Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense

by Heather Balog

  Roger shoots me one of Allie’s death stares. “I know how to do math, Amy.”

  “Apparently not since you didn’t get enough beds for the entire family!”

  “Oh, but I did!” Roger says triumphantly. He holds up his pointer finger, indicating that he has yet to reveal his brilliant plan. I grit my teeth, certain that his brilliant plan is anything but. He shuffles over to the minuscule love seat—judging by its fabric and color, it was obviously acquired sometime in the seventies—squished in the corner of the room. He tosses off the pillows, flinging them in my direction. I duck to avoid the first pillow, only to be smacked in the head by the second olive colored cushion. Dust flies off of the cushion with reckless abandon. Makes you wonder when the last time anyone thoroughly cleaned the joint.

  Colt and Evan have ceased bouncing on the beds and are now staring at their father going berserk. They have never seen him fling objects. In fact, they rarely see him vertical. And moving. At the same time.

  “Roger, for God’s sakes…” I start to say as I pick a dust bunny out of my hair.

  I don’t get to finish my sentence before Roger is gripping a metal bar in the middle of the now naked couch and tugging with all of his might. His face is turning a dangerous shade of red. I quickly take inventory in my head, my eye on the bag where I packed all the medication, including Roger’s nitroglycerin pills. I am hoping he can avoid having a heart attack on the first day. That would put such a damper on our vacation. Especially in a third world country and all.

  “I really think that you should sit down, Dad. You don’t look so hot.” Allie chews her lip nervously from the other side of the room. Great, even our sixteen-year-old, who probably wouldn't notice if I was on fire, thinks Roger looks bad. This is not a good sign.

  Roger waves his hand impatiently and then wipes the sweat from his brow. “It’s fine! I’ve got it!” With one final grunt, he tugs the handle and yanks the midsection on the couch backward, causing him to fly through the air and land on his rear end.

  Nobody moves as we stare at what Roger has unearthed. In front of us, in all its mediocre glory, is what appears to be a stained sofa bed mattress. Actually, mattress may be too generous of a word to describe the pancake-like material that lays atop the metal sofa bed frame. “Plywood” would be a more accurate description.

  Roger struggles to his feet using the chintzy metal frame to pull himself up—I swear the damn sofa lifts three feet off the floor. Also, a large screw clunks to the ground. I’m sure that it was just “extra parts” though. Nothing necessary or anything.

  “Voila! This room comes equipped with a pull-out couch that sleeps two!” He waves his hand toward the nearly dismantled sofa. He leans on the middle of the so-called bed, and it immediately begins to fold up, trapping his arm. “Help!” he calls out, wiggling his torso and pushing against the mattress with his free elbow. Once again, all four children stare at him. I'm not close enough to help him disentangle himself, but it seems to be a one person job as he quickly extracts himself by pushing against the frame with his foot.

  Lexie is the closest to the “bed”. She leans forward, peering at it and wrinkling up her nose. I don’t know if it’s from a smell or just general dissatisfaction. “Sleeps two what?” she asks. “Weightless midgets?”

  Allie snorts through her nose, and then quickly slaps her hand over her face, eyes darting around to see if we noticed or not.

  “Funny, Lexie,” Roger says.

  “Well I’m certainly not sleeping there,” Allie informs her father, as she flops dramatically on the closest full-sized bed. “Dibs on this bed,” she says, languidly draping an arm across her face.

  “I've got dibs on this bed, then,” Lexie counters, as she too flops on a bed. Except it’s the other bed. Leaving absolutely no additional beds to “call dibs” on.

  Colt stares at his sisters and then stares incredulously at me and Roger. “I have to sleep on the floor?”

  Roger shakes his head. “No, Colt. You and Evan get to sleep on the cool open-up couch!”

  Colt recoils. “I don’t want to sleep there! That’s gross!” (This is the kid who has slept in pajamas he has peed on because he’s too lazy to get out of bed).

  Evan pipes up. “I don’t want to sleep there either! I want to sleep on the trampoline!’ To demonstrate, he proceeds to bounce from bed to bed, jostling his already cranky sisters in the process.

