Charlotte Cuts It Out (18 page)

Ralph is clearly enjoying this. “It started the first time your mother brought you into the store. You were fussy. She called it colic and said it would eventually stop. We named the pool ‘When Charlotte Cuts It Out,' and it was supposed to be a date—you know, like we do—but I decided to kid around, and wrote ‘never.' Years went by and the pool got buried and eventually lost. It resurfaced a few years ago. Since all the dates were long past—except mine—I won.”

I stare at him. Is this for real? There was a bet about when I'd finally
stop being difficult
? That started when I was a
baby
? And the winner guessed
never
?

Oliver tries to hold in laughter, but he sucks at it. Nina
mouths, “Stop!” Hannah and Ralph both look away from me.

“The turkey is delicious,” says Grandmother, changing the subject.

“Yes, it is,” Dad agrees. “Kimberly's a great cook.”

Then the table gets quiet, except for the clinking of silverware on china. There are a few more comments about the food. Pops and Mr. Vanderpool talk about the president and how different the world is from “their day,” while Grandmother asks Nina—again—when her due date is.

Little Caden is still screaming. I feel for him. I want to scream, too.

“Kimberly's food is getting cold,” Grandmother announces. Translation: Kimberly is the lady of the house and the person who cooked the food. She shouldn't be rocking
the help's
baby.

Hannah starts to stand. “You're right.”

“I'll go,” says Nina. “Take a break. You never get one.”

“Thanks so much. I mean it.” Hannah takes a sip of pop as Nina goes to relieve Mom. “I've had a hard time keeping sitters because he cries so much.”

Oliver swallows hard. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She toys with the green beans on her plate. “Actually, that's what I was doing when I first met Charlotte.” She looks down, not at me. “I'd only been working three hours when my sitter called and said she couldn't take it. I know his crying can be nerve-wracking, but I have to work. I'm on my own.”

Her sitter quit? On her first day of work? She's on her
own? I assumed she was talking about a guy that day, not a baby. And ignoring a customer for no good reason.

“You poor dear,” says Grandmother. “I don't mean to pry, but what about the baby's father? Or your parents?”

Hannah looks up now. “I'm from Ohio. Mom's in Akron. Dad's in Kent.” She takes another sip. “When Cody—Caden's dad—found out I was pregnant, he moved here because he heard there was work, and he could support us. After Caden was born, I moved here, too, thinking we'd be a family. Stupid. He wasn't looking for work. He was running from me. He still is, I guess. Except I'm not following anymore. I can't face my parents. Dad said if I left I couldn't come back.

“Don't get me wrong,” she adds quickly. “Caden's the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's just that it's so”—her voice cracks—“hard.”

She leaves the table in tears just as Mom returns.

“Charlotte,” she barks, “what did you do?”

My head snaps up. “I didn't do anything!” Except totally alienate a girl who has nobody.

Dad, Pops, and Ralph nod in corroboration, so Mom drops it. “Wow, that boy has some lungs. Cute as a button, though.”

She sits down and starts to eat. Everyone else is done—everyone but Dad and Ralph, that is. They'd keep going until someone takes the food away or it's gone, whichever comes first. Nina comes in, telling us that Hannah is trying to feed the baby. He's still wailing. Poor Caden. Poor Hannah. Poor us.

Then Grandmother says, to my surprise, “Oh, Charlotte!
I've been busy making plans for your visit. I've even made arrangements for you to stay in the Notre Dame dorms on Friday night with my neighbor's daughter. She's a mathematics major.” I clench the edge of the tablecloth in my fist.
What?

“How lovely, Mother.” Mom carefully dabs at her mouth with her napkin, as if she's the Queen of Manners. And Stealth Scheduling.

“I'm so sorry,” I say, knowing I'll pay for it later but not caring. “I have a conflict. My class at school is going to the Chicago hair show that weekend, and I've already paid in full. Didn't Mom tell you?”

“She most certainly did not.” Laser glares dart around the table. From Grandmother to Mom, from Mom to me—I feel the holes boring into my skull. I avoid eye contact. I think of the sign outside the ATC metal fabricating shop:
ARC WELDERS IN USE. PROTECTIVE EYEWEAR REQUIRED
. We need a sign, too:
PRINGLE FAMILY THANKSGIVING IN PROGRESS. TRENDY SUNGLASSES REQUIRED
.

