Say Never

by Thomas, Janis

  I push the cart to the Camaro, unlock the car doors with my fob, then open the rear door and forage through the back seat. I find Tebow’s Thomas the Train pacifier jammed between the seat belt and the car seat. My hands are shaking, and as I back out of the car, I drop the pacifier to the asphalt. I grab it from the ground, scan it for debris, then do something I’ve seen other moms do but never in a million years thought I would do. Ever. I put the nipple in my mouth, swish it around with my tongue, then pop it out and shove it into Tebow’s face. His lips wrap around the rubber tip, and immediately he shuts up and starts to suck on it.

  The sudden quiet is glorious. But I don’t enjoy it for long. I’m not sure whether it’s Tebow’s tantrum—that almost caused me to have a psychotic break—or the fact that I just picked something up off the filthy Target-parking-lot ground and stuck it into my mouth. But a moment after Tebow settles down, I stagger over to the greenery between the rows of parking spaces and vomit into the bushes.

  If I never see another Target again in my life, it will be too freaking soon.

  Eighteen

  Barry: Oh, we had a doozy of a party this weekend for Miles. Had a clown and a couple of ponies and a baby elephant and a petting zoo and a gaming truck and a bounce house and a water slide, right in our own backyard. Cost me a fortune. (chuckle chuckle)

  Pregnant Pause

  Meg: You are an idiot.

  * * *

  By the time I pull to the curb in front of the Muffin Top Bakery, my pulse has returned to normal but my stomach feels like I ate a live eel. Cera has not uttered a word during the entire drive. She sits in the passenger seat with her arms crossed over her chest, silently seething. Tebow is sound asleep from exhaustion, and although I learned my lesson yesterday about letting him sleep too long, I’ve decided not to wake him until my ears stop ringing.

  He stirs when I transfer him to his stroller, but immediately dozes off again. Cera sullenly walks toward the entrance of the shop, pulls open the door, and pointedly does not wait for me before stepping inside. I push the stroller to the door and yank it open with a grunt, and the sound of jingling bells assaults my tender eardrums. I hold the door with my foot and carefully guide my sleeping nephew into the bakery.

  The aroma of fresh baked goods fills my nostrils and the scented air is like an elixir. A display case runs halfway across the room, connected to an eat-in counter. Behind the case and counter is an exhibition kitchen where a young woman with a pink streak in her hair rolls out pie dough on a center island.

  I stroll Tebow past the array of sweets, thankful he is sleeping lest I hear the hateful I wanna another thousand times. If my insides weren’t doing an unhappy dance, I might be tempted by the muffins and cupcakes within the case; everything looks scrumptious, except for one slightly deflated-looking soufflé the color of split pea soup on the top right rack which has a placard with the legend: Izzy’s Special of the Week, Avocado Puff Soufflé. Yuk. I come to a stop beside the cash register.

  Cera slumps onto a stool at the counter. She rests her elbows against the Formica, glumly drops her head into her hands, and proceeds to ignore my existence. The woman at the center island smiles at me and holds up a flour-covered hand.

  “Be right with you,” she says.

  I nod and take a moment to look around. On the far wall is a painted mural of the Muffin Top logo, a waterfall of muffin tops cascading toward a chocolate lake. On the counter beside the cash register is a framed article from the Ladies Living Well Journal entitled Something New. I pick up the frame and read the first few lines:

  As you know, I am not a food critic, nor am I supposed to use this article to promote or advertise, but I did Something New last weekend, and I just have to share. You may have seen Ruby McMillan, proprietor of The Muffin Top, on the Food Channel’s Cake Off. Since I happen to live in the neighboring town, I was compelled to check her out. Wait, that sounded wrong. I felt compelled to check out her sweets. No, that didn’t sound right either…Okay, here it is. I came to the Muffin Top, tried her cupcakes, and they are absolutely remarkable, and I don’t give a darn how that sounds!

  I find myself smiling at the author’s wit and search for the byline. Ellen Ivers.

  “Hi, there. I’m Marcy.” The pink-streaked young woman moves to the register and I set the article down where I found it. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a cake.”