  “Evan, stop it!” Allie wails, pulling a pillow over her head. Colt takes Allie’s distress as a cue to join in the bouncing. Within seconds, both boys are hopping from bed to bed, and both girls are screeching in octaves I thought only dogs could hear.

  I want nothing more than to jump off our balcony right now. I peek out the window to discover we are only one floor up. Which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever because we climbed four flights of stairs to get to our room. But whatever. If I jump, I’d at least break a limb. Then I’d have to go to the hospital and get away from these assholes for a few hours. Ahhhh, vacation at the hospital. Maybe I can contract MRSA or something, and have to stay a few days hooked up to an IV.

  I quickly snap out of dreamland as I realize that it’s not the type of town one would want to get health care in. I’m not even sure if their IV needles would be clean and sterilized. I could end up without a limb.

  Sighing, I catch Evan mid-bounce and set him on the floor. “No one is sleeping on the floor. No one is jumping on the bed.” I turn to Roger. “And no one is sleeping on that death trap, either.” Roger opens his mouth to protest. I wave my hand to silence him. “I am going to take a shower. While I am in the shower, you,” I point to Allie, “are going to keep an eye on Evan and make sure he doesn’t leave your sight. You,” I point to Lexie, “are going to help her. And you,” I poke my husband in the shoulder, “are going to go down to the front desk and sort out this mess. When I get out of the shower, I expect everyone to be in one piece and have another room that the children can sleep in.”

  I don’t even wait to hear my family’s responses. I’m getting in a freaking shower and letting them deal with it for once. After all, I’m on vacation.

  ~Five~

  “Hi, Amy,” he purrs into my ear, tickling my neck with his breath. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  I giggle like a school girl because I can barely speak—as usual he has me tongue-tied and jittery.

  “Are you on vacation?” he continues in the raspy voice that melts my insides.

  “I think so,” I manage to squeak. “I’m not really enjoying it so far. It’s a lot of work.”

  “That’s such a shame,” he says, the vibrations from his words causing my skin to tingle. “You should always enjoy a vacation. Any time away from home should be relaxing.”

  “Well, it would be if I hadn’t brought the main stressors in my life with me,” I reply, attempting a good humored chuckle.

  “That’s why I think you should just leave them here and come with me,” he says.

  “Come with you?” I giggle, trying not to dwell on the double entendre.

  “Indeed. I have a yacht waiting at the pier. It’s filled from top to bottom with wine, roses, and chocolate. I have a chef on board twenty-four hours a day, and an endless supply of steak and lobster. We can sail off into the sunset right now.”

  I am stunned and incredibly turned on by this suggestion. “Why Agent Collins, I had no idea that being a DEA agent was so lucrative.”

  “It’s not,” he tells me, running his fingers along the inside of my bare arm. I shudder with delight. “I have several outside sources of income, mainly underwear modeling.”

  “Oh?” I raise my eyebrow. “Anything I’ve seen?”

  Jason winks as he pulls out a leather-bound photo album. “Perhaps you would be interested in perusing my portfolio?”

  “Mom!” Lexie is now banging on the door to the bathroom, interrupting my abdomen’s love affair with the body pouf and the silky body wash I found in the basket on the sink. I am slightly shaken�
��I was getting dangerously close to making an X-rated version of a body wash commercial.

  “What?” I scream out with annoyance. Most likely she’s going to regale me with some stupid tattletale story that can definitely wait until I am out of the shower.

  “Allie took the remote! She won’t let me watch the show I want!” Lexie’s voice has its usual whiny quality to it.

  Yup. I lean my head against the slick shower tile. Is she for real? Of course she’s for real. This is Lexie we’re talking about.

  “Lexie, what have I told you about interrupting me in the shower?” I abandon the body pouf to actually shampoo my hair.

  She thinks for a minute before replying, “Um, only if someone is bleeding or the house is on fire?”

  “And are either of those things happening right now?”