“That's because the schedule hasn't been decided yet,” Mom says, through clenched teeth.

Hannah returns, and I realize that the crying has stopped. Caden's finally dozed off. She starts to help Nina clear the table, undoubtedly picking up on the tension. I'm sure Nina will fill her in once they're in the kitchen. Mr. Vanderpool's head nods sleepily. Pops nudges him and he snaps to, but within a minute he nods off again.

“Maybe not officially,” I finally have to admit. “But
it's pretty much a done deal. I know I'm going to win the showcase at school—that's our end-of-semester presentation, Grandmother. Everyone will expect me in Chicago. It would be improper to rebuff the invitation, especially after I've committed.” If I speak formally and focus on etiquette, maybe I'll win her over.

“I see.” Grandmother is clearly appreciative of my good manners—take that, Mom!—and impressed by my commitment, but she's obviously annoyed.

Mom smiles meaningfully. “There's a saying about counting chickens, Charlotte.”

“There are also hundreds of sayings about hard work and a positive attitude
paying off
.”

Ralph gives me a thumbs-up. “That's what I'm betting on, kiddo.”

“Could someone please explain what's going on?” Grandmother demands. “If Charlotte won't be coming in March, I'd like to know now before I waste my time preparing.”

Oliver fills her in on all the details of the wager. Dad just shakes his head, and Mom looks as if she wants to crawl under the table.

Grandmother makes a pained face. “I'm not sure I fancy being the booby prize.”

“Booby prize,” Ralph snickers. Pops elbows him.

I take a deep breath. “It's not like that, Grandmother. Mom and I have different opinions about priorities, but no matter what, I'll make time to visit you. Even if it's not that weekend.”

“I understand, dear.” She pats my hand. “Your mother and I had similar discussions when she was your age. I'll wait to do anything else until I hear a more concrete itinerary from
you.
” I promise to keep her informed. Grandmother is now my ally. Chalk one up for Team Charlotte.

“Where's Lydia?” Pops asks when Nina and Hannah start passing out pieces of pie topped with whipped cream. Lydia always came by with something scrumptious from Patti Cakes on Thanksgiving. It was tradition. She ate with her family, had dessert here, and stayed the night—for the girls' movie, Black Friday strategy session, and shopping the following morning.

“She's not coming this year.” I pass him a piece of pie, hoping he doesn't ask why.

“Pie? Coffee?” Nina asks. Pops takes my plate and a cup from Nina. He's distracted from Lydia, thank God. Mr. Vanderpool says he shouldn't, but he does, devouring every crumb and downing two cups of coffee.

Mom and Grandmother gossip about people I don't know. Hannah and Nina swap pregnancy stories. Oliver and Mr. Vanderpool discuss the economy, while Dad and Ralph talk about work. Pops oscillates between the economy and work convos, but somehow he's able to apply the cost of rutabagas to both.

I pick at my pie and think about what Ralph said. He's betting on me. Counting on me. Those who bet on me as a baby—that I'd eventually outgrow being difficult—lost. My stomach sinks. There's a lot riding on my winning the
showcase—not only money, but dignity and respect. As PICs, Lydia and I were unbeatable. Now, though, everything's different, harder. I hope I don't let everyone down.

Within minutes, the guys are around the TV in varying degrees of sleepiness. Football scores blink across the screen. Caden wakes up screaming again, so Hannah straps him in his seat. Before she leaves, she tells me she likes my hair. “It always looks so nice.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

She twirls her ponytail. “I'm lucky if I get a chance to wash mine. I haven't had the time or the energy to style it since Caden was born.”

“That would be tough,” I say above the baby's crying. “If you want, I could touch up your roots sometime, throw in a few highlights, and show you some good wash-and-go styles.”

“Really?” Hannah looks genuinely excited as she hoists Caden's seat onto her arm. “I'd love that.”

I open the door for her. “I've been pretty shitty to you. It's the least I could do.”

She looks as if she might hug me, but thinks better of it. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

If someone had told me two weeks ago that I'd be glad Hannah came for Thanksgiving, I would never have believed it. But I am. She's so much different from what I imagined.

