Twisted, Page 5

  She’s good, isn’t she? Focused. Determined. I’m not surprised—she’s Drew’s niece, after all. As she finishes the song, we all clap.

  Then I turn to Delores. “Billy called me last night. He’s got a few weeks off. He’s coming to the city next week and wants to meet up for dinner.”

  Sarcasm drips off Drew’s words like chocolate on a strawberry. “Jackass is coming to town? Oh, goody. It’ll be like Christmas.”

  Delores looks at Drew. “Hey—Jackass is my nickname for him. Get your own.”

  Drew nods. “You’re right. Douche Bag has a much nicer ring to it.”

  Are you wondering about the Bad Word Jar? For those of you who don’t know, the Bad Word Jar was started by Alexandra to financially penalize anyone—usually Drew—who cursed in front of her daughter. Originally, each curse cost a dollar, but when Drew and I were working through our issues, I convinced Mackenzie to bump the price up to ten. Color me vindictive.

  Anyway, these days, the Jar is no longer used. Mackenzie has a checking account now. And since she’s old enough to write, she keeps a log of who owes what in that blue notebook there—the one she’s scribbling in right now.

  We’re all expected to pay our fines before we leave. Or run the risk of a 10 percent late fee.

  I have a feeling Mackenzie’s going to be a brilliant banker someday.

  She puts her book down and goes back to strumming her guitar. Then she turns to Drew.

  “Uncle Drew?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Where do babies come from?”

  Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “God.”

  I got the basics when I was eleven. My mother took the “stay my little girl forever and don’t ever have sex” approach. Amelia Warren, on the other hand, was more than willing to fill in the gaps. She wanted her daughter Delores and me informed. And prepared. By the time we were thirteen, we could get a condom on a banana faster than any hooker on the strip.

  Whatever you do, don’t let your kids learn about procreation from “The Video.” Finding out about the birds and the bees is a lot like finding out there’s no Santa—kids are bound to figure it out eventually, but it’ll go down much easier coming from you.

  Mackenzie nods and goes back to her guitar. Until . . .

  “Uncle Drew?”

  “Yes, Mackenzie?”

  “The baby grows in the mommy’s tummy, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “How does that happen . . . exactly?”

  Drew rubs his fingers over his lips, thinking it over.

  And I hold my breath.

  “Well, you know when you’re painting? And you mix blue and red together? And you get . . .”

  “Purple!”

  “Excellent, yes, you get purple. Babies are kind of like that. A little blue paint from the daddy, some red paint from the mommy, shake it all together, and boom—you get a whole new person. Hopefully not purple, but if Aunt Delores is involved? Anything is possible.”

  Delores gives Drew the finger behind Mackenzie’s back.

  Mackenzie nods. And goes back to strumming her guitar. For one whole minute.

  “Uncle Drew?”

  “Yep?”

  “How does the daddy’s blue paint get to the mommy’s red paint?”

  Drew raises both eyebrows. “How . . . how does it . . . get there?”

  Mackenzie gestures with her hand. “Well, yeah. Does the doctor give her a shot of blue paint? Does the mommy swallow the blue paint?”

  Matthew snickers. “Only if the daddy is a very lucky guy.”

  Delores smacks him on the head. But Mackenzie’s round blue eyes stay on Drew, waiting for an answer.

  He opens his mouth.

  And then closes it.

  He starts again.

  And then stops.

  Finally, like cannonballing into a pool on the first day of spring, he takes the plunge. “Well . . . the mommy and daddy have sex.”

  It’s official. Alexandra’s going to kill him. For real this time. I’m going to be a widow before I’m ever a wife.

  Mackenzie’s face rumples with confusion. “What’s sex?”

  “Sex is how babies get made.”

  She thinks about it a moment. And then she nods. “Oh. Okay.”

  Wow.

  And I thought the final exams in business school were hard.

  Drew handled that pretty well, don’t you think? He’s good with kids. Which makes sense, because in so many ways . . . he still is one.

  Alexandra walks into the room. She seems happy, now—now that she’s showed Steven that his “steel guns” can, in fact, be dented. She’s all glowy.

  “What are we doing in here?”

  Drew smiles innocently. “Talking about paint colors.”

  Alexandra smiles and strokes her daughter’s hair.

  As Mackenzie adds, “And sex.”

  Alexandra’s hand stops. “Wait . . . what?”

  Drew leans over and whispers in my ear, “We should probably leave the room now.”

  As the door swings closed behind us, we hear “Drew!” And Alexandra doesn’t sound so happy anymore.

  At last, dinner is served. The actual eating of the meal is uneventful, but during dessert Alexandra taps her glass with a spoon.

