I turn onto Orchid Lane, passing the 7-Eleven I used to bike to during lunch hour, even though there was a convenience store closer to my high school. I didn’t want any of my classmates to bear witness to my unhealthy addiction to Fun Dip, plus, the longer ride insured that I would burn off all of the calories I consumed. (I still do this. If I’m going to a chichi restaurant for dinner, like the upscale Daniel, I do the treadmill or the elliptical until I can no longer stand up.)
A couple of teenagers are hanging out in the parking lot, drinking sodas and covertly smoking cigarettes. I envy them their immortal youth. They’re not worried about emphysema or lung cancer or leathery skin, the very reasons I quit two years ago. All these kids care about is defending their high score on the Xbox and not getting their girlfriends pregnant. Lucky bastards.
A moment later, I reach the entrance to my brother’s tract of houses, the planned family community of Golden Gables. I make the appropriate right onto the main drive, careful to keep my speed well below the residential, twenty-five mile-an-hour limit. Wouldn’t want to be slapped with another ticket by some neighborhood cop looking to fill his monthly quota on my ass.
The houses in Danny’s neighborhood are neither garish nor ostentatious, nor are the lawns and grounds perfectly manicured. But everything seems to be just as it should be, in that Stepford Wives kind of way. The homes are medium to large, well kept—no peeling paint or cracked sidewalks—and the grass and foliage is well-tended and amply watered. The color scheme of the houses ranges from cream to beige to sand, with the only nod to nonconformity being the occasional red or blue or forest green front door. There are picket fences, herringbone-patterned brick walkways, and lush rose bushes. Several driveways are peppered with Big Wheels or shiny red wagons or bicycles. An old-fashioned tire swing hangs in a tree here. An antique rocker graces a porch there. Suburbia at its best.
I feel nauseous.
At the stop sign, I grab my cell phone, unlock it, and search my contact list for Danny’s street address. 20871. I make the left onto Heaventree Lane (no, I am not making that up), and scan the numbers painted on the curbs.
I’ve only been to Danny’s house once before, on my last trip, a week before he and Caroline signed the escrow papers. I’d been less than flattering in my assessment of their future home…and life. (Neighborhood: bourgeois. Yard: postage stamp. Interior: tired. Exterior: bland. Newly married couple buying a house: idiotic. Him marrying that piece of work Caroline in the first place: totally freaking insane.) I have to give Danny credit for not completely disowning me as a sister that day, but then, if he had, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be comfortably sitting in my lovely little apartment on West 79th Street, drinking a glass of Merlot and watching bad Monday night TV, waiting for Adam to drop by to give me a much needed orgasm. Crap.
As I pull to the curb in front of the one-story ranch-style house, I realize I needn’t have worried about not recognizing it. Loudly displayed on the stucco wall beside the garage door is a large, kitschy, sign with hearts and smiley faces and the legend The Monroe Family Lives Here!
Jesus, Danny. Could you be any more of a geek?
I turn off the ignition, take a deep breath and count to ten, then push open the car door and step out onto the pavement. My legs are still stiff from the flight—it’ll take a couple of miles on the treadmill tomorrow to loosen them up—and I stretch my arms above my head to ease the tension in my back and shoulders. I move around the car to the passenger side and retrieve my purse, the only baggage I have for the moment, then head up the cobblestone path to the house.
Before I can ring the bell, the front door swings open and my brother appears, all six foot two of him. He throws his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs and making me sputter and cough.
“You made it!”
“Barely,” I mumble into his chest. I pull back and look up into his handsome, boyish face. My brother has aged these past few years, but he still possesses that easy-going, youthful energy—the kind that no amount of Botox or filler can buy. He wears slacks and a sport coat over a collared shirt (my guess is Ross Dress For Less) and a tie hangs limply around his neck. To see Danny in anything other than board shorts or jeans and a t-shirt is a bit unnerving.
“Nice threads. You’re in sales now, huh?”
“Someone’s gotta pay the bills,” he jokes.
And, God knows it won’t be Caroline bringing home the bacon.