After the kitchen's cleaned up, Grandmother, Nina, Mom, Buffy, and I slip into Mom's home office to watch a movie.
We have an extensive collection of classics—everything from
Gone with the Wind
to
The Breakfast Club,
including an array of Alfred Hitchcock and nearly every James Bond flick. Nina says she's never seen
Beaches,
so Mom insists we remedy that.

A movie about best friends and loss? Without Lydia? No thank you! But I'm not going to go into it with Mom, Grandmother, or Nina, so I get a head start on our weekend shopping strategy by perusing Black Friday ads on Mom's computer instead.

Once the movie is over and every one of us is a blubbering mess—yes, even me, despite my efforts to tune it out—we make our lists. Friday is mall and chain store shopping, which we keep hidden from Dad. If he thinks we're spending money at big-box stores, he'll come unglued. We make up for it on Saturday, when we buy local—Toy House, Anna's, and Picture This. We take a break on Sunday, regroup, and finish up online with Cyber Monday. By Tuesday, our shopping is pretty much done.

“Three a.m., as usual, then?” Nina folds up her list.

Grandmother gasps. “You're still
bargain
shopping—in the middle of the night?” She takes the throw blanket off of her lap and drapes it over the arm of the chair.

“Yes,” Mom answers both of them.

“It's an adventure.” Nina, who had been curled up on the end of the couch, stands and shakes out her foot as if it's asleep.

“It's tradition,” I say, mindlessly scratching Buffy's ear, as she rests her head in my lap. Mom started going with Aunt Kathy and her friends back when Oliver was a baby. When Kathy moved Up North, Mom started taking Lydia and me. Nina joined in the year she and Oliver got married. Some years Patti joins us, and other times Tammy from the store, too.

“Are Lydia and Patti coming?” Nina asks.

“Not this year.” I offer no further explanation.

“Tammy's sister is in town, so she won't be coming, either.” Nina stretches her arms up and returns them to her belly.

“Looks like it'll just be us Pringle girls.” Mom puts the DVD back on the shelf. “You're always welcome to join us, Mother.”

“No, thank you,” says Grandmother. “Nobody is out at that hour, except for hobos and hooligans. It's not worth getting trampled for discount gadgets.”

Nina and I look at each other and stifle laughs. Trampling hobos and hooligans? What news station has Grandmother been watching?

“Oh, Mother! Times have changed. The hobos and hooligans get their trampling done on Thanksgiving now.” Mom says this with such a straight face that Nina and I can't hold it in anymore.

“You make fun.” Grandmother stands, smooths her pants, and adjusts her sweater. “But when you're on the underside of one of those shopping buggies, don't come crying to me.” She
walks out and announces to Mr. Vanderpool that it's time to go home and feed the cat.

“Oh my lanta!” I fold the blanket Grandmother had on her lap. “I don't know where to start with that.”

“Charlotte,” Nina says in mock seriousness. “If you're ever trapped underneath a shopping buggy, you can always come running to
me
for help.”

I laugh and thank her, and Mom shushes us both before she leaves to pack up leftovers for Grandmother and Mr. Vanderpool.

Usually, on Thanksgiving, Lydia spends the night. We watch more movies—a classic marathon of James Bond, Alfred Hitchcock, or Molly Ringwald. She makes us fancy turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce at midnight, we sleep for about an hour, and then do each other's hair before shopping.

This year I throw a piece of turkey on a buttered roll and go to bed early with QVC on in the background.

14 days to the Winter Style Showcase

“I told you to dress inconspicuously,” Mom hisses as we sneak out the back door at the butt-crack of dawn, trying not to disturb Dad and Buffy. Buffy is the most important. If she wakes up, I'll have to feed her, let her out, and wait for her to want back in. We don't have time for that if we're going to get the best doorbuster deals.

“I did.” I climb into Mom's Accord. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”

She starts the car. “You do this every year! First of all, there's nothing inconspicuous about those hot-pink UGGs. And your hair and makeup is quite, uh, flashy. We're trying
not
to draw attention, remember?”

“I'm going shopping. There will be tons of people there. I can't go out looking like”—I buckle my seat belt and look her up and down—“well, you. I know it's seriously early, but you didn't even try.” Her ponytail is poking through the back of her faded blue Lake Michigan cap. If she's wearing makeup, it's so faint it's pointless. And her jeans and baggy sweatshirt are better suited for yardwork, not shopping.

