Mystic Summer (16 page)

“So where does he sleep?” I ask, scrambling to keep up with the nightmarish images that pop up as fast as Jane can narrate them.

“Oh, you know. Somewhere in
my
bed. Depending on where Lucy and her teething rings are sprawled. Or where Randall has not peed in the last two hours. Usually in the spot where Toby no longer sleeps, since he's moved out onto the living room couch.”

I let out a long breath. “Jane.”

“Maggie!”

I want to help. But rescuing Jane from her offspring in crisis mode is far beyond my “Aunty Mags” qualifications. “I'm sorry you're going through this. Truly. But if you and Toby are overwhelmed, then how could I possibly manage all this on my own?”

Jane doesn't miss a beat. “Tiny white straitjackets, Maggie. Blow horns. Chocolate bars. Whatever it takes.” There is a knocking sound in the background.

“Where are you?” I ask, suddenly cognizant of the fact that I
have not had an uninterrupted and child-free phone call with my sister in the same number of years since her firstborn has been on earth.

“In my office.”

I wince. “The toilet?”

“You're catching up.”

“Have you talked to Mom about this?” I'm buying time. And attempting to assemble some footmen.

“I don't want to bother her.”

So, you're bothering me
. In the aftershock weekend since twenty-three nine-year-olds exited my classroom. The very classroom that I may not be returning to. In a city where I have to find a new place to live. I close my eyes.

“Jane, is there any way Toby can reschedule his trip and help out? This sounds like a family thing.”

“No! He offered to stay home, but I won't let him. I
need
this golf trip.”

I consider this. “But you don't golf.”

“Maggie. Listen very carefully. I don't care if they're going
boar hunting
. This trip is in Newport
,
where there are beaches and sailboats, and seaside bistros that serve cocktails with names like High Tide Painkiller.”

The background knocking sound grows, followed by voices.

“Mommy is
busy
!” Jane hisses. I can picture the kids and the dog hovering outside the bathroom door. Except for Randall, who's likely peeing on an antique carpet.

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

There is a high-pitched gasp on the other line. “So, you'll come then?”

“After the picture you've just painted? What choice do I have?”
Already a headache is creeping across my forehead. There goes my weekend apartment hunting with Evan. And the intoxicating beauty of the unplanned, unfettered, first weekend of summer nothingness I'd been chasing since last September. “But you owe me big.”

Jane is instantly restored. “Mags, you're the best! Thank God. Thank
you
.” The background knocking has grown to pounding, and I can hear the bathroom lock click open. I collapse back into the recess of the lounge chair cushions.

Jane's singsong voice is robust and jovial as she returns to her little charges. “My darlings! Mommy's back. Guess
who's
coming to visit?”

M
y single goal for the weekend is for my sister and brother-in-law to return home to find their three offspring accounted for, moderately clean, and mostly dressed. Not exactly reaching for the stars, I know. But so far I have managed to do just what I had hoped for. As an unexpected triumph, I also successfully bathed Lucy after she covered her hair in pureed sweet potato at lunch. While the replacement of Mommy with the aunt hasn't necessarily won Lucy over, the boys have fallen in line. Owen slept soundly the first night on his cot beside Jane's bed. I actually enjoyed going to sleep to the soft rumble of his little-boy snores. Randall has only had one “accident,” thankfully outside in the yard. And even Lucy's teething troubles seem to have diminished.

Despite my windfall success thus far, Saturday afternoon finds us collapsed across the living room in various states of repose, desperately in need of a new activity. We've exhausted the LEGO bin, the finger paints have finally been scrubbed from the kitchen island, and Samson the dog, having been relieved of his dress-up clothes, stares at me from the safety of his bed like he rather wishes we'd all just vaporize. I don't blame
him. While this is hardly the time to get in touch with Cam, suddenly I have the urge to commune with someone who will be as spent as me.

“What do you think about going to the playground?” I ask, clapping my hands together. It's the exact kind of utterance that causes my father to frown during family visits, his eyebrows knitting together. “We never used to
ask
you kids where you wanted to go,” he'd say. “We just
told
you. You were lucky to be going at all.”

So, in that vein, when Randall shakes his head,
No
, I scoop him up with one hand and snag his sneakers in the other. “It'll be fun!”

With our destination not up for further discussion, we have crossed one hurdle. Actually pulling out of the garage is quite another matter entirely. We pause outside my sister's minivan in disarray. “I'm hungry,” Randall groans, holding his stomach as if he hadn't just eaten a grilled cheese sandwich and a box of Goldfish an hour ago. But apparently I've forgotten snacktime. To delay any longer would invite an upset of biblical proportion. I also realize that Owen's wearing fuzzy slippers, which Jane would tell me is an invitation for injury on the playground. And I cannot find Lucy's backup pacifier, which even Randall declares we are
not
leaving the house without.

After nineteen minutes scrambling between the mudroom and the garage, I have assembled a small cargo of goods that would likely ensure survival in the minivan for at least a week. A diaper bag, a toy bag, a snack bag, three sippy cups, a tiny pink sweater, one more cup of coffee, and a pair of knotted sneakers later, we are ready to go. Buckling the kids into their respective car seats should only take another seventy-two minutes. When
I finally slide into the driver's seat and glance in the rearview mirror, Owen looks stricken. “What about Randall?”

I swivel around. Sure enough, Randall's car seat, which I strapped him into not thirty seconds ago, is now empty. Owen points. Beyond the windshield, in the far corner of the garage, attempting to scale a stepladder, is his brother. Not for the first time this weekend I offer a reverential nod to my sister and make a mental note to stop at the liquor store on the way home; I don't know how she does it. I pull out my phone and call Cam.

