Say Never (6 page)

“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 brother.

“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 her. “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.

“I’m hungry.” Yet another child stands outside the bathroom, frowning up at me with almond-shaped brown eyes and thick bushy eyebrows. At five, this girl is already due for some Botox and a little strategic plucking. And perhaps a visit to Weight Watchers. Her Hello Kitty shirt covers a fairly round midsection.

“Hungry, huh?”

“Me, too,” comes a different voice. I look down the hall to see a slight Asian girl with a single tight pony tail sprouting out of one side of her head. I refrain from mentioning that her hairstyle is so 1986. She converges upon me with the other four girls in tow.

“Me three!” says McKenna.

“Me four!” says the girl I thought was McKenna.

“Me five!” says an African American girl who looks like Beyoncé’s mini me. (In about seven years Mom and Dad are going to have to keep her locked to the radiator, she’s that gorgeous.)

“Me six!” says the last girl, a dark-haired, hollow-eyed waif who may or may not be related to the scary freak-child from
The Ring.

The six of them have me surrounded, and I suddenly panic, feeling like Arnold Schwarzenegger in
Kindergarten Cop.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “All right, already! Keep it the fu—uh, keep it down!” I wipe my damp forehead and remind myself that I am a hot bitch and that it will take more than a posse of five-year-olds to rattle me.

I can do this,
I tell myself.
I am an independent woman. I’ve built a great career. I put myself through college. I almost beat a mugger unconscious when he tried to steal my purse. I can take care of a bunch of kids, no problem.