Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (7 page)

“Mommy won’t buy me any new shoes,” he replies, lip sticking out and quivering like a hungry orphan off the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

I glare at him and snap, “Colt, you’ve had four pairs of sneakers this school year alone, and you’ve ruined three pairs already.”

“But I didn’t like any of them!”

I open my mouth and close it quickly.
Do not get caught up in eight-year-old boy logic. There is nothing more ridiculous than eight-year-old boy logic.

“Well we’re at the beach. Why can’t he go barefoot to dinner?” Lexie asks.
Except twelve-year-old girl logic.

“The restaurant is
not
on the beach. It is inside and it is nice and classy. He can’t go barefoot to dinner!” Roger stammers.

I offer him a smile of genuine appreciation.
At last, some logic that I can appreciate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lexie’s suitcase open, flip flops spilling out everywhere. A light bulb goes off in my head. “Hey Lexie! Grab a pair of your flip flops for Colt.”

“
What
?” Both Lexie and Colt stare at me like I just told them they need to swap kidneys or something.

“I’m not wearing
girl
flip flops!” My son nearly spits out the words.

“Ewww! I don’t want his disgusting smelly boy feet in my flip flops!”

“I’m not disgusting! You’re disgusting!” Colt spits at his sister. She screeches.

“I have spit in my hair! Mom! He
spit
in my hair!”

“It’s an improvement,” Allie adds while applying more mascara on her already heavily made-up eyes. Not sure who she thinks she going to meet in the Caribbean with this lovely family circus is tow.

“That’s not necessary, Allie,” Roger admonishes halfheartedly.

My stomach growls and at the same time, my head feels like a Mariachi band is playing inside it. I need food and a soft bed. And not necessarily in that order—I’ll take dinner on a tray in a bed right now.

I lean up against the door jam and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of my family arguing in the background. I don’t even hear the actual words—just the incessant babbling of nonsense.

“All right everybody!” I scream after the Mariachi band leader begins to do the tango on my sinuses. There is sudden silence and they all gawk at me.
That’s better.
“We are going to stay in and order room service. That way, we don’t need Colt to have shoes, and we can probably eat quicker.”

Roger looks startled as I settle down on the edge of the bed. “But I want to go to the nice restaurant!”

“I don’t care,” I tell him firmly. “We are all tired and hungry and we will say and do things we regret if we go out to eat at a real restaurant.”

“But I still need shoes!” Colt whines.

“And I need a bathing suit!” Lexie chimes in.

“Tomorrow we can find the nearest Target or Walmart and get both of those things. But as for tonight,” I wave my finger in the air at all of them. “I’ve had enough of you all. And I don’t care to take this shit show on the road.” I ignore the voice in my head that is explaining that there probably is not a Target or Walmart on the island considering its poverty stricken state and all.

I grab the menu from the cramped corner table and flop down on the bed that is the least rumpled and imitation cheese stained. When I flip it open, I hear quiet sobbing coming from behind me. Whipping my head around, I see that Evan is crying.

Instantly alarmed that perhaps he has gotten his arm stuck under the mattress or some other freak of nature feat, I leap to his aid. “Evan, honey, what’s wrong?”

As I reach his side, I see that he is not injured in any manner, yet he has his lower lip stuck out and it is trembling. “Are you sick? Does your belly hurt? Does your head hurt? Your throat?”

I frantically feel his forehead for a temperature. I sigh with relief when I find that he has none. Trying to find urgent care and waiting in those little plastic chairs for hours would be a nightmare. Once, Roger thought he broke a rib from coughing while we were on a vacation with my sister, her husband, and the kids. He was seriously coughing so hard he thought he had whooping cough. Honestly, I think he just faked it because he didn’t want to go horseback riding with the rest of the family, and was looking for anyway out that he could get.
I
on the other hand had really wanted to go horseback riding, and was really pissed when the urgent care doctor announced Roger had nothing worse than a cold. Men are such babies.

Evan shakes his head to all of my questions. “No, no, and no.”

“Did you get hurt?” I check again for injuries and still see none.

Evan shakes his head once more.