  Once again, there’s a brief moment of silence on the other side of the door. Hence, why Lexie scares me. I’m not sure if she’ll survive past middle school sometimes.

  Finally, she answers, “Um, nobody is bleeding, but we’re not home. I don’t know if the house is on fire.”

  I seriously want to bang my head on this tile right now. “Lexie, leave me alone.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Lex, go!”

  I hear her scoff loudly and storm off. I’m certain hair pulling and blood curdling screeches will ensue shortly, but as long as I am safe behind the wooden door, I don’t have to deal with it. Hopefully Roger will be back from the front desk to sort it out. And with the good news that the children will be sleeping in a separate room.

  When I suggested...no wait...demanded that he get the children their own room a few minutes earlier, Roger nearly passed out as his brain processed how much more it would cost him. Then he registered my distress and balanced the two. Seeing that my contentment outweighed any monetary gain, Roger had retreated to the front desk like a dog with his tail between his legs. I had retreated to the shower.

  When I opened the door to the bathroom, I had discovered that the bathroom before me was obviously not the same as the one in the pictures on the Internet. The bathroom in the pictures had boasted rich travertine tile, a double sink, a whirlpool, a shower with dual shower heads, and a freaking bidet, for God’s sake. The bathroom that I encountered in our room had plastic counter tops, a leaky toilet, and a moldy shower curtain. I was going to be writing a strongly worded letter to the resort when we returned home next week, that was for certain.

  Nevertheless, I had no problem dissolving into my usual shower fantasy of Jason. Jason? Who is Jason, you ask?

  Well, Jason just happens to be my version of a knight in shining armor. If he actually had armor, this would be literal. He is constantly saving my butt when I get myself into these trouble spots. I first met him two years ago when he moved across the street with his parents, a bachelor with an autistic teen. I was very suspicious of him and his family—they seemed strange. Turns out, they were. Jason and his mother and the guy posing at his father were all DEA agents, working a drug case in our neighborhood. Unfortunately, I discovered this after I stumbled upon my dead neighbor’s body and ended up trapped in a remote cabin in the woods, hiding from the bad guys. Jason saved my life then and my shower fantasy bank is forever grateful. He is quite handsome and strong, not to mention, he looks great without a shirt.

  Don’t judge me—I need something to relieve me from the insanity of my everyday life. And besides, my fantasies are harmless. Mostly they consist of him murmuring ridiculous statements in my ear and me soaping myself up until I managed to chafe my skin.

  I know, I know. I should totally be over Jason at this point in my life. I’m (mostly) happily married. I just tend to “stray” whenever I’m in the shower with extra smooth body wash with aloe...so shoot me.

  “Mom!” Lexie’s voice comes through the door once more. I sigh, shutting off the shower. I might as well give up.

  “What?” I snap once again.

  “Allie hit me when I told her you said that she needed to give me the remote! I think I’m gonna have a bruise!”

  “I never said any such thing!” I call back, reaching onto the shelf over the toilet bowl for the towel. Why do they put the nice clean towels over the toilet bowl? Don’t they know that accident prone klutzes like me will definitely end up dropping those towels into the water?

  “But Mom! She’s being mean!” Lexie continues to whine

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Lexie,” I grumble while I attempt to pull the shower curtain open. I can't get it fully open because the rings seem to be rusted and have locked in place. I yank on it with all my might and of course, the bloody rod pulls off the wall and crashes directly on my head.

  “Son of a—” I can't even finish my sentence because my head is throbbing so much. I timidly place my hand on top of my head and feel a goose egg already starting to form. I’m going to have one killer headache. I pull the towel around my wet body. As I step out onto the bath mat (a hand towel thrown hastily on the floor in hopes of soaking up some of the water that has escaped from the flimsy shower curtain)

  .Hands planted on the counter, I stare at the drain in the sink, wishing it was small enough to wash myself down. I can’t even have a five minute shower without injury, or with peace and quiet.

  Lexie is still knocking on the door and with each thump, I feel my head beat. This is gonna be one awesome night!

