Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (11 page)

The ocean breeze is whipping my hair around—it’s getting tangled in the salty air. As we run, we’re splashing in the ocean, Jason dodging the waves as they crash on shore. I’m not as quick—the water keeps soaking my pajama bottoms. My legs are burning, my feet are tingling from pounding in the sand, and I’m gasping to catch my breath. Yet, I can’t stop laughing. It’s the most fun I’ve had on this vacation so far.

Jason finally collapses on his back on the beach, throwing his hands up in the air. “Mercy! I give up!”

I drop on my stomach in the sand next to him, breathing heavily between burst of laughter. “Wow, you’re lucky I wasn’t some criminal you were chasing! You wouldn’t have made it,” I remark with a snort.

“You were chasing me, remember?” Jason waves his pointer finger at me.

“Oh, yeah,” I laugh and prop my chin up in my hands. “And why was that again?” I wink and crane my neck to get a glimpse of his feet.

Sitting up, Jason sighs. “Okay, fine. You gave me a run for my money. I might as well show you.”

I push myself up, and pull my legs into a sitting position. “Awesome!” I clap my hands like Evan does when he’s super excited about something. This alcohol has completely uninhibited me to the point that I’m acting like a four-year-old. In front of my crush nonetheless.

Amy, you’re thirty-eight years old. You’re a married woman. You’re not allowed to have a crush unless it's on Channing Tatum or someone you’ll never run into in the Stop and Shop.

“You have to promise not to laugh,” Jason is saying.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” I tell him solemnly.

Jason points to his foot and I can make out a discoloration. Right in the middle. I squint and lean closer. It looks like a...
gun
? Rather, a picture of a gun. On his foot.
Oh my God it's a tattoo!

“You got a
gun
tattooed on your foot?” I ask trying desperately to hold back my laughter. “So manly.”

Jason grimaces. "You promised not to laugh."

“I’m not laughing,” I protest while biting my lip so I don’t laugh. “I’ve just never seen a man with a tattoo on his foot before. I’ve seen plenty of women going through a mid-life crisis with tattoos on their feet…”

Jason shoves me playfully. “It’s not my fault, you know.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, someone just borrowed your foot for a couple of hours and got you a tattoo?” That totally sounds like what Allie said when we discovered her belly button piercing. She blamed everyone under the sun except for herself.

Jason’s face clouds for a second, his eyes turning stormy. I am momentarily afraid that I have said something wrong. But he shakes it off quickly and tells me, “It was right after Stacey died. I was really feeling angry and vulnerable. A couple of the guys from work dragged me out, insisting that I needed to let loose and have a good time. I really didn’t want to go, but I ended up at this sports bar with them.” His voice trails off as he pokes a hole in the sand with his finger. I am wondering what a sports bar has to do with a foot tattoo when I am distracted by watching him rotate his finger in the sand, making the hole wider and deeper. It's oddly titillating.

Oh, for heaven’s sakes! What is wrong with you, Amy? He’s talking about his dead fiancée and you’re getting turned on by his innocent playing in the sand? Maybe you need psychiatric help. Just be a friend and listen for once!

“Well, I got much drunker than usual and I ended up betting on a game. Mets and Yankees, Subway series. The Mets had been dominating the series and this was the third game, which they were winning. I figured betting on them was a sure thing. Or at least my drunk self thought it was a safe bet. Needless to say, I lost the bet.”

“Never bet on the Mets,” I mumble absentmindedly. I live with a diehard Yankees fan. I’ve made the mistake of betting with Roger. I had to submit to a month of sexual favors of his choosing one Subway series. It was a very long month.

“Yeah, I know that now,” Jason scowls, while rubbing his foot. “Anyway, the punishment was to get a tattoo in a feminine place, either the lower back or foot. I, of course, opted for the foot because chances are, no one would ever see it—” He smirks. “Except for you. Why am I not surprised that you are the one person who weaseled that secret out of me, Amy Maxwell?”

I tap my finger to my lips in mock concentration. “Hmmmm, well it might possibly be because I’m a brilliant detective?”

Jason laughs so hard that he actually starts snorting. Then he glances at my dead-panned face. “Oh, you were
serious
about that?"

I cross my arms over my chest. “Hey! Watch it! I’ve cut down some criminals in my day! And I’m really good at finding out secrets, too.”
Like the fact my husband is cheating on me...those kinds of secrets.

Jason wrinkles his brow, studying my face. Leaning back on his elbows he asks, “Are you okay?”