  “You came to the right place,” she says. “Is it for you?”

  “No,” I say with a laugh, then gesture to Cera. “It’s for smiley over there.”

  The bells on the door jingle and in walks an attractive auburn haired woman about my age, or perhaps a few years older, carrying a grocery sack. She wears black jeans and a beaded, long-sleeved purple top and chunky jewelry to match. I don’t recognize any designers, but her look is classy casual. She smiles as she moves in my direction.

  “Oh, Ruby, perfect timing,” Marcy says. “She needs a cake.”

  “You came to the right place,” Ruby says.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Ruby gives the sack to Marcy and puts her hand out to me. We shake.

  “I’m Ruby McMillan, the cake lady.”

  “Meg Monroe.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she says, then calls over to Cera. “Hi.” She gives the girl a cheerful wave.

  As per usual, Cera rolls her eyes; I can practically hear them rotating in their sockets from where I stand. Ruby grins at me good-naturedly and mouths the word ‘tween.’ She kneels to the floor to gaze at Tebow.

  “He is precious, isn’t he?”

  “When he’s sleeping,” I snipe.

  “How old?”

  I rack my brain. “Somewhere around two,” I say with a shrug.

  “Most moms talk in months,” she says with a laugh.

  “I’m not his mom. Or hers. Or anyone’s, for that matter.” Thank God. “I’m the aunt.”

  She watches Tebow work his pacifier in his sleep and smiles, then stands up.

  “I miss that age,” she tells me. “Mine are teenagers, one’s almost in college. It goes fast.”

  “Not when they’re having a tantrum,” I say. “Time stands still when they’re screaming.”

  She laughs. “They get past that age…wait, no, they don’t, but the volume decreases as time goes by. Either that, or we parents are slowly going deaf.”

  She ushers me over to the counter and we sit, side by side a couple of stools away from Cera. She looks at me closely, her brows furrowing. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Fine,” I say, although it comes out as a question.

  She smiles. “You look a little pale, that’s all. Can I get you something? Coffee? Muffin?”

  “No, thanks, I just want to order a cake. For little miss sunshine.”

  Ruby swivels her stool around to face Cera. “Well, well. Let’s see. Is it birthday cake? A college graduation cake? Retirement cake? Moving to Paris cake?”

  “I wish,” Cera says.

  “Oh, yes, well, I’d like to move to Paris, too. Do some shopping on the Champs-Elysées. Catch the French Open. Meet Rafael Nadal.” She makes a show of sighing heavily. “He’s dreamy.”

  “Roger Federer is way cuter,” Cera says.

  “You think so? I don’t know. It’s pretty close.”

  “They’re both too young for you,” Cera announces drily, but I can see that she is starting to thaw.

  Ruby lets out a chuckle. “Right you are.”

  I shake my head as I take in their exchange, trying to comprehend how this complete stranger can connect with Cera in seconds flat. Like my dad did yesterday.

  And then something strange happens. A light bulb flashes in my head as a realization washes over me. The only ways in which I’ve communicated with Danny and Caroline’s children, with the exception of last night’s lullaby to Tebow, has been using either bribery, condescension, or flat out anger. I’ve yet to attempt an actual conversation with these k
ids. I haven’t made any effort to simply talk to them. Ironic since I talk to people every day on my show. Granted, I usually end up berating my callers, but only after they piss me off.

  “So, what’s your favorite flavor of cake?” Ruby asks and Cera thinks for a moment.

  “Chocolate with raspberry filling and vanilla frosting.”

  “Wow. I like that. A girl who knows what she wants. I can do that, by the way.” She smiles at Cera. “You know, your aunt must think very highly of you to get you a Muffin Top cake.”

  I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Because honestly, I don’t think very highly of her. I haven’t been thinking of her at all. Nor McKenna and Tebow. They’ve been my responsibility, and basically a pain in my ass, but not much more than that. Because I haven’t let them be.

  “She’s not my aunt,” Cera corrects tersely. “Anyway, my step-uncle made her come here.”

  Ruby McMillan leans toward her conspiratorially. “I have a feeling no one can make your, hmm, step-aunt do something she doesn’t want to do, right? Kind of like you…?” Cera considers this. “Maybe you ought to just say ‘thank you.’”