  I notice the toiletry bag on the ledge of the sink. I must have packed the Advil or Tylenol or something that will help stave off this headache, I think confidently, riffling through the bag. Ah yes, here it is, right next to the Dramamine. It’s the sinus headache type in the packet instead of bottle, but it will have to do.

  “Mom! I’ve got to go to the bathroom now!” Lexie is screaming. “Like right now!”

  “Give me a second!”

  “I’m gonna pee my pants!” Lexie wails, and I can hear Allie’s maniacal laugh in the background.

  “That would be hysterical,” she says. “I’d pay to see that.”

  “Shut up!” Lexie screeches. I hear something hit the wall, and then a scream from Allie.

  “Stop throwing stuff at me!”

  “Stop being a bitch!”

  Grabbing the medicine packet, I pop out one pill and shove it in my mouth, swallowing without water. Please start working instantly, I beg the little pink pill. Oh what the hell, this headache is killer, I think as I take a second pill.

  I throw open the bathroom door, steam billowing out in my wake, to find my oldest child reclining on “her” bed with my youngest child resting in the crook of her arm, contentedly playing with her hair. Lexie is pacing like a caged lion next to the bed, eye trained on the remote that is gripped tightly in Allie’s hand.

  “Thank God.” Lexie rushes into the bathroom and slams the door, causing the photo in the cheap frame to fall off of the wall. I retrieve the picture off the floor, and go to hang it back up but there are no hooks. Shrugging my shoulders, I wonder if it was hot glued to the wall or something. Looking for a place to lay it down, I glance around, trying to find a spot that hasn’t been covered with luggage or clothing. And then I notice something else. Or rather, the lack of something else. Colt is nowhere to be seen.

  He’s probably hiding under the bed, or in the closet with the ironing board.

  “Allie, where’s your brother?’ I ask.

  “He’s right here, Mom,’ she mumbles in her “I can't believe this idiot is my mother” voice.

  “Not Evan. Where’s Colt?” I rummage through the suitcase for a pair of panties that still has the elastic intact. Ugh, Amy, why didn’t you go to the store and buy yourself a new package of underwear? You bought new underwear for everyone else.

  “How should I know?” Allie answers me. “Probably playing with Babe Ruth on the balcony or something.”

  I have to pause in this tale to explain Allie’s weird remark. My eight-year-old son has always been very active, a sports aficionado, if you will. He loves running
around and throwing a ball, catching a ball, rolling around in the mud with a ball. He’s always been very much a boy, which was a little difficult after having two girls. But cute, nonetheless. His sports enthusiasm slowly transitioned into watching sports of all kinds (I recently walked in on him completely engrossed in a curling match) and researching sports and sports figures. In the past few months, he has taken to playing sports with the likes of David Wright and Tom Brady (which totally ticks off my Yankee/Jets fan husband). By “playing” I mean he pretends that Tom and David are in the backyard with him, and they are engaged in a lively game of baseball or tossing the pigskin around in the Super Bowl. So I am not initially alarmed by Allie’s nonchalance.

  After throwing on a robe, I poke my head out of the sliding door—which gets jammed in the process—and step out onto the four foot by two foot cinder block balcony with a stunning and breathtaking view of the back of the resort office building. I can actually see the resort manager at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, leaning back in his chair while he talks on the phone. I can also see a guy passing on the sidewalk below, his dog taking a crap on the manicured lawn. The guy does not clean up the crap. I also see a disgruntled older woman lean off of her own balcony and chastise the man.

  What I don’t see is Colt.

  “Allie, he’s not out here,” I call out, hoping she will suddenly remember where her brother is. I hear no response. Sighing, I poke my head back in the doorway. “Did you hear me?”

  She glances up from her phone. “Uh, huh.”

  “Did he go with Daddy?” I ask, not even reminding her about roaming charges.

  “How should I know?” She offers me an eye roll and returns to her oh-so-important phone conversation, which is probably 90% emoticons and 10% abbreviations that I don’t understand.

  “You should know because I asked you to watch him,” I point out, oddly frightened and pissed off at the same time.