“You look fantastic, Meg. Seriously. Better than ever.”
I smile and make a mental note to send a Christmas card to Dr. Ing, my “dermatologist.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “Clean living’s the secret.”
He snorts again. “That must be it.”
I hear commotion from inside the house, and based on the volume, I assume it’s the TV. “What are you watching? Rambo?”
“With a five-year-old and a two-year-old?” He grins. “Right. I guess we’ll have to go over appropriate television programming.” He looks me up and down. “It’s great to see you, Meg. I missed you. Thanks for coming.”
“Guilt is a powerful motivator, bro,” I tell him.
He chuckles, then looks past me to the curb. “What the heck is that?” he asks, jabbing his index finger at the Camaro.
“It’s a car, Danny. You know, they drive you places?”
“It’s a Camaro!” he cries, frowning. “I told you to get a seven-passenger.”
“Right. Well, they didn’t have any.” I know, lying is not nice and all that crap, but I’m too weary to argue with my brother. I’ve got more important things to do, like fix myself a cocktail and get used to the fact that I’m smack dab in the middle of suburbia and about to babysit for the first time since junior high school.
“Oh.” He shrugs, still staring at the Camaro. “I guess it can’t be helped. Where are your bags?”
“Either Ohio or St. Bart’s,” I tell him, trying not to sound annoyed. “Should be here tomorrow. I hope. I can run out to Bloomingdales later, when you get home, and grab a few things…”
“I’m not sure how late I’ll be, sis. Bloomie’s might be closed. But no worries! You and Caroline are about the same size. You can borrow something of hers.”
Like that’s gonna happen.
“How is she doing, by the way?” I ask, because I know I should.
“She’s hanging in there.” He snorts with laughter and I give him a puzzled look. “It’s just, she’s in traction. Get it? Hanging in there? Not in such a good mood, though. Don’t tell her I was joking about it.”
God forbid.
“But the baby’s okay, right?”
He nods vigorously. “Oh, yeah. No probs. They’re taking good care of both of them. Caroline’s just going a little stir crazy.”
We look at each other for a long moment. “Are we going to stand on the porch all night or are you going to invite me in? I thought you had to be somewhere.”
Danny shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, giving me a sheepish look. “Definitely, we’re going in. I just…I want to prepare you for…you know…”
“For what?” Instantly, my temples start to throb.
“It’s just that, um, see, McKenna’s kind of having a…”
In my mind, I try to finish his sentence for him, but cannot for the life of me figure out what a kindergartner might be ‘kind of having.’ Flu virus? Mental breakdown? Potty training issue? She’s five, for God’s sake. She must be pooping on the potty by now.
“Danny, what?”
“A playdate,” he says in a rush. “See, it’s been on the schedule for a month and we’ve already cancelled it like three times, and I didn’t have the heart to cancel again, what with Caroline in the scary hospital-place, but it’s really no big deal, there’s a couple of frozen pizzas in the freezer and they’ll be perfect little angels, I swear.” He stops talking and looks at me anxiously.
“Okay,” I say, surprising both myself and my b
rother.
“Okay?”
I shrug. “What’s one more little kid?” I hike my purse back into position and step past him into the foyer.
“It’s not just one more,” I hear him say. But by then, I have made my way to the living-room landing. My jaw drops to my chest as I stare into the wide, shag-carpeted room which is currently being torn apart by six dwarf-like creatures, one of whom looks suspiciously like a relative, all of whom are wrestling, dancing, and pillow-fighting simultaneously. In the midst of the turmoil stands my nephew, Tebow, whom I lovingly (or not so much) call Little Mister Stinky Pants. His diaper is riding low on his hips and he chews on a Thomas the Train pacifier. He gazes up at me and gives me the toddler version of ‘who the fuck is this, now?’
This is not a playdate. This is a freaking rave. The banshee wail of five-year-olds practically ruptures my eardrums, and I unconsciously take a step back, bumping into my brother.
Fuck me!
