Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (4 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize sheepishly. I glower at Evan, who is now trying to wriggle down the length of my body. “Evan! Stop it,” I growl through gritted teeth. I used to be able to just wrap my arms around him to hold him still, preventing him from grabbing things off the shelf in the supermarket, jumping off the teeter-totter, etc., etc. My upper arms were the most toned they had been since, well...
birth
.  Sadly now, my four-year-old has proven that he is stronger than me. Because right now, he’s dashing down the airplane aisle. Toward the back of the plane.

“I’m really sorry,” I shout as I weave through the line of people that are shoving each other to get to the front of the plane and get off.

It is at that moment that the airplane crew decides to open the door at the
back
of the plane to alleviate the pressure the line is causing. And guess who is at the front of that line? Yup. Evan.

“Oh shit,” I curse, nearly knocking down an elderly man who is reaching into the overhead compartment. I feel a slight twinge of guilt when I see that he is trying to get his fold-up walker, but I don’t have time to apologize.

“Lexie!” I yell, pointing to the now open door at the back of the plane. “Grab your brother!”

Lexie cocks her head to the side. “What?”

“Your brother! Your brother!” I am frantically waving my hands in the air and I smack a toddler in the head.

“Watch what you’re doing!” his mother snaps as she draws him close to her body.

“Sorry!” I pant. “I gotta get my kid! He’s…” My face falls when I see my youngest child step out onto the movable staircase positioned by the door. I know Evan. He’s fast. He will be on the tarmac before I can even get to the door.

Desperate, I implore the woman standing closest to the door. “Ma’am! Can you grab my son?” She turns around and I discover that has a toddler under one arm, a baby in a papoose strapped across her chest, and is trying to gather up her diaper bag. The man with her (husband, boyfriend, useless nanny) is staring at his phone, cracking up.

The woman stares at me incredulously, like I have just asked her to eat her placenta or something.

“Never mind,” I mumble, finally reaching the door. I get it. She has no free hands. You would think the guy with her would offer to help but...oh wait...he’s a man.

At this moment, I am feeling very anti-male (mostly because my own live-in male is nowhere in sight to help me out). I pound down the steps onto the tarmac. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I say again. I see Evan’s curls bouncing—he is a few people in front of me on line. His back pack is strapped on his shoulders, and he is carefully holding onto the railings as he proceeds to the ground. I can only be thankful that at least he’s being cautious in his escape attempt.

“Somebody stop him!” I shout, pointing to my child who has now planted both his feet on the ground and is heading toward the entrance of the airport, sans adult.

Why the hell isn’t anyone stopping him?
As I push through the crowd (getting evil looks from everyone on the stairs), it occurs to me that my four-year-old looks like a seasoned traveler. Still, doesn’t anyone see that he’s three foot, four inches tall? Sure, people don’t hesitate to yell at you when you swat his bottom in the grocery store after he knocks down an entire shelf of pickles, but to stop him from getting away from me in an airport? Nobody bats an eye.

I don’t even notice that my carry-on bag is slapping me in the back rather roughly as I go running after my wayward child. The crowd is thick right here, but if I duck my head, I can still make out his bright red shirt. I suck in my breath when see the shirt disappear near the doors that lead into the airport.

Now, let me make one thing clear. This is not JFK airport or anything like that. This is a rinky-dinky building plopped down to the left of the runway. I think our kitchen is bigger than this building. Still, my heart rises in my throat as Evan disappears from my view.

Elbowing my way through the crowd, I rush toward the building and practically bump into my own husband.

“Amy! What are you doing?” he asks as I fly past him. I can’t believe
he
didn’t even try to stop our child. Not that he would be able to see him of course. To his left, there is a very blond woman...er,
girl,
walking next to him, her cleavage rather prominently displayed for all the world to see. Also, directly in front of her is another very busty woman with her boobs threatening to free themselves from her tightly-clad attire. Allie, who is next to Roger, is fortunately clutching Colt’s hand, but is so wrapped up in the process of taking a selfie with the plane behind her, that she too, does not notice her other brother zipping past.

