Last Family Standing

by Jennifer AlLee

  He steps forward. “That’s okay. She’s not the one I’m interested in.”

  Not only is this wildly inappropriate, it’s being documented on film. I’ve got to put an end to it. “Please, this isn’t a good time. I’ll call you later. When I can talk.” When I’m wearing clothes.

  He’s about to say something, probably something smooth and charming to coerce his way into my house, when a vehicle pulls up at the sidewalk. The white van has all kinds of weird equipment on its roof, including what looks like a satellite dish. If that doesn’t tell me enough, the words My News 3 painted on the side give it away.

  The man on my porch doesn’t look surprised. “You should probably let me in now.”

  “Look, Mr. Wolff, I—”

  “Rick.”

  “Fine. Rick. I can’t do this now.”

  Something close to sympathy changes those facial features again. “Take my word for it, Monica. It will be much better if you let me in now. That news crew isn’t going anywhere until they get a story.”

  “And how will talking to you take care of them?”

  “Because after you and I talk and come to an agreement, I’ll come back out here and give them a statement.”

  There’s no denying I want to avoid speaking to the press. But there’s something even more important at stake. “Will you tell me about my daughter?”

  He takes another step closer. “You can ask me anything you want.”

  “And you’ll answer me?”

  “You can ask me anything you want,” he repeats, with a grin that says he may or may not answer.

  But there’s only one way to find out.

  “Okay. You can come in.” I point at the cameraman, whose face I still haven’t seen. “But he stays outside.”

  Rick shakes his head. “Sorry. Where I go, he goes. If you don’t sign a release, we can’t use the footage, but for now, he shoots everything.”

  I’d like to shoot something. Over his shoulder, I see the news van doors open and people start to pour out. Considering the postage-stamp-size of my front yard—aka, rock garden—there’s no time to argue. “All right.”

  Once Rick and the bearer of the one-eyed monster are inside, I shut the door and lock the deadbolt with a forceful twist. Toenails click on the tile behind me, and Ranger lopes in, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth, greeting our visitors with the closest thing a dog has to a smile.

  The camera is trained on Rick as he hunkers down and becomes my dog’s new best friend. This is as good a time as any to make myself decent.

  “I’m going upstairs to get dressed. The living room is that way.” I point. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Halfway up the stairs I stop, turn, and head back down, leaning over the rail to yell at them. “But not too comfortable. Don’t dig around in my medicine cabinet or anything like that.”

  Back up I go, then stop, come back down again. “Not that there’s anything I don’t want you to see in there.”

  I give it one more try: up, stop, come back down. “Or anything you shouldn’t see. It’s just rude.”

  By this time, Rick is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, and the camera is bouncing up and down on the other guy’s shoulder, which reminds me he’s recording every asinine thing I say. Clamping my lips together, I trudge up the stairs in silence. I haven’t even agreed to be on their silly show yet, and already my life is a circus.

  Once in my room, I go straight to my dresser, not daring to look in the mirror hanging above it to see how truly hideous I look. Instead, I open the top drawer, rummage underneath my underwear, and pull out a grainy, black and white sonogram photo. For all these years, it’s been the only memento I have of my child. That and my stretch marks are the only proof I have that I gave birth to another human being.

  Running my fingertips lightly across the surface, I take a deep breath. She is the reason I’m doing this. If I want to meet my daughter, I have to play along.

  And I want to meet her more than anything else in the world.

  5

  I’m tellin’ ya, Rick, we should have done it. If nothing else, it’d be hilarious.”

  I can hear the two men talking as I make my way down from my room. It sounds like they accepted my invitation to wait in the living room. Since you can’t see the staircase from there, I stop. It’s not eavesdropping, not really. More like fact-gathering. And from what I understand, I’m going to have to get used to this kind of low-class, underhanded behavior if I want to survive on that TV show of theirs.

  “I’ve never gone through anyone’s medicine cabinet, and I’m not about to start now.” Rick’s voice is amused, but there’s an undertone of seriousness. “The woman’s spooked enough. I don’t want to give her any extra reasons to back out.”

  “You really think she’ll do it?”

  Silence. Is Rick whispering his response? Or is he thinking about it? Without moving my feet, I lean forward, ears straining to hear.

  “I think she’s too curious not to.” His voice is much closer now. If I hadn’t been white-knuckling the banister, the boom of it would have sent me tumbling down the stairs. He appears at the landing and grins up at me. “What do you think?”

  I think this man knows how to handle people. If I’m not careful, he’ll have me agreeing to all manner of ridiculous things, and then thanking him for the opportunity. Summoning the bits and pieces of my shredded dignity, I walk calmly past him. “Would either of you like coffee?”

  His companion is behind him, back to being the strong, silent, camera-bearing type. Not knowing his name is driving me nuts. “What’s your name?”

  “Bruce.” Rick answers for him.

  I turn to Rick. “Is Bruce mute?”

  From behind the camera comes a muttered “Hardly.”

  Rick laughs. “No, Bruce has quite a vocabulary. It just works better if I do the talking. And no.”

  “No?”