I laugh nervously. Of course I’m not okay. I never seem to be okay when I see Jason.
And
, I rarely see Jason. In fact, the last time I actually saw
him, I was recovering from the injury sustained from the dramatic kidnapping rescue that he led on my behalf. Even though we keep in touch via Facebook and the occasional phone call or text message, it seems like whenever I’m around Jason, I’m on the precipice of disaster. I don’t want him to think my life is constantly in turmoil. Even though in reality...it is.

“Everything is fine,” I tell him, attempting to smile while simultaneously keeping my voice from cracking.
Everything is fine, everything is fine. You will not cry to Jason about Roger.

I dig my own hands in the sand, creating two steep mountains, and then pushing the piles together until they collapse, covering my hands.

Jason reaches over and with his two fingers, tilts my chin toward his face. “You forget, I’m a trained law enforcement officer. I can tell when you’re lying, Amy.” Even though his face is stern, his eyes are gentle and accepting. My resolve crumbles and my tears start to flow.

“Everything is falling apart!” I manage to say in between sobs. “I can’t come up with ideas for my blog, my writing sucks, Lexie’s becoming a snarky teen like her sister, I can’t keep track of Evan and...Roger is
cheating on me!
”

Jason does a double-take at my final announcement. “What? He’s doing what?”

I nod my head, big fat tears plopping onto the sand. “Yeah. With some blond bimbo that used to be his student.”

“How do you know?”

“At dinner last night she was giving him a hug, and gushing about how important he was to her, and I wanted to just vomit. I felt so sick to my stomach just seeing her with him…”

Jason holds up his hand. “Wait a minute. She’s
here
? On your
vacation
?”

“Well she’s not on
our
vacation.
Allegedly
she lives here now. At least that’s what she told Roger last night. Or rather, she
reminded
him that she lives here. As if he already knew that or something...like he talks to her regularly.”

Jason’s concerned face relaxes, and I can see a smile playing on his lips. “Amy, that doesn’t prove anything. In fact, it proves just the opposite. If she lives
here
, he’s not having an affair with her. He just ran into someone he knows, that’s all. How would he have an affair with someone who lives over a thousand miles away?”

Tucking my leg underneath my body, I point out, “They could be having cybersex or something.”

Jason shakes his head. “You told me yourself that Roger can barely figure out how to check his email. That doesn’t sound like it would be very likely. Besides, how did he get in contact with this woman to begin with?”

“Former student,” I correct.

“Even more unlikely. From what I know about Roger, he’s a professional and an upstanding guy. He wouldn’t risk his career for an affair.”

“Well, she’s not his student anymore. Besides, I have proof...he was talking to her on the phone this morning.” I push some of the sand I have made wet with my tears into a small pile. Maybe I’ll make myself a castle I can escape to.

“How do you know it was her? Did he
say
it was her?” Jason is trying to be logical, and I appreciate it. But facts are facts and I can’t deny them, as much as I want to.

“He didn’t have to. He was yelling at her for showing up at the restaurant last night. He said that they’ve kept this relationship a secret for this long, and she was going to ruin it because I was going to find out about them.”
Or something along those lines.

“Oh.” Jason grimaces. “Well, that’s kind of damning, but it’s still not the same as you finding her panties in his car or something.”

I wrinkle up my nose. “
Jason!
”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

I continue to construct my makeshift sand castle as I say, “Well it was enough for me to put two and two together. He seemed really embarrassed when she came over. It almost looked like he was trying to shoo her away. Or at least trying to prevent her from talking to me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything and after a few minutes, I steal a glance at him to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep. He’s staring off at the waves trickling up the beach. It appears that high tide is coming soon.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, still not looking my way.

“Sorry? What are
you
sorry for?” His apology only serves to confuse me. He’s
not the one who should be apologizing.
Roger
is the one who should be on his knees begging for my forgiveness.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I feel bad. Not all men are like that. In fact, I am really hoping that you’re mistaken and that this is all just a misunderstanding. I can’t believe Roger would do that to you.”

I am about to snap back that he doesn’t know Roger, but then I realize,
I
didn’t think Roger could do that to me. The man who vowed to love me for richer or poorer? The man who rubbed my feet and painted my toenails for each one of my four pregnancies? The man who I made love to last night in a way we haven’t done since the numbers in the year had a one in front of them?

Suddenly, I want to punish Roger. My anger is heightened, my inhibitions unfortunately lowered. I glance at Jason, the sea breeze tussling his dark hair, curling the ends. His face is scruffy and his dimple is visible, even though he isn’t smiling. The crease between his eyes is deepened, as if he is considering this conundrum very carefully. Like the fate of my marriage is somehow in his hands. His arms are wrapped around his knees, his tense forearm muscles and biceps clearly defined.