“Well then, what’s the matter?” I ask impatiently. My stomach also inserts its impatience by growling loudly. I can’t remember the last thing I ate.
Peanuts on the plane? No, I don’t think they serve those anymore.
Now that I’m thinking back on it, I don’t recall eating anything since yesterday.
Probably all the more reason you got Dramamine drunk, Amy.

“I want to go out to eat!” Evan wails, burying his cheesy face in my shirt.

What? That’s why he’s crying?

“Good going, Mom. You made the baby cry!” Allie admonishes as she drops the mascara wand and scoops in to pick up a now hysterical Evan.

Lexie follows suit and runs over to pat her brother on the back. “All he wanted was to go out to eat.”

Colt, not to be outdone, crones, “Yeah poor Evan never gets to go out to eat.”

I stare at my children with my mouth wide open.
What in fresh hell just happened here?

“But none of you were co-operating and…” I stammer. I can’t even form a coherent sentence. I may pass out from hunger. And shock.

“You can borrow my flip flops, Colt,” Lexie says generously. She reaches into her suitcase and pulls out a pair of black slides. “These are kind of boyish actually. I think Mom bought them in the boy’s section. And they’re a little small on me, too.” She scowls at me.
Ouch.

Colt takes the shoes from her outstretched hand. “Thanks,” he mumbles as he slides them on over his socks.

“Well, then,” Roger says, clapping his hands together victoriously. “I guess we are set to go out to eat!”

With a broad grin, he sweeps his hand toward the door. The kids file out happily, each chattering about what they’re going to get to eat. I stare at Roger.
Have I just entered the Twilight Zone?

I follow him out the door, completely oblivious to just how much weirder things are about to get.

~Eight~

“Mommy, do I have to order off the kid menu? There’s something on the adult menu I’d like,” Colt says, eyes wide as he reads the description of the twenty-eight ounce Porterhouse. I swear there is actually drool dripping down his chin.

“Yeah, you have to order from the kid menu,” Lexie tells him. “If
I
have to order off of it,
you
have to order of it, too.”

Ah, good to see my usual family is back.
Just in time to make a major scene in the five-star restaurant that Roger has chosen despite my protests.

“Of course you don’t!” Roger replies with a hearty laugh. I glare at him. He has obviously been replaced by an alien life form. There aren’t even prices on the menu! I know what that means...market price...which is French for
insane
.

Roger catches my eye and I widen them.

“It’s all-inclusive, remember, Amy?” he whispers, glancing around at the other patrons as if they can’t know that their meals are already paid for.

Oh, yes, that’s right. I forgot about the all-inclusive.

I nod my head like we are sharing a little secret.

If that’s the case, I’m going to be getting...
I scan the menu for what would be the priciest item at home...
surf and turf. Ten ounce fillet with twin lobster tails, drawn butter, asparagus in Hollandaise sauce. Mmmm. Sounds good. I think I’ll get a bottle of wine to go with it, too. This could be a dream vacation after all.

Then I remember my “drug overdose” a few hours prior and decide that wine probably isn’t a wise idea. I’ll just make up for it with a decadent dessert instead. I begin to peruse the dessert menu and soon I am salivating over descriptions that include the words
chocolate, rich, and creamy
, when Lexie says something that causes me to jerk to attention.

“Hey, that guy looks familiar!”

I knock over my water glass, spilling it unintentionally onto Roger’s lap. “Jesus, Amy! Watch it!” Roger grabs his cloth napkin and starts dabbing at his moist crotch. I crane my neck in the direction that Lexie is pointing.

My eyes follow Lexie’s finger and I see a man in a camel colored suit jacket (with those elbow patches circa 1972) and thinning hair. He is leading a plump woman with a shoulder-length black bob and a cranberry colored dress, out of the restaurant by the crook of her arm. The woman doesn’t seem to want to leave and is arguing with the man.

I chuckle to myself, wondering if the woman had one too many cocktails, and was embarrassing herself, causing her husband to have to forcibly remove her.

“That was Grandpa!” Lexie announces as she struggles to her feet. Roger’s head whips up.