  “No. To the coffee. But thank you.” He motions toward the living room then leads the way in, as if he’s the homeowner and I’m the visitor. Before I turn around to follow, I catch the hint of a smirk from Bruce.

  Narrowing my eyes, I wag an accusing finger at him. “Careful. I’m watching you.” His smirk evolves into a grin, but he remains mum.

  In the living room, Rick indicates that I should sit on the couch. Then, instead of sitting in the adjacent chair, he sits beside me, angling in my direction so our knees almost touch. His proximity is a little unsettling, until Bruce squats down across from us and I realize the positioning is just so we’re both in frame.

  “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions,” Rick says.

  “When do I meet my daughter?”

  “That depends on you. Are you ready to be on the show?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  I take great pleasure in the fact that he didn’t expect that answer. “I’m far from ready. But if I don’t go on the show, I don’t meet Jessica, do I?”

  His expression softens. I’m pretty sure he feels sorry for the spot I’m in, even though he’s the master puppeteer manipulating the strings.

  “No, you don’t. At least, not now. That isn’t to say you two won’t connect later some other way.” When I don’t answer right away, he keeps talking. “I’m sure this isn’t the way you’d hoped to meet her, but if you think about it, it’s really a great thing. Jessica wants to meet you.”

  “But why? What if the only reason is so she can be on television?”

  “That’s a possibility. And after thirty days on the island, you’ll either hate each other or create a bond like you’ve never imagined. Last Family changes you.”

  The weight of his words presses down on my already hunched shoulders. “For better or worse?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Up to me. Once again, I will make a decision that affects not only me, but my daughter, and any number of people who are now touched by the familial fingers that connect us. It’s too much
.

  I look down at the floor, focusing on the variegated pattern of greens and browns in the Berber carpet. If I stare long and hard enough, I can block out everything: Bruce, Rick, the news van outside, the daughter I’m only barely acquainted with, the fact that I still haven’t had my morning coffee. . . . Maybe, if I focus on the simple, normal, ever-present carpet, I can make it all disappear.

  “Monica? Are you okay?”

  Rick’s voice is far off and muffled, as if he’s talking through a scarf wrapped around his mouth. I try to answer, but when I open my mouth, a sob escapes. A wave of reality crashes down, pulling me out to sea in a riptide of regret and fear. Body shaking, I curl into myself, arms crossed, hands clutching my own arms, desperate to hold my head above water.

  “Turn it off.” Rick cuts through the torrent of emotions. A moment later, he slides closer, puts one arm around my shoulder, and offers a consoling hug.

  With a sigh, Bruce rises to his full height. “I told you we should have called first.”

  “Just give us a minute.”

  Bruce leaves the room. Rather than talking, Rick rubs his hand up and down my arm. It’s the kind of contact you’d expect from a brother or a platonic friend, not from the ruggedly handsome host of a popular reality series. I wonder how many other hysterical females he’s had to comfort over the years.

  As the sobs subside, my body starts to relax. A tissue appears beneath my nose, and I take it with a mumbled thank- you. I wipe my eyes, thankful there’s no mascara to run, and look up. Bruce is rummaging around in my kitchen.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “I’m trying to make coffee,” Bruce rumbles.

  “God bless you.” Now I look at Rick, surprised at how un-freaked out he is by my mini-breakdown. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” One more squeeze, then he removes his arm from my shoulder. “You’re on a pretty intense journey. I doubt that will be your last crying jag.”

  Oh great. “Well, before I dissolve again, let’s talk about the details.”

  He grins. “Then you will do the show?”

  “Of course. I don’t really have a choice.”

  Rick pats my knee, then stands up. “Let me check on the coffee and get Bruce back in here, and we’ll get down to it.” He’s halfway to the kitchen when he turns back to me. “For the record, you always have a choice.”

  Not true. I had lots of choices once, several of which led to the defining choice of my life. But right now, the path is laid out in front of me. For the next however many days, Bruce and other cameramen like him will be my new constant companions, documenting my every move, including my reunion with my daughter.

  When Rick comes back, he’s got a coffee mug in one hand and is holding Ranger’s collar with the other. “The dog will help you come across as warm and accessible.”

  “I am warm and accessible.”

  He laughs as he sits and hands me the mug. “Of course you are. And we want everyone to see that.”

  Ranger hops up onto the couch between us and puts one paw and his head in my lap. Rick was right, having him with me is much better. On the other side of the coffee table, Bruce hoists the camera onto his shoulder and resumes his position.

  “Are you ready?” Rick asks.

  The question broke me moments before, but not now. I gulp in a breath and nod sharply. “Let’s do this.”

  One more decision taking me one step closer.

  6

  This is useless.”

  Sweat is dripping down my cheeks, rolling into my eyes, and trickling down my back. I sit back on my heels and drop the rectangular piece of flint I’ve been hitting with a blunt kitchen knife for the last twenty minutes.

  “I’ll show you again, Aunt Monica.” John picks up the flint and the knife, then brings the blade down at a sharp angle a few times, producing a shower of sparks that land into the mound of dry weeds. He blows on the little pile, creating a few wisps of smoke that quickly build into a nice fire. Behind him, Jerrod and Justin cheer and clap.