  Cera rolls her eyes again and resumes her head-in-hands position. Ruby turns to me and winks. “Don’t worry. It’s just a phase. She’ll outgrow it.”

  Maybe, I think. Problem is, I won’t be around to enjoy it when that happens.

  * * *

  As we head back to Vista View to pick up McKenna from school, Cera pulls her ear buds out of her ears and shifts in her seat. I feel her eyes on me. I stop for a red light and glance over at her.

  “That lady makes cool cakes, huh?”

  We’d spent ten minutes pouring over an album filled with Ruby McMillan’s creations. I was impressed and so was Cera.

  “Yeah. She’s really good. Your birthday cake is going to be great.”

  “We could have just gone to Albertsons,” Cera says quietly. “My birthday’s no big deal.”

  “You should enjoy them while you can,” I tell her.

  “Yeah, well, um…Thanks for taking me there.”

  A couple of seconds of silence pass while I wait for the light to change. I don’t want Cera to see how much her thanks means to me, so I keep my eyes trained on the street light.

  “Sorry about your Fianna doll,” I say. “I just had to get out of that store.”

  “I thought you were going to have a nervous breakdown.”

  “What do you know about nervous breakdowns?”

  She grins. “My cousin Veronica had one her freshman year in college. I heard my dad talking to my aunt about it on the phone. She’s on medication now, so she’s okay. But she kind of drools a lot when she drinks soda pop and sometimes she pulls up her skirt and shows everyone her underwear.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” I say. “That’s why I never wear skirts.”

  Cera laughs, actually laughs, and the sound makes me giddy. What a schmuck I am.

  “That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “I mean, who knows what you would have done if you’d been wearing one in Target.”

  “I’d probably be in jail right now.”

  I laugh with her. Tebow burbles happily from the backseat. All is right with the world.

  Until we get to Dumbass Elementary School.

  * * *

  “I just said what you told me to say!” McKenna exclaims from her seat in the principal’s office. “He was making fun of my macaroni Thanksgiving, and I let him have it, and then he went crying to the teacher and tattle-taled on me.”

  “McKenna, just calm down.”

  “And now they’re gone spell me!” she sobs.

  The man behind the desk is a clone for my old principal Mr. Gunther Griswald. Same slicked back black hair, same thick-lensed glasses, same too-wide tie, same patronizing manner and deadpan expression. He clears his throat and addresses me in a gravelly voice that brings to mind a cartoon character from an old Looney Tunes episode where everyone, including the horse, is smoking.

  “McKenna has never been a problem, Mrs. Monroe—”

  “Ms. Monroe.”

  “But we have a no name-calling policy.” He glances at his note pad. “Dumb-witty? I believe that is what your daughter—”

  “She’s my niece,” I tell him. Is this guy for real? Has he never met Caroline or is he just too stupid to remember her.

  “If this happens again, we will have to take severe action. Suspension, expulsion…”

  “For calling a name? Jes—Jiminy Cricket! What is this, the Inquisition?”

  “I’ll expect your daughter to write an apology to Mr. Dunwiddie. And please make certain she uses imaginative details and expressive language.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s five!”

  The principal finally looks up at me, his expression of shock is barely discernable under his thick jowls.

  “I now understand why McKenna is so at ease with the use of derogatory and insulting verbiage.”

  I put my hands up in surrender and take a calming breath. “Look, Mr. Paulson. McKenna is a good kid. And you’re right. She only called that little twerp a name because I told her to. It’s my fault.”

  “Mmmhmm,” he says, returning his focus to his desk. He makes a note on his pad and nods grimly. He probably wrote down something about how horrible I am, but since he thinks I’m Caroline, I’m okay with it.

  “Be that as it may, if I am not satisfied with McKenna’s letter of apology, I shall have to take this matter further…”

  I look at McKenna’s tear-streaked face and my heart breaks. I grab her by the hand and drag her from the office, then march her over to Cera and Tebow, who have been waiting at the table outside the reception counter. When Cera sees McKenna, she grimaces with adolescent superiority.

