water,” he reports. “We just have to call the plumber in the morning. If you have a pump I can clean this mess up pretty easily.”
“A pump? No, I don't think we do.”
Uncle Lenny surveys the basement. “Not a problem. There's just cement. It'll drain.”
“So there's no water?” I ask. With ten people in the house there's normally a certain amount of toilet flushing during the night.
“Plenty of snow outside,” says Uncle Lenny. “I'll fill a few buckets and put them in the bathrooms. Then you just pour in water to refill the tank.”
“Thanks, Uncle Lenny,” I say. “You're a lifesaver.”
He shrugs off this praise as if a basement flood is pretty low on his list of emergencies. “I'll collect some of these toys so they don't clog the drains. Just show me the mop and buckets and get back to bed. Morning comes fast around here.”
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“If you have some buckets—”
“No, after that.”
“Morning comes fast around here.” Uncle Lenny chuckles. “It's what our mother always said
right before we went to sleep.”
“It's what my dad used to say as he shooed us off to bed.”
“He comes by it honestly,” says Uncle Lenny.
Suddenly Uncle Lenny doesn't seem quite so sinister. In fact, he's more like a savior.
After I climb back between the sheets it's only a minute before I see Darlene slip out of her bed and stand next to mine. Wordlessly I lift the covers, and she slides in next to me.
“Hallie, do you know what would make everything a lot better?” she speaks softly in the dark.
“Yeah. If we had a plumber in the family,” I say. How much is fixing the pipes going to cost? I wonder.
“No, really?” says Darlene.
“What would make everything a lot better?” I hug her tight, expecting to hear that if Mom and Dad were home and life was back to the way it used to be.
“If we had a kitten,” she says.
Mom and Dad had a strict no-pets policy, reasoning that we didn't need any more mouths to feed, someone was probably allergic, and the furniture would be ruined. Though it's not as if ten kids haven't destroyed their fair share of furniture without assistance from a pet.
“Yes, I suppose that would make things a lot better,” I agree.
“Really?” says Darlene, unable to believe where this might be leading after her five-year campaign to get a cat.
“Really. Now go to sleep,” I whisper close so that my breath tickles her ear and she squirms and giggles. “Morning comes fast around here.”
TWENTRY-SIX
ON SATURDAY I RISE TO THE USUAL CACOPHONY OF THE TWINS howling in stereo. It's almost eight o'clock and from the sound of things, the rest of the household is already wide awake. There's shouting in the hallway, the garage door goes up, the basement door slams shut—every conceivable noise except the shower running. Which reminds me, I have to call the plumber.
The kids will be starving for breakfast. I stumble into the kitchen to get bottles for the twins. Uncle Lenny, outfitted in his admiral's cap, a blue coast guard polo shirt, white pants, and well-worn deck shoes, looks like the skipper in Gilligans Island. He sits at the kitchen table leaning over a map and appears to be preparing to take over the town as he draws lines from one dot to the next.
The Big Shuffle Page 9