  The sliding glass door opens, and Jules walks out with a pitcher of lemonade and a stack of red Solo cups. “How’s the quest for fire?”

  “Dandy.” It’s bad enough I haven’t been able to produce more than a spark or two, none of which resulted in a fire. What’s worse is that this is the third time John has shown me how it’s done. I’m being bested by a twelve-year-old.

  “I’ll say. That’s quite a respectable little blaze.” She sets the refreshments on the patio table, crosses her arms and takes in our little survival tableau. “Nice job, John.”

  He grins. I groan. The twins jump to their feet and run for the lemonade. Jules picks up the metal pail she’s kept filled with water since we started all this, and walks across the rocky ground cover of her backyard.

  “On the island, fire is essential. In Las Vegas in July, it’s just redundant.” She dumps the water, extinguishing the flames with a sputter and hiss.

  John stands up and looks at his mom. “Can I go now?”

  She nods and ruffles his hair before he runs off. “Thanks, kiddo.”

  I stand and rub my knees, which are pitted with gravel-impressions. “Can I go, too?”

  “No way. You have three more days to learn everything you need to know about kicking butt out in the jungle.”

  “But I’m hot and tired and sweaty.” And I’m whining, which doesn’t get me anything from Jules besides a smirk.

  “This is nothing. When you get out there, you’ll be wishing I’d pushed you harder.”

  I watch the beads of condensation running down the sides of the ice-filled lemonade pitcher and feel something akin to lust. “Can we at least take a break?”

  “Of course. Come into my office.”

  A moment later, sitting in the shade of the patio cover, ice-cold liquid sliding down my throat, I think maybe I can forgive her for the torture she’s put me through. The person I should really be upset with is Rick Wolff. Apparently, because of his desire to announce the search for Jessica’s mother during the live results show, I’ve ended up with much less time to prepare than the average contestant. Whereas most of the contestants have a couple months between the time they’re chosen and the time they embark for the island, he gave me six days. And three of those days are up.

  Jules fingers the napkin beneath her glass. “What’s going on in that overactive brain of yours?”

  What I’m thinking is small and petty. It’s selfish. At least, that’s what most people would say if I told them. But Jules isn’t most people. She’s the one person I know will listen to me without judging. Which is why the words pour out of me without hesitation.

  “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I can’t do this.”

  “Why not? What’s tripping you up?”

  “What’s not tripping me up?” I slump down in my chair. “The whole idea of living off the land for a month scares the stuffing out of me. I’ve never even been camping before. My idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel where the ice machine is at the opposite end of the hall.”

  Jules laughs. “Just because you’ve never done it before doesn’t mean you can’t do it.”

  “It’s all so overwhelming. Besides, you’re the super-fan. This should be happening to you, not me.”

  “Oh no. If some long-lost relative came out of the woodwork looking for me, I’d run the other way. You’re much braver than I am.”

  Is she serious? She’s the bravest person I know. Nothing fazes her. “How do you figure?”

  “Your choice of career, for one thing. You went to culinary school because of your passion for cooking, even though you knew it was a male-dominated, highly competitive industry.”

  That’s true. While the home kitchen is most often the woman’s domain, professional kitchens are exactly the opposite. It’s still rare to find a female head chef, which is what I had my sights set on from the beginning.

  “And after you worked your way through the ranks and made a name
for yourself, you took the chance to move to a new city and start up your own business.”

  I shrug. “Sixty-hour work weeks got old. Starting a catering business was more of a selfish decision than anything else.”

  Jules leans forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Do you realize how often you characterize your decisions as selfish?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just said starting your business was selfish. And giving your baby up for adoption—you’ve called that selfish, too.”

  I slice through the air with one hand. “That’s completely different.”

  “How so?”

  I’ve had over twenty-five years to think about this, examine it from every angle. And it all comes down to one thing. “Because I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that having a baby wasn’t part of the big plan.”

  Jules nods, pursing her lips. “And abortion was illegal then, so that wasn’t an option.”

  “What? You know it wasn’t—” Oh, she’s a sneaky one. “I see where you’re going. Yes, I could have done that, but no, it was never an option. Not for me.”

  “So you gave up nine months of your life to carry a child you knew you couldn’t keep, and then gave her to a couple who had spent years praying for a baby.” Her voice and her smile have both turned soft and warm. “Doesn’t sound very selfish to me.”

  I sit up straighter and puff out a burst of air. What she says makes sense, and there is some truth to it. But it’s so much more complicated. Every time I peel away one layer, I find another, like a big, stinky onion. No matter what semi-noble choice I made back then, it doesn’t absolve me from my other, more questionable decisions. And it doesn’t erase my guilt.

  “You missed your calling, Jules.” I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood and avoid further probing. “You should have been a psychiatrist.”

  “I have three boys and a husband. I am a psychiatrist.” She pats my arm, then pushes herself up out of the chair. “Come on. You’ve got a fire to make before we can move on to the next lesson.”