  “Everyone—can I have your attention, please?” She beams at Steven and then goes on. “Mackenzie has an announcement she’d like to make.”

  Mackenzie stands on her chair and proclaims, “My mom and dad had sex!”

  The entire table is silent.

  Until Matthew raises his glass. “Congratulations, Steven. It’s like Halley’s Comet, right? You only get to come every seventy-five years?”

  Delores laughs.

  And John clears his throat. Awkwardly. “That’s, ah . . . that’s . . . very nice, dear.”

  Then Frank decides to share. “Sex is good. Keeps you regular. I make sure I have sex at least three times a week. Not that my Estelle is into any of that freaky-freaky stuff, but in forty years of marriage, she’s never had a headache.”

  Estelle smiles proudly beside him.

  And Matthew covers his face with his hands.

  The rest of us just stare. Eyes wide, mouths slightly opened.

  Until Drew throws his head back and laughs. “That’s so great.” He wipes his eyes, practically crying.

  Alexandra shakes her head. “Wait. There’s more. Go ahead, Mackenzie.”

  Mackenzie rolls her eyes. “Well, that means they’re gonna have a baby, of course. I’m gonna be a big sister!”

  Congratulations erupt all around. Anne tears up as she hugs her daughter. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”

  Drew stands and hugs his sister sweetly. “Congratulations, Lex.” Then he smacks Steven on the back. “I’ll keep the guest room ready for you, man.”

  I’m confused. “Guest room?”

  Drew explains. “The last time Alexandra was pregnant, she kicked Steven out—not once, not twice, but four fucking times.”

  Matthew joins in. “And that’s not counting the time she let him stay, but she threw all his shit out the window.”

  Drew chuckles. “It looked like a Barneys delivery truck exploded on Park Avenue. The homeless were never dressed so well.”

  Alexandra rolls her eyes and turns to me. “Pregnancy hormones. They can cause some pretty bad mood swings. I tend to get a little . . . bitchy . . . when I’m pregnant.”

  Drew smirks. “As opposed to the rest of the time, when you’re just so pleasant?”

  You know how some dogs still keep chewing your shoes—no matter how many times you smack them with a newspaper? They just can’t resist?

  Drew is one of those dogs.

  Alexandra turns on her brother like a cat hissing at a snake. “You know, Drew, being with child? It’s kind of like a ‘get out of jail free’ card. There’s not a jury in the country that would convict me.”

  He backs away slowly.

  I shake my head a
t him, then ask Alexandra, “Other than that, how are you feeling?”

  She shrugs. “Tired, mostly. And the vomiting doesn’t help. Most women get morning sickness, but I get it at night, which sucks pretty bad.”

  Huh

  Vomiting.

  Tired.

  Moody.

  They certainly sound familiar.

  What? Why are you looking at me like that?

  No, no—everyone knows the surest sign of pregnancy is a missed period. And my period’s not due for . . . one . . . two . . . four . . .

  Five . . .

  My period was due five days ago.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Chapter 5

  Denial is a skill I mastered at a young age.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Suck it up. Choke it down.

  I didn’t cry the night my father died.

  Not when Sherriff Mitchell came to our door to take us to the hospital, or when the doctor told us they’d lost him. I didn’t shed a tear during the wake—or at the funeral.

  Thank you for your condolences.

  Yes, I’ll be strong for my mother.

  You’re so kind.

  Eight days after he was laid in the ground, my mother was working in the diner downstairs. I was in our kitchen, trying to open a jar of pickles.

  I walked into my parents’ bedroom and called my Dad for help. And that’s when it hit me—staring at their empty room. He wasn’t there. He’d never be there again. I collapsed on the floor and sobbed like a baby.

  Over a jar of pickles.

  It’s that same skill set that gets me through the rest of the night at the Evanses’. I smile. I chat. I hug Mackenzie good-bye. Drew and I go home and make love.

  And I don’t tell him.

  You don’t yell fire in a movie theater unless you’re sure there’re flames.

  Have you ever seen Gone with the Wind? Scarlett O’Hara is my idol.

  “I can’t think about this now. I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

  So that’s my plan. At least for the moment.

  Tomorrow comes quickly.

  And apparently God has a sick sense of humor. Because everywhere I turn, I’m surrounded by pregnancy.

  Take a look:

  The dog walker passing me on the sidewalk, the police woman directing traffic, the man on the cover of People magazine at the newsstand, the fellow executive in the cramped elevator who looks like she’s smuggling a contraband medicine ball under her blouse.

  I cover my mouth and keep my distance, like a tourist trying to avoid the swine flu.

  Eventually, I make it to my office. I sit at my desk and open my trusty daily planner.