“No roaming! International rates are insane!” I yell to her as I brush past. I am hot on Evan’s heels now. He glances over his shoulder, and upon seeing me approach, he bursts out into a fit of giggles as he squeezes through the crowd and through the door. He thinks that this is a game—a game he enjoys playing any time he can get loose from my grasp. I think the danger portion of his medulla oblongata has not been properly formed or something. The kid has absolutely no fear, and quite frankly, he doesn’t see why we are so obsessed with his safety all the time.

Panting, I reach the door and attempt to push past the throngs of people five deep, trying to pass through a door the size of the rabbit hole that Alice discovered in Wonderland. “Excuse me, pardon me!” I'm trying not to push people down, but it is proving difficult, as nobody wants to let me pass through.

A rough-looking meathead in a guinea tee that prominently displays his biceps—which, incidentally, are the size of my  thighs—puts his hand up to stop me. “Hey lady! You need to wait your turn!” His Italian horn dangles from his neck, threatening to poke me in the eye. I instantly recognize him—he’s the guy who nearly ran Lexie over in the parking lot earlier.

Here I must pause to explain that the mixture of panic and annoyance I am feeling right now is taking over my general common sense. This always happens to me when I panic. It’s like those Snickers commercials where they say, “
Here have a Snickers! You’re not yourself when you’re hungry.
” I'm not myself when I’m hungry, tired, and too far away to grab my four-year-old as he escapes into a crowd of people, in an airport, in a foreign country. So I do what any other irrational person in this situation would do. I slap the meathead. Across the face.

The man stares at me, stunned, mouth hanging open with shock. His hand slides up to his face in cinematic, slow-motion fashion. My brain realizes my hand’s mistake at that very moment, and I instantly wish for a pair of those shoes Dorothy had in Oz.
Maybe if I squish down really small, like cube size, Mr. Meathead won’t notice me.

“What in holy hell are you doing, Amy?” Roger has suddenly broken free from the parade of breasts, and is now at my side. Perfect timing, of course. Now I can’t pretend to be invisible.

I open my mouth to speak, but I am immediately cut off by a bleached blonde with insanely tanned skin. It’s like Oompaloompa orange. She also has big teased-up hair, is wearing seven necklaces, and gigantic gold hoop earrings. She pokes her blood red nail into my chest. And by poke, I mean, drives it in so hard I think she may have broken the skin. Obviously, I have offended her husband.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer and I realize that Evan is no longer in my line of sight. I crane my neck to peer around the woman, hopping on my tiptoes as I do.

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,” she screeches. “How dare you slap my Anthony! Why he is nothin’ but a sweetheart. If you’re one of those whores who’s been botherin’ him, you can just go back to Jersey and leave my baby alone.”

She reaches up and strokes the imprint of my hand on Mr. Meathead’s face. He crooks his head toward her, pouting like he is about to burst out into tears. It takes me a second, but I realize that the blonde isn’t Meathead’s wife. She’s his
mother
. I decide this is good—I can implore to her maternal side.

“Listen, I’m really sorry, but I’m chasing after my four-year-old son, and I needed Anthony to get out of the way before I lost him. Which is exactly what has happened.” I turn on my own waterworks, but they aren’t fake. I’m in full blown panic mode now.

“Coming through!” I hear an amplified male voice call near the front of the line. The crowd parts as a man in an airport uniform, carrying a megaphone, pushes through the pack. As he approaches, I see he is also carrying a small child in his arms. One with a red shirt and looks suspiciously like Evan.

“Oh thank God.” I breathe a sigh of relief as Evan spots me and holds out his arms.

“Mama!” he cries, nearly catapulting out of the man’s arms. I catch him mid-leap.

“What the hell is that guy doing with Evan?” Roger asks incredulously. Obviously my husband has not heard a single word I have uttered in the last five minutes.

“I
just
said that Evan took off, and I was chasing him!” I growl as I spin around to face my husband.

“For God’s sake, Amy! You gotta keep a better eye on him!” Roger shakes his head like I am also four-years-old.

“I
was
keeping an eye on him! You know how fast he is!” I growl as Evan interlaces his fingers through my hair. He shoves his thumb in his mouth and nestles his head on my shoulder, all signs that he plans on taking one of his record breaking, eight and a half minute naps. Apparently being on the lam from your neurotic mother is exhausting to him.

“Then how did he get so far away?” Roger challenges. “I know he’s fast, but for crying out loud, he’s
four
!”