I don’t realize I’ve said the words out loud until a chorus of kindergartners break into the ‘Fuck Me’ song, dancing merrily as they sing.
Four
Caller: I have five kids, and every one of them is a gift sent from God.
Meg: Are you sure? I mean, did you check the return address?
* * *
I lay face down on the bed in the guest room as my brother furiously knocks on the door.
“Uh, Meg. I really have to go.”
“Rat fink,” I say into the pillow.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Danny will open the door and let himself in. I know this because there are no locks on any of the interior doors in this house—something to do with child safety or some such shit. Therefore, when I stormed into the guest room two minutes ago, I was not able to lock myself in, or, more importantly, lock my brother out. Were there an appropriately-sized chair in the room, I would have wedged it under the doorknob, but there is only a stupid old glider with a matching, gliding ottoman.
“I’m sorry about the playdate thing. But I promise they won’t give you a hard time. I’ve threatened McKenna with no ice cream for a week.”
I flop onto my back and stare the exposed beam that runs the length of the ceiling, absently wondering if my Hermes scarf is strong enough to hang myself with.
“Um, sis?” I glare in the direction of my brother’s voice just as the door opens a crack and he peers in.
“I’m disowning you as my brother,” I say, pushing myself to a seated position. “Seven fucking kids, Danny? On my first night in town?”
“You might want to ix-nay on the f-bombs, Meg. As it is, I’m going to get all kinds of phone calls tomorrow from the other moms.”
“Like I care. This was not what I had in mind, Danny. Who do I look like, Maria Freaking Von Trapp?”
Danny shakes his head and dons a contrite expression. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was totally out of line to keep the playdate.”
“And on a school night? Even I know better,” I tell him.
“They’re all later-gators,” he says.
Like I know what that means.
He makes a show of pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “Look, I’m not going to go. I’ll call up Spencer and cancel. It’s no problem. I mean, it took months to get this meeting, but we can re-schedule.”
I swear my brother should be Jewish the way he can sling guilt in my direction while sounding completely selfless. He’s been doing this since he was able to talk. I roll my eyes and scoot to the side of the bed, then stand up and smooth my jeans with my palms.
“Oh, just forget it! Go to your meeting.”
His expression reminds me of a puppy that just chewed up the couch. “No. Really, Meg. I’d feel too awful about leaving you here.”
“Danny, knock it off with the passive-aggressive bullshit. It didn’t work on me when we were ten, and it ain’t gonna work now. Get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”
“Are you sure? You’ll be okay?”
I’ll be okay, I think. Not so sure about the little darlings. All seven of them.
“Yup. No problem. By the way, where’s your duct tape?”
He chuckles nervously. Just then, Little Mister Stinky Pants appears in the doorway, gripping his pacifier and sporting a goofy grin. “Fuck me!” he shrieks delightedly.
Danny slaps his forehead. “Good job, Meg. He can’t even say ‘Daddy’ yet.”
“I have a way with kids,” I tell him. I ruffle my nephew’s (unwashed) hair, toss my scarf over my shoulder, and stride from the room.
Danny takes three and a half minutes to give me my instructions for the evening: frozen pizza in the freezer (be sure to cut Tebow’s into tiny little pieces so he doesn’t choke), milk in the fridge, one juice pop for dessert for each child, no other snacks, no other sweets, do NOT open the pantry (which, ironically has the only door with a lock on it—a child-proof lock that I’d need a degree in engineering to figure out) because one of McKenna’s friends has a nut allergy and there’s Skippy on one of the shelves. Emergency numbers on the fridge, including his cell phone, the fire department, the police department and the California Poison Control System (O-kay). The girls’ moms will all be here promptly at eight o’clock, he promises, to pick up their precious angels.
A quick glance at the clock on the microwave tells me I only have to deal with the kindergarten crowd for three and a half hours. I’m pretty certain they will be among the longest three and a half hours of my life, but I’m also fairly sure I’ll survive. Maybe.