  “God, she is such a bab—”

  “Your sister needs our help,” I say, cutting her off.

  “With what?” she asks, her expression doubtful.

  “With our ability to covertly castigate whilst seeming to compliment.”

  “Huh?” Cera says, but I call tell she’s intrigued.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I lift Tebow to my hip and head for the door.

  “Daddy’s gonna be real mad at me,” McKenna says, sniffling uncontrollably as we walk across the macadam.

  “No, honey. He’s going to be mad at me. But don’t worry. I can handle it. And besides, we’re going to write a letter that will knock Simon Dunwiddie’s socks off.”

  “We are?” she asks, looking at me hopefully.

  “You betcha,” I reply. “You might not know this, McKenna, but your Auntie Meg has a way with words.”

  * * *

  My brother gets home at four-thirty. Cera, McKenna and I are seated around the kitchen table, poring over her letter to Simon Dumb-witty while Tebow alternates between shoving Cheerios into his mouth and crushing them on his high chair with a Matchbox car.

  “What’s going on?” Danny asks, both surprised and curious. “The three of you look as thick as thieves, don’t they Tebow?”

  As cheesy as it sounds (and I hate cheesy), his ‘thieves’ comment gives me a little lift. I have been a complete failure as an aunt for days, but with Cera companionably on my left and McKenna comfortably on my right, and Tebow not screaming his guts out, I have achieved a modicum of success in the parental-guardian league.

  “I like to think of us as the multi-generational Charlie’s Angels,” I tell him. “Tebow’s Bosley.”

  “Who’s that?” McKenna asks.

  “Bill Murray,” Cera says, proving the cross-generation-thing. My Bosley will forever be David Doyle.

  “Seriously, what are you doing?” Danny changes the subject. (He always did hate Charlie’s Angels.)

  “We’re writing a letter,” Cera says.

  “Really? To who?”

  “That’s ‘to whom,’” she corrects archly, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling. When we were kids, I always corrected Danny for ever
y single grammatical error he made. (It’s hard to believe Cera and I aren’t related by blood.)

  “Simon Dunwiddie,” McKenna says. “He’s a boy in my class and he was mean to me and I called him a name and now I have to write him a ‘pology letter.”

  Danny loosens his tie and unbuttons the top three buttons of his dress shirt. Then he puts his hands on his hips and gives McKenna a stern look.

  “What did you call him?”

  Immediately, McKenna turns to me. I roll my eyes then shoot Danny a bored expression. “Dumb-witty. And I told her to call him that, so don’t get all mad at her.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch as though he’s fighting a grin. He’s probably relieved that McKenna didn’t call Simon a shithead or a douchebag or any number of other horrible names she could have picked up after hanging out with me for a few days.

  “That wasn’t nice, McKenna. Even if your aunt told you to call him that, you know better.”

  “But he was being so mean to me, Daddy. He said my macaroni Thanksgiving looked like I barfed it up!”

  “Well, that wasn’t nice either, was it? But we’ve talked about this before. What are you supposed to do if someone is mean to you?”

  McKenna hangs her head then looks up at him through furrowed brows.

  Danny holds up one finger. “Number one?”

  “Tell ‘em that’s not right,” McKenna says through pursed lips.

  Danny adds a finger. “Two?”

  “Walk away.”

  Danny adds his ring finger. “Or, three?”

  McKenna scrunches her nose. “Find a grownup.”

  Four, kick him in the balls.

  Danny shakes his head at me, reading my mind. “Very good, McKenna. Now, let’s hear that letter.”

  He takes a seat next to Cera and smiles at her. For the first time, she smiles back. McKenna picks up the letter, squints at it, then hands it to her half-sister. Cera clears her throat.

  “Dear Simon, I know it’s hard for you to be respectful and courteous to your peers because of the many social challenges you face, for instance having impaired vision and a disastrous overbite. But although you feel the need to lash out at others around you, this does not excuse my own behavior. I deeply apologize for calling you Dumb-witty, and will never again be so heartless and cruel in your presence. Please forgive me. Sincerely, McKenna Monroe, Esquire.