“Maybe,” I retort, “if you were helping me instead of staring at some bimbo’s boobs and—”

“Excuse me, I hate to interrupt,” the gentleman who has returned my child is saying in a very smooth Cuban accent. “I just wanted to let you know, you need to be extra vigilant with your children here.”
Well no duh.
He leans closer as if he is going to share a secret with us. “There have been a lot of crimes involving children in the past few months around here. Kidnappings and theft of property.”

I gasp involuntarily and gape at Roger. “Crimes, Roger! Kidnapping!”

Roger rolls his eyes and pats me on the head like a sheepdog. He turns to our informative airline employee. “Thank you so much for your concern. My wife usually keeps a better eye on the children, but she took some Dramamine on the flight and got a little loopy.” He chuckles as if I am a silly little ninny head, and the other man joins in. I now want to smash their heads together like coconuts.

“No problem,” the man replies, smiling with a deep dimple erupting on his cheek. “Gotta keep the children safe.”

“And thank you for stopping this one,” Roger continues, pointing to Evan, who has now wound his fingers so deep into my hair that a knot has formed. He is also sound asleep. Rest assured, he will be wide awake before we even reach the shuttle that is going to take us to our hotel. I believe he was a cat in a former life.

“Again, my pleasure,” the man replies and waves as he disappears into the crowd.

As I pull Evan closer to my body, I feel a chill in the humid air and I shudder. That damn sixth sense again.

~Four~
 

“Mrs. Maxwell, I hope you’ll find our accommodations to be to your satisfaction. Your husband certainly spared no expense for this dream vacation.” The beaming bellhop sweeps his hand toward the room that we are poised to enter. I nod and smile as he throws the door open, revealing the grandest suite I could ever imagine. The girls collectively gasp behind me and both boys squeal with delight. Roger just grins like an idiot, proud of himself for his accomplishment.

As we step into the marble entryway, my eyes are immediately drawn to the breathtaking view from the floor-to-ceiling windows and the French doors that lead to our patio. Not only are there several chaise lounges to relax on, there is also a private pool. From there, the white sand is easily accessible, a quick walk to the water’s edge. The sparkling ocean lies straight ahead in all its splendor, the setting sun creating a red and orange glow on the horizon.

The room itself is magnificent, rich mahogany furniture and bright white airy walls. The overhead ceiling fans create a delicious breeze that ripples and billows the light fabric draping over the side of the four-poster canopy king-sized bed in the center of the room.

I sit on the thick, soft, inviting mattress, delighted with its comfort. I feel myself sinking into it, the plush foam conforming to my body. I consider not moving from this spot for the entire week and catching up on sixteen years’ worth of lost sleep. Yet, something plagues me.

“Sir.” I sit up and address the bellhop, who is currently showing Roger the fully stocked bar at the other end of the room. He is dutifully uncorking a bottle of Cabernet, and Roger is sniffing the cork.

“Madam?” The bellhop pauses in his wine pouring efforts.

“There's only one bed. I’m afraid this room isn’t ours.” I feel my spirits fall as I haul myself off of my favorite mattress ever.

The bellhop grins as he glides across the room, offering me the glass of Cabernet. “Oh, but madam, that is no problem! This is the room for you and Mr. Maxwell! The children will be in their own room down the hall.”

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “Down the hall?” I glance at my husband. “Roger, do you think that’s safe? Them being so far away from us? Remember what that man said at the airport?”

“Madam,” the bellhop says, while laying a soft and manicured hand on my bare arm. “I assure you that our resort is entirely safe. The children will have a twenty-four hour a day nanny to accompany them on any activities and to stay in their room.”

My eyes wide, I gape at Roger. “Is this true?”

Beaming, he takes my hand and draws me close to his body. “Of course it is, my dear. How else would we celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary?”

“But, Roger...that’s next year!” I murmur as he pulls me closer.

“It’s an early surprise. You deserve every minute of it.”

“It seems so expensive though,” I protest while he runs his hands through my hair, causing my body to tremble in ways it hasn’t since my boobs went south with my breast feeding efforts.

“Only the best for you, my dear,” Roger purrs. “I want you to have the vacation of a lifetime.”