  Yes, I still use a paper-based calendar. Drew bought me a BlackBerry for Christmas, but it’s still in the box. I don’t trust any device capable of banishing my work to the unknown abyss with the touch of a button

  I like paper. It’s solid—real. To destroy it, you have to burn it.

  Usually I’m pretty anal retentive. I write everything down. I’m a banker—we live and die by the schedule. But lately I’ve been distracted; preoccupied by exhaustion and the overall feeling of crappiness. So I missed the fact that I’d started a new pack of birth control pills, but never got a period for the last one.

  And speaking of birth control pills—what’s up with that?

  Ninety-nine-point-nine percent effective, my ass.

  It’s the same statistical accuracy of those pee-on-a-stick pregnancy tests—so I’m not going near one of those. Instead, I pick up the phone and call the office of Dr. Roberta Chang.

  Remember those four other students who Delores, Billy, and I lived with off campus in Pennsylvania? Bobbie was one of them. Her husband, Daniel, was another.

  Bobbie’s an amazing person. Her parents emigrated from Korea when she was just a baby. She’s petite—tiny enough to shop at GAP Kids—but she’s got the personality of an Amazon.

  She’s also a brilliant ob/gyn. That would be a baby doctor for you guys out there.

  Bob and her husband moved to New York just a few months ago. I haven’t seen her in years, but ours is one of those friendships that can go a decade without contact; then when we finally do get together, it’s like we haven’t missed a day.

  I make an appointment and automatically mark it in my planner.

  Bob—7:00.

  I close the book and place it next to the phone on my desk. Then I glance at the clock and realize I’m late for a meeting.

  Shit.

  I grab a folder and head out the door.

  Still not thinking about it . . . in case you were wondering.

  When I get back two hours later, Drew is sitting at my desk, tapping a pen impatiently against the dark wood. We usually eat lunch together—order in—and share it in one of our offices.

  “Hey.”

  He glances up. “Hi.”

  “Did you already order, or were you waiting for me?”

  He looks confused. “Huh?”

  I perch myself on the edge of the desk. “Lunch, Drew. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to check in with you about dinner. A new place opened in Little Italy, and I could really go for some pasta. I was going to make reservations for us tonight. At seven.”

  I freeze.

  I don’t have a lot of practice with lying. Not since high school, anyway. Even then, there weren’t a lot of outright lies. More . . . omissions of activities my mother would have blown a gasket over. When it was necessary to lie, Delores was my go-to girl, my alibi. That hasn’t changed.

  “I can’t tonight. Delores wants to have a girl’s night. We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

  Let’s pause for a moment. This is important.

  Can you see his face? Look closely or you’ll miss it.

  For just a second, there’s a flash of surprise. A touch of anger . . . maybe hurt. But then he catches himself, and his expression smooths back out to neutral. I missed that look the first time around. You should remember it. It’ll make a lot more sense in about ten hours.

  Drew’s voice is flat. Like a detective trying to trip up a perpetrator. “You just saw Delores last night.”

  My stomach gurgles like Pop Rocks in soda. “That was different—everyone was there. Tonight it’ll just be the two of us. We’ll grab a few drinks, eat some fattening appetizers, and then I’ll come home.”

  Drew stands, his movements hurried, tense. “Fine, Kate. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

  He tries to walk past me, but I grab onto his belt. “Hey. Don’t be like that. We can go out to dinner tomorrow night. Don’t be mad.”

  He lets me pull him closer, but he doesn’t say anything. I give him a flirty smile. “Come on, Drew. Let’s do lunch. And then afterward, you can do me.”

  I rub my hand up his chest, trying to soften him up.

  But he doesn’t give. “I can’t. I have some work to finish. I’ll talk to you later. ”

  He kisses my forehead, and his lips seem to linger a moment longer than normal. Then he pulls back and walks away.

  In New York City, there’s one thing you can depend on. Expect. It’s not the mail, or the kindness of your fellow man.

  It’s rush-hour traffic. Never fails. It’s what I’m sitting in right now.

  Bumper to bumper.

  I tried calling Delores three times to fill her in on my covert operation, but she didn’t answer. Cell phones aren’t allowed in the lab. I also haven’t seen Drew since he walked out of my office, and that’s a good thing. I really don’t want to talk to him until I know what I’m dealing with.

  When you’re alone in a practically unmoving vehicle, there’s really not much to do.

  Except think.

  Can you guess what I’m thinking about? Even the strongest dam is going to crack eventually.

  Scarlett O’Hara has left the building.

  Did you ever hear the st
ory about Delores’s father? It’s a doozy.

  When we were young, Amelia told Delores that her daddy just couldn’t live with them. She kept it simple—kind. But when she was older, Delores got the full story.