Last Family Standing

by Jennifer AlLee

  Malcolm smiles, then looks at Jess and me. “Your turn,” he says.

  Jess turns her head toward me. “You go first.”

  “Okay.” Here we go. Malcolm has given me the perfect opportunity to make sure everyone knows exactly what my motivation was for coming. But now that it’s right in front of me, I choke. Literally.

  In one of those bizarre moments when you inhale and accidentally suck a drop of saliva down the wrong pipe, I begin to cough and sputter. Jess pounds my back with the flat of her hand.

  Someone calls out, “Do you need water?”

  Another voice says, “I think she swallowed a fly.”

  “Serves her right.”

  I manage to stop choking long enough to glare at Maxie.

  From his place at the podium, Rick looks on in concern. “Are you going to be all right, Monica?”

  Nodding, I hold up one finger. Breathing slowly and deeply, I finally am back in control. “I’m fine,” I croak out in a gravelly voice. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. As soon as you’re ready, continue.”

  All that hacking interrupted what could have been a great, heartfelt moment. Now, I do my best to regroup and get back on track.

  “This show has given me a new identity. Before I came here, I was a woman, a chef, a friend . . . but I never saw myself as a mother. I didn’t even think I had maternal instincts. But now, after meeting this amazing young woman, I know that’s not true.

  “You all know, the only reason I came on this show was to meet Jess. I had no expectations beyond that. And now, I hope she’ll allow me to continue to be part of her life. Because I can never go back to the way things were. I’m a mother, pure and simple.”

  “Thank you,” Malcolm says. “Jess? What about you?”

  Fingers laced together, she exhales a shaky breath. “I can’t lie anymore. Everyone thinks I came on this show because of a burning desire to find my birth mother. But that’s not true.”

  The chair seems to dissolve beneath me. What is she saying?

  “I needed to get on the show, and I knew that searching for the woman who gave me up was my best shot.”

  “Jessica.” Rick interjects, his face hard and not a trace of a dimple in sight. “Are you saying you lied?”

  She looks up from her hands. I start to reach for her, but there’s something in her face that stops me. It’s a look of resignation, but also regret. As if she doesn’t want to divulge this information, but she has no choice.

  “I never lied about Monica being my birth mother. She is.” She turns her full attention to me, her eyes brimming with emotions. “I just lied about coming on the show so I could meet you.”

  “Why?” I shake my head, trying to shake off the betrayal I’m feeling. “Why was it so important that you get on the show?”

  “Because of the money. I need the money.”

  No. It can’t be something so crass. “For what? How could you need money so badly that you’d put us both through all . . . all . . . this?”

  She squeezes her eyes shut, as though the truth is too ugly to look at. “My mother . . . my real mother . . . is dying. I need the money for her.”

  33

  After the inquisition, everyone is taken straight to a hotel on a nearby, larger island. Everyone except me. I’m hustled off to a clinic where my wrist is X-rayed and, after confirming that I do in fact have a compression fracture, is put in an honest-to- goodness cast. All of this is done with very little interaction on my part, since I’m still in a fog of confusion and denial.

  When my escort finally gets me to the hotel, I’m met by the concierge.

  “A pleasure to have you here, miss,” he says with a solicitous smile. “Our kitchen closes at midnight, but if you tell me what you’d like, I’ll make sure it’s delivered to your room.”

  I look around blankly, still not quite used to being inside a building with electric lights. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven forty-five.”

  Huh. I didn’t realize so much time had passed since Jess dropped her bombshell and left me with a crater where my heart used to be. Right now, the thought of food makes my stomach lurch, but as long as he’s offering, it would be smart to take him up on it.

  “A roast beef sandwich, please. With fries. And iced tea.”

  “Very good, miss. And for dessert?”

  “Chocolate cake.” I may skip the sandwich and go straight for the cake. The idea of drowning my sorrows in sugar and frosting holds some appeal.