“The point is to be inconspicuous,” she repeats, and pulls out of the driveway. “I don't want to deal with your father if someone sees us.”

Our first stop is Meijer. They sell practically everything, including groceries. Dad hates them. He considers anything even remotely big-box as evil, “running the little guys out of business.” Mom always tells him that they're a local-
ish
chain, but then he switches gears and calls them our competition. We don't go there often, but when we do, we keep it on the D.L.

“Well, you look like a shoplifter. Or a hobo.” I try to keep a straight face, but I can't.

“My point!
This
is how you blend in!” Mom strikes a pose as she pulls up to Nina and Oliver's apartment building. Nina is already standing in front, wearing a dark coat, a hat, and sunglasses—although, to be honest, she's so huge you could spot her from space.

After she hoists herself into the backseat, I say, “Sunglasses?”

“
Too
inconspicuous?” She takes them off and puts them in her pocket.

“Oh my lanta!” I turn and the seat belt digs into my neck. “Mom's dressed like a hobo, and you look like a shady hooligan! Grandmother was right!”

Mom and Nina laugh.

“Except
we're
the ones people have to watch out for.” Mom pulls into the parking lot.

“Forget trampling.” Nina pats her belly. “I'll just roll right through the crowds.”

Then we all crack up.

Our strategy at Meijer: In and out as fast as possible. Nina is after a seriously-on-sale diaper pail thing that's supposed to make dirty diapers smell like lavender—“Good luck with that,” I tell her—and a Red Wings sweatshirt for Oliver for Christmas. Mom has her sights on a new vacuum, even though she's pretty sure that with that price, there won't be any left, and a Crock-Pot for Nina—although she tells Nina it's for Tammy to keep it a surprise. I'm on the lookout for a new purse; the straps on mine are starting to fray from the weight of all the stuff I carry around. After we snag our respective deals, we'll meet at the checkout.

I beeline to Accessories, where I find an adorable hobo bag for $8.99, down from $49.99. I giggle and decide to buy two—Mom definitely needs a hobo bag for Christmas. They're not designer, but I don't care—they're cute and have more than enough room. Besides, at less than nine dollars, it would be wrong not to buy them. I get tan and black for me and brown houndstooth for Mom. While I'm in the department, I grab a pair of brown leggings, too. Four minutes in and I've already got one person checked off my list.

I wander over to the baby department. Nina is rummaging through some novelty onesies while holding the diaper pail box on her hip as if it's a baby. A yellow onesie with
My Auntie Rocks
scrawled across an electric guitar screams out for me to buy it. I show Nina. “Only two bucks!”

“Perfect!” She grabs two more with sayings like
Daddy's
Princess
and
Too Cute,
then says, “We'd better get going.” We weave through the browsing shoppers with carts and the display racks to the beat of “Jingle Bell Rock,” which is playing overhead.

Just before the aisle that leads to the checkouts, I stop dead. About two feet in front of me is a display of half-priced pumpkin pies, and the person stocking it is none other than Nutmeg, Patti Cakes's former assistant manager. As Nina barrels toward the cashiers, I try to back away, so Nutmeg doesn't see me. And not just because I'm a Pringle at Meijer. I'm also kind of mad at her for bailing on my best friend—former or not—and her mom.

“Charlotte?”

Busted!

“Nu—Oh, Meg! Hi!”

“Hey, I haven't seen you in ages!” She hugs me. “How are you?”

“Great!” I give her a fake hug back. “And you?”

“Okay, I guess,” she says, as she stocks. “I'm sure you heard I got laid off from Patti Cakes. It's not so bad here—I just wish I could get more hours. Part-time doesn't pay the bills. I might have to find a second job.”

Clearly, Nutmeg takes my “And you?” a bit too literally. But—wait. Did she say she got
laid off
? Why would Patti let her go? Nutmeg was great at her job, and judging by all the hours Lydia's been putting in, Patti Cakes clearly has the business. It doesn't make any sense, but since Nutmeg thinks I already know, it would be awkward to ask. I listen
to her go on about her bills and hours, hoping she says something that clears it up.

Why didn't Lydia tell me?

Mom and Nina call to me from the checkout. They're up next. I excuse myself, give Nutmeg another fake hug, and slip into line, ignoring the glares and rude comments from the tiny gray-haired lady behind us.