I don’t want to say what happened next is
completely
due to my inebriated state. Nor can I totally blame my vortex of conflicting emotions. It is inexcusable, no matter what the reason.

I lean forward, pushing my swirling hair out of my eyes. As my face gets closer to Jason’s, he suddenly remembers that I am there and turns his head. Just in time for me to plant a kiss on his supple lips.

To my surprise, Jason does not push me away. Instead, I feel the same forearms that I was just admiring, wrap around my back, pulling me closer to him. For a brief minute, explosions rock my body, leaving me breathless.

And then...he pulls away. His face is panic stricken, guilt written all over it. He flattens his hands on the sand and pushes his body up, practically leaping to his feet. I swear I see him wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“Shit,” is all he says, nervously running his hands over the sides of his face. “Shit, why did that happen?”

I am still sitting on the beach, my confidence and feelings crushed like the countless grains of sand that surround me, tossed around in the ocean for millions of years before landing on this beach. And now I have been absolutely humiliated in front of said grains of sand.

I jump onto my own feet, shaking. “I gotta go,” I manage to mumble, head down so I don’t have to witness Jason’s rejection. As if being rejected by my husband wasn’t enough, I need to be rejected by the man I’ve been crushing on from afar for two years. Awesome.

I decide to run. That way I can get away from him faster.

“Amy, wait!” I hear Jason call after me. “That’s not what I meant!”

But I don’t care. I run straight back to the hotel, the tears filling my eyes so fast I can barely see. I stumble on my way up the ramp—hopefully out of Jason’s line of sight. Not that a little thing like tripping would matter at this point in time. Because, it appears that once again, I, Amy Maxwell, have fucked everything up.

~Twelve~
 

There’s a light rapping on the hotel room door. “Can someone get that?” I yell from the balcony, where I am working feverishly on my blog, while simultaneously drowning my sorrows in a refreshing glass of Riesling, while shoveling slices of brie in my mouth. The wine is light and crisp, the cheese sharp—my taste buds are dancing in my mouth. I don’t want to interrupt the gastronomous love affair I have going on, but nobody seems to be answering the door. The knocking has become much more urgent. I step into the room from the balcony and glance around. Amazingly, the room is empty. The children and Roger must have gone to the beach. It’s strange that they wouldn’t tell me about it.

“Coming!” I call out as the knocking intensifies. If this is the maid I swear, I’m going to read her the riot act. I’m pretty sure I put the
do not disturb
sign on the door.

My fingers brush my lips as I recall last night. The kiss on the beach. Jason’s reaction. The embarrassment of it all. I want to jump into the bed and pull the comforter over my head. In fact, that's what I should do.

“Amy! Amy, open up this door!” I can hear Jason demanding out in the hallway. “I’ll break it down!!”

Crap. I have no choice now, do I?

Taking a deep breath, I undo the latch (How did Roger and the kids do the latch from the outside of the door? Did I do that and can’t remember? How drunk was I last night?). I pull open the door to see Jason standing in the hallway, a giant bouquet of pink and yellow roses in his hand. I gasp from surprise. Pink and yellow roses are my favorite. How did Jason know?

Jason pushes his way into the hotel room. “Amy, I’m truly sorry for what happened last night,” Jason is explaining. “You took me by surprise by kissing me.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You didn’t have to act disgusted by it,” I grumble.

“I wasn’t. Quite the contrary! It’s just that you are a married woman and I’m not that type of guy.”

I am quite annoyed by his unspoken insinuation that I am
“that type of girl”
. “Okay, so what do you want then?”

“I wanted to apologize and ask you to come away with me,” Jason says, scooping me up into his arms and spinning in a circle, my legs dangling to the side.

“What?” This makes no sense whatsoever. “I’m still a married woman!” I swat at him. “Put me down!”

“Not anymore!” Jason tells me with a grin. “Roger signed the papers this morning! You’re a free woman!”

“I am?” I can’t believe what I am hearing. Roger really truly doesn’t love me anymore? He wants a divorce? Does this mean he loves Victoria?

I gasp as I clutch my chest, my breath catching in my throat, strangling me as I fight to breathe. This is not a good fantasy. Not at all...