  “Wonderful. Cameron!” The name is barely out of his mouth when a young man appears at his side. Cameron, as his name tag confirms, wears a crisp uniform of a colorful tropical shirt, beige slacks, and a thousand-watt smile. The concierge motions to me. “Please see Miss Stanton to room 223.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” Cameron turns to me. “Right this way, miss.”

  I follow the man to the elevator, trying not to think about where Jess is or what I’ll say if I run into her. Thankfully, my destination is only a few rooms down the second floor hall. The bellhop opens the door and hands me the key card.

  “Your things have already been brought inside. But if you need anything at all, just call down to the front desk.”

  What a sweet guy. I wonder what he would do if I told him what I really need is a daughter who wants to be in the same room with me, and does he have one of those behind the desk?

  “Thank you.” My hand automatically reaches to dig out a tip, but I don’t have my purse. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”

  He holds up his hand. “Not a problem. Everything here is covered by the production company, including gratuities. All you need to do is relax and enjoy.” With another smile and a barely detectible bow, he bids me good-bye and heads back down the hall.

  I shut the door, then lean back against it as I take in the room. Done in shades of brown, yellow, and green, it has an artificial tropical feel that seems too bright after a month in the real thing. Walking further in, I see a suitcase on a collapsible stand against the wall. As I lift the lid, I see all the items I wasn’t allowed to bring on the island, including my purse, as well as a clean change of clothes and a blue cotton nightshirt. For the first time in hours, I think of something other than Jess. I turn slowly and sigh at the sight of the king-size bed. Covered in a soft, white spread and three plump pillows leaning against the headboard, it looks like a little piece of heaven. I reach to pull back the covers, then stop when I catch sight of my fingers. So much dirt is embedded around my nails, I may never get it all off, but it makes me realize a bath is essential before I get in this bed.

  I trudge into the bathroom, feeling worse than I ever have in my life and quite sure it’s the worst I ever will feel. But that’s until I catch sight of myself in the mirror. At first, I yelp, thinking someone else is in the room with me. When I realize I’m looking at my own reflection, I yelp again. Since there were no mirrors on the island, I never really knew how my body was being affected by the game. I saw what it did to the others, but for some reason, I didn’t transfer the effects to me. Yet another case of Monica living in her own little dream world.

  My skin is a mottled mess of blues, purples, and yellows from bruises in various stages of life. The numerous bug bites that litter my arms and shoulders are red and irritated. My hair hangs in stringy clumps around my face, almost resembling dreadlocks. And, to top it all off, I’ve lost so much weight that my collarbones appear ready to rip through my skin. This is the hollow shell of a woman America will see on their television sets.

  I’m pulled out of my funk by a knock on the door. Expecting room service, I pull it open, only to find Rick standing on the other side.

  He smiles. “I just wanted to make sure you got in okay.”

  “Sure. I’m great. I just took a look in the mirror and discovered the island turned me into the Crypt Keeper.”

  “Don’t feel bad. It happens to everybody.”

  His honesty is oddly refreshing. “Thanks for
not even trying to pretend I don’t look hideous. I’ve had about all the deception I can take for one day.”

  “About that.” He stuffs one hand in his pants pocket, and leans against the doorjamb with the other. “I want you to know, I had no idea about any of that with Jess. I believed she wanted to find you. Period.”

  “I know. It was pretty clear from the look on your face.” Trying to lighten the mood, I shrug. “Hey, it’s going to make great television when the editors get done with it.”

  “No kidding.” He straightens up and rubs the back of his neck. “To be honest, I haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”

  “What’s to figure out? You have to use it.”

  He cocks his head slightly. “You’d be okay with that?”

  “It’s part of what I signed up for.”

  His eyes are warm and understanding as he nods his approval. “How’s the wrist?”

  “Busted.” I hold it up between us. “Not a total break, just a compression fracture. I’ll be good as new in about six weeks. My biggest problem will be brushing the knots out of my hair with one hand.”