We drive to the playground at Owen's school. It's a gorgeous afternoon, and a towering leafy maple provides just the right amount of shade as Lucy and I sink onto a bench together to watch the boys who have taken off at breakneck speed for the swings. There is only a small handful of other parents and children around. “Take turns, boys!” I call, as Randall scrambles up the front of the slide into Owen, who is coming down. We're only four hours away from their parents' much-anticipated return: all front teeth are still in place, and I plan to keep it that way.

“Boys can be rough,” someone says from nearby.

Lucy's head swivels. But I know this voice.

“Cam.” My chest flip-flops as I slide over to make room for him on the bench.

Emory is strapped to Cam's chest in a baby carrier, facing out, and as he sits next to us, she and Lucy lock eyes. Over Lucy's cherubic smile is Cam's own, and in the face of all that brightness I can't help but grin back.

“Dare I say, it looks like you have your hands more full than I do?”
he says jokingly. He unstraps the carrier and lifts Emory out, placing her close to Lucy. Her chubby legs kick in excitement. “I certainly didn't expect to see you with two more kids than I have.”

I laugh. “I didn't expect to be here with them,” I admit. “I'm watching my nephews and Lucy for the weekend while Jane and her husband are in Newport.” I lift Lucy up so she can look at them. “But I think I'll stick around a bit.”

“You staying for the summer?”

“Not the
whole
summer,” I say, emphatically. But it occurs to me that even after a grueling few days planning the wedding with Erika, and now babysitting Jane's kids—things that would normally have me hightailing it back to Boston—oddly enough, I still have no burning desire to pack up. Evan's been so busy at work, all we've managed is a few brief calls. And besides, it's been surprisingly nice being back at home. “Yeah, the school year ended and I figured it'd be good to get out of the city for a little while.”

Cam turns and smiles. “Welcome home, Griffin.” He's got an attractive couple of days' growth on his chin, and that weekend-rumpled look that I like: relaxed and happy. Very different from the last time I saw him on Main Street, and in a good way. I glance away and turn my attention to Lucy.

“How old is she? Six months?” Cam asks.

“Seven,” I say, marveling at his accuracy. Jane complains all the time that Toby can't remember the ages of his own kids.

The babies are entranced by each other, and Emory's leg thumps against Cam's lap as she tries to wiggle closer. Lucy keeps turning her head away, then glancing back coyly, giggling.

“So, how beat are you after a weekend with the kids?” He pauses, then adds, “Tell the truth!”

I laugh. “Totally beat.” By the time I tucked the kids into bed both nights, I forgot all about my plans to steal a few hours' peace in front of the TV, collapsing instead into a dreamless fog beside Owen. “How's Emory as a sleeper?”

“She's getting better,” Cam says, “though I've aged about ten years in the process.” His eyes crinkle when he says it, the same way they used to when we'd joke around together.

“Kids. They're no small job,” I say, in agreement.

“Speaking of small . . .” Cam looks at Emory with obvious tenderness. “You can't believe the quantity and scale of the equipment these little people come with. The high chairs, the Pack 'n Play, the swing, the changing table . . .” He lets out a long breath.

I point across the playground at Randall, spinning at vomit-inducing speed on a tire swing. “Just wait until she can get away from you.”

Cam shakes his head. “Honestly, I'm so tired, I can't think five minutes past now.”

I stand Lucy up on my lap and bounce her on my knees. “I can't wait for a good night's sleep tomorrow night,” I admit, thinking wistfully of my childhood bed and an open window. But I feel foolish the second it comes out of my mouth. I've only had to do this for two days, after all.

Cam just smiles knowingly. “Tell me about it.”

On the jungle gym, Randall is poised at the edge of a high landing. “Randall, no jumping!” I call, remembering that I'm not only using “no' again, but now yelling it across the expanse of the playground. “Let's make safe choices,” I add quickly.

As we watch the boys fling themselves onto the playground equipment, I question my decision to call Cam. Strapped with
four little kids between us, it's more like a test in sanity than a chance to meaningfully catch up. And at this rate I am probably only cementing the impression that I have no idea what I'm doing.

“You're doing great,” Cam says, as if reading my mind.

“You're lying.”

“No, you are. But you may want to take Randall to the restroom.”

I look up just in time to see Randall tugging on the waistband of his pants and assuming the squat position by the slide.

One breakneck stop in the Porta-Potty later, I'm beyond ready for Jane to come home. My phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Maggie? It's John Hartman.”

Lucy begins to fuss and I cradle my cell under my chin while jiggling her up and down on my hip.

“I tried calling you at home but couldn't reach you.”

“Yes, sorry about that. I'm visiting family for a couple days,” I say, knowing that the board must have made a decision for John to be tracking me down. I hold my breath.

“Is now a good time?”

I move away from the playground noise toward a small grove of trees, straining to listen. “Now is great,” I lie. “Do you have any news?”

John sighs. “I just heard from the board of directors. I'm sorry, Maggie. They're cutting both positions after all.”

I spin around. Randall is perched at the top of the slide. I watch as he flops down on his bottom and launches himself down the chute, my breath escaping my chest with the same whoosh. “I see.”

“We looked at every viable option to try to avoid this, but with enrollment down, the board can't justify the expenditure. I really wish it were otherwise, Maggie.”

Randall's feet emerge from the tunnel at the bottom of the slide. He lies very still, looking up at the sky.