I jerk violently from my sleep, panting. My body is trembling, and I’m sweating from my dream-turned-nightmare. Lifting my head from my pillow, I gaze around the hotel room, blinking the sleep from my eyes. The room is mostly dark—there’s a thin beam of light creeping in from the space between the curtains. I hear the rumbling of Roger snoring next to me, and Evan’s soft moans and groans as he shifts in his sleep at the foot of the bed. I can’t see Lexie or Allie’s faces in the next bed, but the gentle rise and fall of the outlines of their bodies assures me that they are still sleeping. Peeking over the side of the bed, I see Colt, the lone inhabitant of the sofa bed, curled up in a ball, blankets and pillows tossed to the floor.

None of this tells me what time it is, however, so I turn my head to read the clock on Roger’s side of the bed, causing the room to practically spin out of control by my sudden motion. My stomach lurches and it feels like firecrackers are going off in my head.
Oh dear Lord,
I silently groan, clutching my midsection. Then I grab my head. I’m not sure whether I’m going to hurl or have an aneurysm. Either one might offer some relief from the intense discomfort I’m feeling.

This is why you need to stick to wine and fruity girlie drinks, Amy! Hard liquor is for the professionals! And you are a mother!

I would scream at myself if I didn’t think my head would explode. I have to go to the bathroom and I may have to throw up when I get there...I’m not sure. It hurts to think.
Imagine how much it’s going to hurt to puke, Amy.
My conscience is obviously in “smart ass mode” this morning.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a mariachi band playing feverishly in my head while my stomach jerks along to the music. The room is kind enough to stop spinning long enough for me to navigate the cluttered path to the bathroom. There are flip flops and bathing suits tossed everywhere (I’m sure they’re wet, but it’s not ruining my floor, so what do I care?), not to mention sand toys flung from one end of the room to the other. And sand. Lots and lots of sand. I step in a pile (yes, and entire
pile
of sand) when I enter the bathroom. Not wanting to turn on the light, but having no choice because the there is no window in the bathroom, I flick the switch. I hear a hum and then the small bathroom is flooded with a nauseating white glow.

Lowering my shaking legs onto the edge of the tub, I lift the toilet lid and peer into the bowl.  I wait to puke, but the nausea has subsided slightly. Unfortunately, the band has started their encore performance, causing my head to thump violently.

Do I really have to throw up? Maybe I’m just hungry. And I probably need coffee.

I was so angry yesterday morning that I forgot to get coffee before going to the beach. I stand up as my brain makes an executive decision for me.
I'll just go pop an Advil and then get a bagel and...whoa!

Out comes a lovely golden brown liquid from the depths of either my small intestine or my toes. I’m not certain because my entire body is practically convulsing while I heave forward and manage to get 99% of the vomit actually
into
the toilet. The unfortunate other 1% is divided between the lid, the seat, the top of the toilet, and somehow, the mirror behind the sink. Now I understand how the kids manage to make the bathroom look like the set from a Nickelodeon show when they throw up. The puke has escaped everywhere. Not to mention the other liquid that escaped—I notice that my pants are soaked. As in, I have peed myself.

“Are you frigging kidding?” I ask the ghostly version of myself in the mirror. Turning on the water, I give it a second to warm up before I splash some on my face. I grab my toothbrush, but then spit out a chunk of something green in the sink. I opt to just rinse my mouth rather than contaminate my toothbrush. God knows how much a new one in the gift shop would cost. Lexie’s bathing suit that was almost identical to the $20 one I had bought her in the beginning of the summer, was $89.99 in the gift shop. Plus tax.

I do feel slightly better after throwing up, however. If I can just grab my clothes and change before anyone else gets up and sees I peed my pants, that’ll be even better.

Running my wet hands through my hair, I pull the bathroom door open, only to find Lexie and Colt shoving each other right near the entrance.

“Mom, tell her I was here first!” Colt screams.

“Duh, you idiot! She doesn’t know you were there first. She was
in
the bathroom,” Lexie says.

Colt points a finger. “Ah ha! See, you admitted it! I was there first!” The sound of his voice rips through my head faster than the kids opening their gifts on Christmas.

“Colt, please,” I moan, clutching my head. He glances up at me, concern in his expression.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” he asks, while Lexie uses the opportunity to push past him to get into the bathroom.

“I’m fine,” I tell him with a halfhearted smile. I pat him on the head, hoping he will believe me and not probe. When he was little he wanted to be a doctor, so I ended up being his “patient” a lot. Whenever anyone was sick or injured, he would get out his little plastic doctor kit and take care of them. After I broke my foot last year, he was the only one of my kids who showed any empathy whatsoever. Evan sat on top of me, playing with my hair, and the girls wanted to know when I would be able to drive them places again. Colt brought me chicken soup and actually tried to feed me a couple of times, which resulted in second degree burns on my neck.  But it’s the thought that counts, right? And obviously I am doing something right if I can get one of my four kids to care about someone other than themselves.