  Rick glances down the hall. “I can send Jess over to help you.”

  “No.” It comes out hard and sharp, like a slap to the face, but it doesn’t faze Rick.

  “You’re going to have to talk to her eventually.”

  Oh really? I managed to go twenty-five years without talking to her. It shouldn’t be hard to go twenty-five more. But instead of spewing my frustration all over Rick, I force myself to be pleasant. “Is Kai here somewhere?”

  “She is. Would you like me to get her?”

  I sigh with relief. “That would be so great. I just don’t feel up to seeing any of the contestants right now. I hope that makes sense.”

  “It does. Total sense.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Cameron comes up behind Rick, pushing a room service cart.

  Rick moves out of the way and starts peeking under the silver plate covers. “I’m glad they got food for you. I’ll let you eat in peace. Expect Kai in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Rick.”

  He’s almost to the elevator when he turns back and winks at me. “Eat the cake first. It’s good for your soul.”

  Cameron pushes the cart into the room, while I stand in the doorway and watch the elevator doors slide shut. Eat the cake first. Rick Wolff may just be a man after my own heart.

  ***

  I am determined to stay in this bed as long as possible. That’s why, when someone rudely ignored my request to “do not disturb” and knocked on my door at 8:00 a.m., I rolled over, snuggling deeper under the covers. And when the phone rang an hour later, I sandwiched my head between two pillows and luxuriated in the softness of them.

  Now, the phone is once again trilling, doing its best to pull me out of my blissful cocoon. With a sigh, I reach to the nightstand, past the phone, and pull the clock closer. 11:15. As good a time as any to start moving back toward real life. But that doesn’t mean I’m answering the stinking phone.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare toes curl into the carpet, marveling that it’s neither wet nor sandy. With my good hand, I push off the mattress, groaning as I extend my aching muscles and joints. You’d think that a night in a normal bed would make me feel better than ever, but apparently, my body has become accustomed to bamboo.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter as I shuffle into the bathroom.

  The mirror reveals a much cleaner version of the woman I discovered last night. It took Kai a good twenty minutes to liberate my hair from all the snarls and knots it had worked its way into. Then she took another fifteen minutes to scrub my hands, going carefully around my fingernails with a small, stiff brush. At that point, I thanked her, and said I could do the rest by myself. It had been challenging to wash my hair with one hand and hold my cast up and out of the water, but I’d done it.

  Today, though . . . today calls for a nice, long soak in the tub. After rummaging through my bag of toiletries, I find a butterfly clip to pin up my hair and a small bottle of bath bubbles. Perfect.

  When the tub is full, I step through the bubbles and carefully lower myself in, hissing as the hot water covers my skin. With my cast resting on the side of the tub, I lean back until my neck sits just right against the cool porcelain and close my eyes.

  “Thank you, God, for hot water heaters and indoor plumbing.”

  As I lounge there, determined to relax, there’s a knock on the door. Somebody certainly is persistent. I wonder . . .

  And there I am, back to thinking about Jess.

  My real mother is dying . . . I need the money for her.

  How could she? How could she act like meeting me was a major goal in her life, when all the time, it was just a means to an end? I understand about being desperate. I’ve certainly been there myself. But there had to be another way for her to get money. A way that didn’t include dragging me through several circles of hell, and breaking my wrist—and my heart—in the process.

  Of course, I’m not the only one in pain. I think of Jess’s parents the way they were so many years ago. Their pictures displayed a happy, loving couple. In most of them, Susan’s long, golden hair was swept back, either in a ponytail or a French braid. It told me she was practical, and her smile told me she enjoyed life. And Robert. There was a picture of them at a picnic, and the way he looked at her made my heart hurt. Because I so desperately wanted someone to love me the way he obviously loved her.