“What? That’s impossible.” His eyes are wide with concern.

“Don’t be a dolt, Lexie,” Allie pipes in. “Grandma and Grandpa aren’t here. They’re at home.”

Lexie shakes her head. “That was Grandpa! I’m sure of it. But it wasn’t Grandma.” Her eyes are as wide as saucers. I leap to my feet and manage to knock over the water glass again.

Wait a minute! Not my mother? What is my father doing out with a woman who is not my mother? Hell, what is he doing 3,000 miles from home with a woman who is not my mother?

Pushing my chair back, I toss my napkin on the table. Roger, who has settled back down with the menu, glances up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go catch my cheating bastard of a father!” I announce, causing the heads of several other diners to swivel in my direction. This is not the type of restaurant where people shout things. Especially not statements that are better suited on a two o’clock soap opera, or an episode of
Maury.

Lexie pushes back her own chair. “I’m coming with you!”

I shake my head. “No way. This does not involve children.” Lexie’s face turns bright red.

“Ha ha, she called you a
child
,” Allie laughs.

“I am
not
a child!” Lexie practically screeches, fists clenched at her sides. “Besides, I’m the one that pointed out it was Grandpa.”

“You’re still not coming with me,” I say, brushing the crumbs off my lap. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I kind of made love to the bread basket when it arrived at our table. There is evidence all over my lap.

“I want to see Grandpa,” Evan announces, standing on his chair and attempting to climb over the back.

“Me too!” Colt tosses his own hunk of bread down on the plate.

“No one is going
anywhere
,” Roger hisses through clenched teeth. He reaches over and pulls Evan down in his chair.

“Owww, Daddy, you hurt me!” Evan yells. “You always hurt me,” he adds while rubbing his arm.

Roger’s face colors as he realizes that the people sitting nearby will automatically think that he is abusing his child.

At this point, the entire restaurant is staring at us, some patrons with their heads together, speaking in hushed tones. They’re too polite to point, but I know they’re entertained
and
concerned by our family show. The distressed maître d’ is now rushing over to our table.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” He pastes a smile in his otherwise impassive face. “I must implore you to keep it down.” He leans into our table and presses his finger against his lips, the universal
shush
sign. “This is not Bob’s Beef Barn.”

Before I can wonder if that is actually a place (that we
should
have gone to) or if he is being a total facetious jerk head, Roger replies, “Of course, sir. My kids just thought they saw somebody they know. They were excited because we’re on vacation.” He offers the maître d’ a wan smile, sweat beading on his receding hairline.

The maître d’ bobs his pretentious head before gliding back to his post at the front door.

Roger turns to me and dabs his flushed skin with the cloth napkin. “Can you
please
sit down, Amy? You’re causing quite the scene.”

Realizing that I have lost my “father” by this point, I slump back down in my chair. “Fine.” I mutter, picking up the butter knife and adding fifteen pounds of delicious golden lard to the only remaining slice of bread in the basket. “So sorry to have embarrassed you, your highness
.
”

Roger grimaces while he angrily butters his own bread. “No need to be nasty. It’s bad enough the kids don’t behave in public; I don’t need you running off to chase people that
look
like your father.”

“It really was Grandpa!” Lexie insists.

Roger shakes his head. “It wasn’t Grandpa. I saw him. He looked nothing like Grandpa.”

At that moment a girl, who can only be described as “Tinkerbell”, sashays past our table and stops dead in her tracks when she sees Roger.

“Mr. Maxwell?” Her voice is unnaturally high and squeaky. Roger glances up and nearly chokes on the bread that he was stuffing in his mouth. He coughs and sputters, nearly blinding me with the soggy bread crumbs that shoot out of his mouth.

I watch him choke for a few seconds, wondering if I should perform the Heimlich. I think better of it as he rises to his feet to greet her—he seems all right.

“Hi!” Roger exclaims.
His cheeks puff and brighten as he stammers, “Um, wow! It’s great to see you. What are you doing here?” His tone is high pitched and nervous.