“And this is your room,” the bellhop remarks in a bored voice as he roughly pushes on the door. It appears to be stuck. Quite possibly from the insane humidity that is building up in the damp hallway where we are standing.
It’s almost humid enough to rain inside
, I find myself thinking after nearly dozing off from exhaustion. And Dramamine. The damn pill must last a day and half. I just can’t shake this zombie-like feeling.

The bellhop manages to un-stick the bothersome door and flings it open. The room is definitely smaller than I imagined in my daydream, but that doesn’t seem to both Colt.

“Awesome!” he say before dropping the backpack he’s been carrying on the turquoise tile floor and leaping up on the nearest bed. As he bounces dangerously close to the moving ceiling fan blades, his brother follows suit, scrambling up on the elevated mattress.

“Trampoline!” Evan screeches as he bounces, his backpack slapping against his back.

“Evan, Colt! Stop!” I yell, dropping my own carry-on and making a grab for my youngest child. “Jesus, aren’t you tired?” The kid has been up for practically forty hours straight, except for his three minute nap, and he’s still going strong. Forget that pink bunny with the drum—Evan is the perfect mascot for the Energizer commercials.

“I am absolutely
wiped out
,” Roger announces like I was addressing him. The bellhop leaves the room, still staring incredulously at the five dollar bill that Roger shoved at him. Five measly bucks after the poor guy had lugged our caravan of baggage up four flights of stairs. I can tell from his demeanor that Roger is proud of himself for remembering to tip the guy, but the bellhop was evidently expecting far more moolah for his efforts.

Roger further demonstrates his exhaustion by flopping face first onto the bed.

“Mother,” Allie whines while standing in the middle of the room, hands planted on her hips. “Where am
I
supposed to sleep?”

“Yeah, what about me?” Lexie pipes in as she pulls up next to me, dropping her hand on my shoulder. I glance up at her. Yes, I said
up
.
When did my baby get taller than me? She’s only twelve!

“Well, there has to be another room,” I say with an uneasy chuckle. I wander over to the nearest closed door with a smile on my face.
There has to be another room because I gave Roger explicit directions to book a suite.
We have four freaking kids for God’s sake.

I pull open the door with gusto, only to have the ironing board behind the door smack me in the head.

“
Mother f
…” I bite my lip so that a stream of curse words doesn’t spew forth from my mouth.

“What is
that
?” Allie asks with disgust. “A broom closet?”

“I can’t sleep in a broom closet!” Lexie wails, rushing to my side. If you thought it was to check on my status after being cold cocked with an ironing board, you would be wrong. Lexie has turned into a practicing teenager, and she wants to examine the injustice of the broom closet where she is certain she will be forced to sleep.

“No one is sleeping in a broom closet!” I announce, rubbing my temples. “Roger! Where’s the door to the other room?” I poke him in his belly to arouse him from what appears to be the beginnings of a nap.

“What the hell?” Roger grumbles. He peers up at me with his droopy brown eyes. “Amy, I told you I’m exhausted.”

“We’re
all
exhausted, Roger. We
all
sat on a plane for four hours after waiting in an airport for two hours and then drove an hour to the resort. We
all
did that.”

“You took a nap on the plane. And I—”

I cut him off before he can finish his usual litany. “I know you worked
all day
yesterday at your job outside the house. But I worked at home. Packing and planning and writing lists and checking everything off,” I remind him.

I am so sick and tired of this “but I work outside the house” crap that he likes to wave in my face. Yeah and he comes home from work, kicks off his shoes, and I’m
still
working. But I don’t want to get into that now. I just want find out where the hell the extra room is so I can get the kids settled.

“We’re supposed to have a suite, Roger. There are only two beds in here.”

Despite his sleepy demeanor, Roger leaps to his feet, grinning. He rubs his hands together like a spider about to devour a fly.

Uh oh. I know that look. That’s the look he got on his face when he told me he saved money by switching our car insurance to some no name brand, and when we (ahem...I) had that fender bender in the Stop and Shop parking lot, the insurance agent happily told me that sort of thing
“wasn’t covered under our current policy”
. It’s the same look he got on his face when he found
“a cheaper plumber than that guy that’s been ripping us off for years”
and he gave the guy five hundred dollars to buy us new faucets to install, and then the guy was never to be seen again.