Black Friday shoppers can be nasty.

While Nina and Mom
ooh
and
ahh
over froofy baby dresses in Keehn's, I head to Claire's for accessories—for the showcase, the hospital event, and, of course, for me—and then to Snapz! to check out the doorbusters. Lydia's always so much better at finding deals than I am. On Black Friday last year, she got a pair of earrings, a tank top, a peppermint-scented candle for her mom, a tractor calendar for her dad, two pairs of patterned leggings, and some really cute shoes, all for less than thirty bucks. I spent a hundred dollars, and all I got were the same shoes as Lydia's—in a different color—a scarf, and some perfume. It's really weird doorbusting without her.

And just as I'm thinking about Lydia, I do a double-take. I could swear I see her in Snapz!, looking at an oversized greenish sweater. Except it can't be her. She'd never wear that color—we've talked a million times about how no one with our skin tones looks good in chartreuse—and I've never seen the person she's with before, either.

I walk in. The Lydia doppelgänger sees me and freezes. It
is
Lydia!

“Lyd?” I say. Translation:
What are you doing here? I thought you weren't shopping this year.

“Uh, hi,” she says. Translation:
I was hoping I wouldn't run into you. This is awkward.

“Hi,” I say. Translation:
So this is how it is? You're throwing away our plans
and
our traditions?

And me, too.

I stand there, waiting. I'm not sure for what. An explanation, maybe? Don't I deserve one? A punchline? Is this a joke? If so, I don't get it.

“Well, we've gotta go.” She quickly folds the sweater, throws it back on a display, and pulls her friend toward the door. She didn't even introduce us.

Just before they're out of earshot, the girl says, “I thought you were going to get that sweater.”

I don't hear what Lydia says, which is probably best.

I wander through the mall, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.

Why won't Lydia even talk to me? What did I do?

I guess she's not avoiding shopping entirely. Just shopping with me.

By the time I meet back up with Mom and Nina, I'm more pissed than hurt. And she thinks she can pull off chartreuse? Fine. She deserves to look boxy, washed-out, and hideous.

Mom, Nina, and I tackle Target and still finish by seven. Then—in another tradition—we head to Roxy's Café for breakfast. I show them all the ribbon and sparkly jewel stick-ons I found for the hospital fund-raiser. Mom nods
and says, “That's nice,” but I can tell she's engrossed in her receipts. “You know, that vacuum was even less expensive than I thought.”
Way to show an interest in my career, Mom.

The server takes our orders—my grilled cinnamon roll, chocolate milk, and coffee; Mom's coffee, sourdough toast, and hippie hash (veggies and potatoes grilled and topped with an over-easy egg—a Roxy original); and Nina's Denver omelet and milk. After she leaves, Mom says, “I'm glad we Pringle girls get a day like this now and then.” Translation:
See how pleasant it is to be nice, Charlotte?

“That's for sure,” Nina says. “Hard to believe that by the time next Black Friday rolls around, there'll be another Pringle girl—she'll be almost a year old by then.”

Another Pringle girl.
My niece—she'll call me Aunt Charlotte. Mom will be Grandma, and Dad will be Grandpa. Oliver will be someone's dad.

Shopping for lavender-scented diaper pails and goofy onesies is one thing, but adding another person—someone we don't know—to our family in just a few weeks doesn't feel quite real. I had years to adjust to Nina before she married Oliver. Not that I had a choice, but at least I knew what to expect.

What if this kid cries all the time like Caden? What if she winds up looking like Oliver in a dress? There's a fifty-fifty chance. I imagine his big schnoz on a little baby; no amount of accessories could camouflage
that
. Or what if she's a little brat? She'll be a Pringle. What kind of monster would I be if I didn't love this baby?

“Charlotte, are you okay?” Mom asks. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“Yeah, uh, I'm fine.” The server brings us our drinks. I sip at the bitter coffee until there's enough room to add some chocolate milk. “I'm just tired. And hungry.”

But what I really am is off-kilter. Soon I'll be related to a little girl I don't even know. And Lydia—someone I thought I knew better than anyone except myself—has become someone I don't know at all.

Is it too much to want to know what to expect?

I take another sip of my chocolate coffee. That, at least, is perfect.