“I work here, silly!” She giggles as she grabs Roger and pulls him close to her pixie-like body for a hug. His eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head. She pulls away after what seems like an eternity, but still holds him at arm’s length distance. “You
know
that!”

Roger reaches for his napkin and nervously mops his brow again. The perspiration is trailing down the sides of his face and dripping onto the shoulders of his “not favorite” blue shirt.

I can feel my blood reaching dangerously high temperature levels as my husband squirms in front of us. My children are all gaping at their father, curious to find out who this perky blond bundle of joy is.

“Um, it’s good to see you—” Roger is saying before I interrupt.

“Roger, do you want to introduce us to your little friend?” I beam at her, my teeth clenched so tightly in a fake smile that I’m afraid I’m going to get lockjaw. Roger blankly stares at me for a second, as if he is sure that he knows me, but he can’t quite place who I am.

Annoyed, I wave my hand around the table. “You know...
us.
Your
family.
Your patient w
ife and very impressionable children
?” This subtle reminder seems to jog his memory.

“Yeah, um, of course. Um, this is Victoria, everyone.” Roger continues to gawk at us. Perhaps he’s forgotten our names and wants us to help him out.

Of course her name is Victoria. Do they call her Tori? Or Vicky? Oh...Vicki with an i! Perfect name for a girl who probably spent most of her high school career at the top of a pyramid or the backseat of a car.

Of course, my children do not oblige their father and introduce themselves. They continue to stare at her. I can almost hear the wheels in Lexie’s head, wondering if the girl will shrink into a fairy and fly away with Peter Pan in a cloud of pixie dust. The resemblance to the Disney fairy is uncanny. Roger grabs his water glass and begins to chug away with his eyes closed, possibly hoping that the girl will be gone when he opens them.

Allie, God bless her, finally opens her snarky little mouth.

“So,” she asks, draping her arm casually across the back of her father’s chair, “how do you know my father?” If I’m not mistaken, I detect a bit of a head roll at the end of that sentence, her eyes flickering with challenge. I want to leap to my feet, squeeze her in a hug, and cover her face with kisses.

The girl, who has obviously met with female adversity before, just beams with the hospitality of a Southern Belle at a pie baking contest. “Why, your father was my principal for four long years. I spent
a lot
of time in the principal’s office, didn’t I, Mr. Maxwell?” She snorts with laughter as she nudges him with her elbow.

I glower at Roger who is literally the color of an eggplant.
Plenty of time in the principal’s office? What does
that
mean?

I don’t have time to ask him, because Victoria continues, “Why if it weren’t for all the time we spent together, I don’t know where I’d be!” Victoria giggles and rests her hand on Roger’s arm.

Roger literally shoots water out of his nose, dousing both Evan and Colt.

“Cool!” Colt is completely stoked by his father’s talent. “Can you show me how to do that?”

“I can do it! Watch this!” Evan volunteers as he reaches for the glass of water in front of me.

Thankfully, my mommy instincts are spot on and I can remove the water out of harm’s way while simultaneously continuing to mentally navigate the perverse thoughts of my husband having an affair with one of his students. I feel nauseated and lightheaded, and this time, not from mixing alcohol with medication. Everything I thought I knew to be true has been questioned in the span of the time it took us to
not
order dinner.

After possibly seeing my father with another woman today, and then this bimbo with her hand on my husband’s arm, I’m not sure what is real anymore.

Is everyone destined to cheat on their spouse? Is it just a matter of time?
I recall my sister Beth and the predicament she got us both in last year. She was having an affair with one of the other parents in her daughter’s class because she felt like her husband didn’t love her and thought he was cheating on her. Turns out he
had
been cheating on her for years. But that the guy she was cheating
with
was scamming her for money. It was a very uncomfortable situation that ended with me and Beth in the trunk of a car, and Jason coming to our rescue.

Ironically, that night my sister had confided in me that she was jealous of me and the fact that Roger would never cheat on me. But the way he’s acting around this overly perky twenty-something, I’m not so sure anymore.

Without another word, I push back my chair, nearly catching it on the plush carpeting, rise to my feet, and storm out of the restaurant. Let Roger and his “girlfriend” deal with the kids.