My stomach lurches, and I hold on to the side of the bed, not sure I want to hear what is going to be churned out by the wheels currently spinning in my husband’s head. I know Roger has made some lame brained attempts at saving money for this trip (like our red eye flight at nearly one o’clock in the morning), and most likely it does not bode well for the remainder of our vacation.

“When I went online to book, I got us the double room instead of the suite. It was almost a thousand dollars cheaper!” He beams proudly at me, like he’s three years old and he just told me he was a big boy and went on the potty.

“Roger!” I cover my face with my hands and sink down on the bed.

“What?” Roger throws his own hands up in the air like my distress is completely unfounded.

“We have
four
children. Plus us. That’s
six
altogether. There are
two
beds. Each bed sleeps
two
. Now, I know it’s been awhile since you’ve done multiplication, but let’s take a stab at this one. Two times two is…” I speak to him like a dim witted moron. Which, in this situation, he absolutely is.

Roger shoots me one of Allie’s death stares. “I know how to do math, Amy.”

“Apparently not since you didn’t get enough beds for the entire family!”

“Oh, but I did!” Roger says triumphantly. He holds up his pointer finger, indicating that he has yet to reveal his brilliant plan. I grit my teeth, certain that his brilliant plan is anything but. He shuffles over to the minuscule love seat—judging by its fabric and color, it was obviously acquired sometime in the seventies—squished in the corner of the room. He tosses off the pillows, flinging them in my direction. I duck to avoid the first pillow, only to be smacked in the head by the second olive colored cushion.  Dust flies off of the cushion with reckless abandon. Makes you wonder when the last time anyone thoroughly cleaned the joint.

Colt and Evan have ceased bouncing on the beds and are now staring at their father going berserk. They have never seen him fling objects. In fact, they rarely see him vertical. And moving. At the same time.

“Roger, for God’s sakes…” I start to say as I pick a dust bunny out of my hair.

I don’t get to finish my sentence before Roger is gripping a metal bar in the middle of the now naked couch and tugging with all of his might. His face is turning a dangerous shade of red. I quickly take inventory in my head, my eye on the bag where I packed all the medication, including Roger’s nitroglycerin pills. I am hoping he can avoid having a heart attack on the first day. That would put such a damper on our vacation. Especially in a third world country and all.

“I really think that you should sit down, Dad. You don’t look so hot.” Allie chews her lip nervously from the other side of the room. Great, even our sixteen-year-old, who probably wouldn't notice if I was on fire, thinks Roger looks bad. This is not a good sign.

Roger waves his hand impatiently and then wipes the sweat from his brow. “It’s fine! I’ve got it!” With one final grunt, he tugs the handle and yanks the midsection on the couch backward, causing him to fly through the air and land on his rear end.

Nobody moves as we stare at what Roger has unearthed. In front of us, in all its mediocre glory, is what appears to be a stained sofa bed mattress. Actually, mattress may be too generous of a word to describe the pancake-like material that lays atop the metal sofa bed frame. “Plywood” would be a more accurate description.

Roger struggles to his feet using the chintzy metal frame to pull himself up—I swear the damn sofa lifts three feet off the floor. Also, a large screw clunks to the ground. I’m sure that it was just “extra parts” though. Nothing necessary or anything.

“Voila! This room comes equipped with a pull-out couch that sleeps two!” He waves his hand toward the nearly dismantled sofa. He leans on the middle of the so-called bed, and it immediately begins to fold up, trapping his arm. “Help!” he calls out, wiggling his torso and pushing against the mattress with his free elbow. Once again, all four children stare at him. I'm not close enough to help him disentangle himself, but it seems to be a one person job as he quickly extracts himself by pushing against the frame with his foot.

Lexie is the closest to the “bed”. She leans forward, peering at it and wrinkling up her nose. I don’t know if it’s from a smell or just general dissatisfaction. “Sleeps two
what
?” she asks. “Weightless midgets?”

Allie snorts through her nose, and then quickly slaps her hand over her face, eyes darting around to see if we noticed or not.

“Funny, Lexie,” Roger says.

“Well I’m certainly not sleeping there,” Allie informs her father, as she flops dramatically on the closest full-sized bed. “Dibs on this bed,” she says, languidly draping an arm across her face.

“I've got dibs on this bed, then,” Lexie counters, as she too flops on a bed. Except it’s the
other bed.
Leaving absolutely no additional beds to “call dibs” on.