Then, just when I think Colt has actually given me a small reason to smile this morning, he wrinkles up his nose and asks, “Did you
pee
yourself?”

Allie picks that exact second to stumble out of bed. “Ewww, Mom! That’s so gross!” says the girl whose breath currently reeks of the garlic she consumed the night before.

“Just wait till you have four kids and your bladder resembles an accordion,” I snap at her.

I bend down to rummage through my suitcase for a change of clothes, but I can still hear her muttered response. “I would
never
have four kids.”

Never say never, kid.
I glance over at Roger, who is somehow sleeping through this loud conversation.
I never thought I’d see the day your father was cheating on me with a younger woman, either. But guess what?

“Whatever,” I mumble, and I grab a clean bathing suit and the cover up I bought yesterday. The toilet flushes and Lexie emerges from the bathroom. I shove past Colt and barricade myself in the bathroom.

“Hey!” I hear him shout from the other side of the door. “I have to pee! I’ve been waiting forever!”

“Sorry! I’ll be right out!” I shout back while I strip off my pants and toss them on the counter. I fill up the sink with warm water and give myself a quick sponge bath—no time for a shower with five other people who need to use the bathroom. As I let the water drain, I glance around for a dry towel and find none. Of course there are plenty of wet ones tossed all over the floor. Glancing at the towel rack, I see that there are quite a few washcloths. God forbid anyone use those. I use one to dry myself, and then pull on my bathing suit and throw my pee-pee pants into the sink. I push down the plug and fill the basin with warm water again, add a drop of shampoo, and then vigorously rub the pants in the crotch area. Then, I unplug the sink and rinse the pants with cool water until there are no more bubbles left.

I pull the pants out of the sink and hang them over the shower curtain rod along with the rest of the family’s bathing suits.
What? I know it’s gross—I’ll wash them thoroughly when I get home.

Colt is still banging on the door, but I don’t really hear him. I don’t really hear or feel anything. Once I threw up, my ability to feel completely vanished. Except, of course, for the throbbing across my forehead. I am wondering if I will ever be able to feel anything again; happiness, fear, sadness? Anything but this nauseating calm that has washed over me.

And then Roger bangs on the door. “Amy! We only have one bathroom! You can’t dawdle in there for an hour and a half like at home!”
And...I feel again. Angry Amy is back.

I slam my fist on the sink top, wishing it was Roger’s head.
Dawdle? Is the man who spends forty-five minutes a day
pooping,
talking to me about dawdling because I’m taking five minutes to change in private? Oh, he has some nerve! It must be so nice when you get all the privacy you want at your girlfriend’s.

I gasp, wondering if Victoria has an apartment nearby and if Roger has been to it. Maybe that’s where he was supposed to meet her yesterday and couldn’t because I went down to the bar.

I feel a spark of triumph ignite as I swing the bathroom door open, revealing both Roger and Colt standing there in their underwear and scratching their privates. Roger also has a newspaper tucked under his arm.
Of course. It’s time for the morning constitutional. Can’t get in the way of that. Don’t worry about the fact that I haven’t pooped in three days because I haven’t eaten anything with fiber in it, nor have I had five minutes alone to go to the frigging bathroom.

“About time,” Roger grumbles, brushing past our son who just wants to pee.

Keep calm, Amy. Do not punch him in his fat meatball head.

“But I have to go!” Colt whines as the door slams shut. “I’ve been waiting!”

“Oh, go pee on a tree!” I yell as I yank my cover up over my head.
One of the many advantages to being a guy, right? Peeing wherever you want? Not ever having to share your body with an alien intruder for nine months as you become grotesquely stretched out of shape? Not ever having to give birth and subsequently peeing yourself when you puke, cough, sneeze, or do jumping jacks for the rest of your life? Oh, and don’t forget, being able to cheat on your naive wife without her suspecting a thing. That just might be the most important advantage to being a guy.

I glance around at my children in various stages of undress. Evan is naked from the waist down, but has the bathing suit on his head. Colt, as I mentioned, is in underwear and tee shirt of some NFL team—I can’t figure out the logo since I think it’s a throwback tee-shirt. Allie is oh-so-discretely attempting to change in the small closet that houses the safe, and Lexie is just disrobing in front of the window, oblivious to the fact that not only can everyone in the
room
see her, but everyone who happens to look up at the window, too.