  How are they dealing with Susan’s illness? What does she have? I have so many questions now, but no right to ask any of them. I thought I’d been invited into my daughter’s life, but I really wasn’t. Instead, she was using me to do what she had to for the mother she loves. As much as that hurts, I really can’t blame her.

  A tear runs down my cheek and plops into the now-tepid, bubbleless water. My soak is done.

  After carefully drying off, I wrap a towel around my torso and leave the bathroom. On my way to get clean clothes from my suitcase, I notice a piece of paper on the floor by the door.

  “Instead of pail mail, I’m getting floor mail.”

  It’s a note from Rick. At 12:30, there’s a lunch and final group meeting with all the cast and crew before we go to the airfield and head our separate ways. Funny, now that the game is over, we’re not contestants anymore, we’re “the cast.”

  I check the clock. There’s just enough time to get dressed and head for the meeting room. Looks like my self-imposed isolation is coming to an end.

  34

  Monica! You look great.” Layla runs up to me and wraps me in a hug. Gracie is right behind her.

  “I love your dress. Come sit with us.”

  They lead me over to a table where their dads are sitting. Both men stand up and we exchange friendly hugs.

  “You’ve cleaned up quite well,” Malcolm says with a grin.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks. After a month of gritty shorts and wet athletic shoes, I had to put on a sundress and sandals.” Before anyone can get me to talk about something more personal than my clothes, I turn to Sal. “So, have you and Gracie been staying at this lovely hotel all this time?”

  “We have.” He winks at his daughter. “Being the first off the island has its advantages.”

  Gracie rolls her eyes. “I don’t know that I’d call it an advantage. All of you lost weight, but they’ve fed us so great here, I think I gained ten pounds.”

  I shake my head. “You’re talking to the wrong people if you expect sympathy.”

  Layla snatches a roll from the basket in the middle of the table and lobs it at Gracie. She dodges just in time for it to sail past her head and hit Sal right in the chin. The three of them are quickly embroiled in a good-natured argument that I’m praying doesn’t evolve into a food fight.

  Malcolm leans over, his voice low. “How are you? Really?”

  “I am really, really conflicted.”

  “I’
m sure.” He looks across the room and motions slightly with his head. “She’s over there.”

  She’s sitting with Bob, Tracy, Evelyn, and Jasmine. “I’ll bet Bob doesn’t envy me anymore.”

  “You haven’t talked to her about it yet?”

  A waiter leans between us to put down salad plates. After thanking him, I look back at Malcolm. “What’s there to talk about? She loves her mother, she did what she had to do.”

  His forehead creases in a frown. “But what about you? What about that relationship you wanted to build?”

  “I don’t want to anymore.” I try to spear a cherry tomato with my fork, but the tines bounce off the slick skin and send it skittering off my plate. “I don’t want, or need, a one-sided relationship.”

  He scoops up the tomato with a clean spoon and drops it back on top of my lettuce. “You might change your mind later.”

  “Sure, I might.” Nodding my head in an overexaggerated manner, I paste on a smile. “After my skin clears up, and my body stops aching, and my wrist heals so I can go back to work again . . . maybe then I’ll feel warm and fuzzy and change my mind. For now, I want to enjoy this lovely, crisp salad.”

  Malcolm takes the hint and we eat in silence. And for the record, the lettuce is wilted and the dressing is far too heavy on the vinegar.

  When the salad plates are cleared away, Rick walks to the center of the room. Even he looks different now. Instead of the short-sleeve safari shirts and khaki shorts that were his signature island style, he’s wearing blue jeans and a Star Trek t-shirt that’s so thin and faded, it must be one of his favorites.

  People start clapping when they see him. He breaks out his dimpled smile, which hasn’t changed one bit, and holds his hands up for silence. “Congratulations, everybody, on finishing another great season of Last Family Standing.”

  More clapping, accompanied by cheers, whistles, and a few woot woots. I slap the palm of my uninjured hand against my thigh, just so I won’t stand out as the one sourpuss in an otherwise enthusiastic group.