Havoc is still being wreaked in the living room when I usher my brother to the front door. He stops, his hand on the doorknob, then turns and gazes into the living room, likely trying to recall what it looked like before Hurricane Play-Date hit. His expression is pained.
“I should say goodbye?” It sounds like a question. “I mean, I haven’t left the kids…” He clears his throat as though he has something stuck in it. “You know, since the accident.”
“Just go,” I say. “You’re late already, and they’re fine. Everything will be okay, Danny. I promise.”
He nods, a little too vigorously, then yanks open the door. When he steps out onto the porch, he inhales deeply through his nostrils, and a slow, relieved smile spreads across his face, the smile of a prisoner being released from a long stint in the slammer. With a slight bounce in his step, he makes his way to his Camry, then climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine. A moment later, the radio blares to life, and Danny cranks it high enough that I can hear Led Zeppelin through the closed windows. Without a backward glance, he pulls out of the driveway and tears down the street.
As soon as the Camry disappears around the corner, I shut the door and cross to the living room. Hands on hips, I scan the faces of the girls, all of whom are now standing in the middle of the floor, spinning around and around until they collapse onto the carpet, dizzy and giddy with laughter.
Ah, so this is how five-year-olds get high…
“You!” I shout over the din, pointing a finger at a curly-haired blond girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose and big, Cindy Lou Who blue eyes. She stops in her frolicking tracks and stares up at me. “Come and say hello to your auntie, McKenna,” I command, and receive only a wide-eyed gaze. “Now.”
Another girl, shorter than Cindy Lou, with strawberry blond hair, hazel eyes and a gaping hole where her two front teeth should be, scrunches her nose at me. “I’m McKenna. Duh.”
“Okay.” Honest mistake. I haven’t seen her since the family came out to New York for a vacation over two years ago. Tebow was only a growing fetus and McKenna wasn’t yet three, and in all honestly, I didn’t pay too much attention to her since I prefer to socialize with people who can actually speak English. I beckon her over with a sweep of my hand.
“Come here and say hello, McKenna.”
She hesitates for a moment, then slowly shuffles across the carpet to where I stand. God, she’s short. My knees creak as I kneel down to he
r. “How are you doing? It’s been a long time.”
“I’m going to be a ballerina,” she says by way of a greeting.
I shrug my shoulders. “Good luck with that.” Well? What am I supposed to say?
“You’re not my auntie,” McKenna declares, sniffing dramatically. “My Auntie Patsy is my auntie.” Referring to my sister-in-law’s best friend, who, by the way, used to be my best friend. Patsy Gates has five kids ranging from sixteen to three and thinks Caroline is the smartest, most wonderful woman in the world. Which should tell you what I think of Patsy.
“Patsy is not your real auntie.”
“Is too.”
“Actually, she’s not. She’s just a friend of your mommy’s. I’m your real auntie.”
“Are not!” she cries.
I take a calming breath and count to ten by twos. “I’m your daddy’s sister. Your daddy is my brother,” I patiently explain. “That makes me your real auntie.”
“Are not are not are not!” McKenna is practically shaking. Another little girl, this one with wispy brown hair and an olive complexion, wanders over to McKenna’s side.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I’m McKenna’s real auntie, Auntie Meg,” I say.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s kind of scratchy.”
“Most people think it’s sexy,” I retort.
“What’s ‘sexy’ mean?”
Uh oh. “Never mind. Who are you?”
“I’m Simone.” The girl puts her hand out to shake mine, and I admit, I’m impressed with her manners—until I shake her little paw and realize it’s covered with something sticky. I shudder and yank my hand back, praying that the goo is from a recent meal rather than Simone’s nose, which looks suspiciously wet.
Thank God I got my flu shot this year.
I stand suddenly and rush to the nearest faucet, which is in the half bathroom just off the foyer. I scrub my hands with scalding water and anti-bacterial soap. When my skin is sufficiently red and chafed enough to insure I’ve killed whatever germs might have jumped aboard, I shut off the tap. A towel hangs limply over the rack and looks like it’s carrying about seventeen different viral strains. I opt to air dry.
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