Plus One (28 page)

“Jellyfish,” said Cary. “Got you good.”

Sam let out a yelp and started to hyperventilate.

Alex took hold of Sam's arm and led him up onto the dry sand. “Easy now. Just breathe.”

The Bamper boys crowded close as Cary helped Sam down into a sitting position. Alex moved in and pulled the swim shirt over Sam's head—the full view of Sam's rash, mottled and white, sending the Bamper boys into a paroxysm of “ewwwwws.” Sam's shoulders began to rock with sobs, and Alex racked his brain: Was Sam allergic? Was he going into anaphylactic shock? Why couldn't he recall a single bit of first aid from his three years as camp counselor? Heart racing, he looked around the beach, scanning the crowd for… a beach medic? Someone in a uniform?

“Help?” he called miserably.

“Boys—look away,” announced Cary, feet planted far apart and motioning for room. “Sam, in a second it's gonna feel much better. Just hold still.”

Before Alex could register what was happening, Cary reached down, untied his swim trunks and pulled out his penis, a small
pink slug. Then he pivoted around and aimed his hips at Sam's midsection. “Just one second—”

Alex froze, confronted with the full view of Cary's genitals. “What the hell—”

“Old lifeguard trick,” Cary said. “Enzymes. Reduces swelling.”

Cary hovered there, knees bent and hips rocking. After a few tense seconds, he turned to Alex and snapped, “Could you maybe stop staring?”

Alex reflexively moved forward and reached down and started undoing the Velcro strip on his own shorts.

“Put that away, Bamper,” he said. “I got this. No one pees on my son but me.”

Sam looked up and registered the sight of his father and Mr. Bamper now fully unsheathed and jockeying for position over him.

“Stop—no!” Sam called, scrambling backward. “Get away, both of you!”

From behind Sam, streaking forward in her black one-piece at an athletic clip, came Helen Bamper. She waved Alex and Cary off, took Sam by the shoulder and sat him down on a fresh towel. Then she reached into her tote and pulled out a box of Benadryl soft-melts and a bottle of apple cider vinegar. “There, there, honey,” she said, wiping a stray tear from Sam's chin and dabbing his rash with a vinegar-soaked tissue. “Good thing I brought this, right? Doesn't that feel better?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bamper—thank you thank you,” Sam said, relief spreading across his face. “It was horrible. The jellyfish… all those penises… Oh God.”

• • •

The rash remained, but the pain was relieved instantly—though Sam seemed so grateful to be out of shooting range of the two
dads that Alex suspected a slab of pickled spam would have provided equally miraculous relief. Alex thanked Helen again and again, gushing over her magic bag of supplies.

“What else have you got in there?” he said. “Xanax?”

Helen considered it. “I've got Ambien back at the room. Cary snores.”

Cary gave Sam a thumbs up and Alex a firm clap on the back. “I usually have to buy a guy dinner to get his dick out.”

Alex grinned sheepishly, wary of this new bond between them. “Thank God for Helen here is all I'm saying. Neither one of us was exactly gushing—”

“Whoa, buddy,” Cary said, rearing back in mock offense. “I was about to give your boy a full and proper baptism!”

Alex helped Sam to his feet, and the group began trudging back toward the hotel. As they got closer, Alex saw Figgy heading down the steps toward the sand. Something in her hunched shoulders, the way her hand was held stiffly over her brow as she looked up and down the beach… something was wrong. He hurried over.

“Have you got Sylvie?” she said.

“What?” Alex said. “No. I've been dealing with Sam—”

“She's not by the pool or in the room,” she said. “I thought she was with you.”

“She was with me by the Jacuzzi a few minutes ago—did you check the bar?” he said. “She's probably downing piña coladas with that girl from Tucson. Don't worry.”

Figgy shook her head definitively. “The Tucson girl hasn't seen her. I checked everywhere. She's gone.”

Alex puffed out his cheeks. “Fuck. Okay. I'll go look.”

Alex took off in the direction of the hotel, jogging past other guests and peering into bunches of children for Sylvie's yellow polka-dot bathing suit. He checked the cabaña, the pool, the Jacuzzi, the croquet field, the indoor and outdoor bars, the store,
the teen lounge. No Sylvie. At the counter of the spa, he asked a curly-haired, middle-age desk clerk to check the women's locker area—maybe she'd hit the sauna? That would be like her.

“Sorry,” the clerk said. “No one in there.”

Breathing hard, Alex put his hands on his knees, trying to tamp down the scenarios now blasting in his head. Sylvie was awfully cute. And she had no trouble talking to adults. He could see her wandering away on the beach with a childless Hawaiian woman. Or innocently following a pockmark-cheeked Slavic guy through the lobby to the driveway, where she'd be tossed through the side doors of a black van.

Heart racing, he put his hands on his knees and shook his head. “Call security. We can't find my daughter. We've checked everywhere. Please.”

The clerk picked up the phone and punched a button. “It's Tara at the spa. We have a gentleman here who seems to have lost his daughter. Seven years old. One-piece bathing suit, yellow polka dots. Okay, sure. I'll send him down.”

The clerk held up a finger to Alex and frowned, waiting. Alex closed his eyes tight and tried to think.

A terrible thought flashed across his mind; it sent him spinning around and through the glass doors, across the courtyard, and toward the beach. Now at full sprint, he reached the sand in a few seconds and continued to the water's edge. The waves were ragged and formless, kicked up by the afternoon breeze. Alex squinted into the warm glare, looking past the snorkelers and men on paddleboards. If Sylvie was out there, could he see her? Would she be floating? Or would she have been pulled too far out by now?

A minute passed, maybe five. Figgy and the Bampers divided up into groups of two and began double-checking the hotel. Walkie-talkies crackled as hotel staff joined the hunt. Alex stayed on the shore, marching back and forth in the surf and squinting
into the distance, looking for a speck of bathing suit or a flash of skin, his stomach turning circles.

“Alex! Alex!”

It was Cary, waving him over to a beach attendant with a walkie-talkie. He raised a fist into the air and smiled. “We've got her! She's fine.”

Alex let out a heavy sigh. “What? Where?”

The attendant lowered his walkie-talkie. “Off campus,” he said. “Shuttle bus driver spotted her at the supermarket over in town. He's bringing her back now. She was at some barbecue place? Says she couldn't stand another chicken finger.”

• • •

The whole group waited for Sylvie at the front desk, rushing toward the orange hotel bus when it pulled up to the curb. She popped out with a big smile, emerging like a returning dignitary, cheeks smeared in sauce. Alex took her by the shoulders, hugged her tight. Then he put his face up to hers and demanded: How could she just wander off like that? Why didn't she tell someone? And where did she even get the money?

“From your schmearing wad,” she whimpered. “You left it on the dresser. Real Hawaiian food, remember? I was bringing you some!”

Figgy shot Alex a look. “So you left the hotel and went running into town by yourself—for Daddy?”

Sylvie stepped toward Alex and held up a foil to-go bag. “Here,” she said. “This pork? It's crazy good, Dad. It was going to be a surprise.”

Alex took the bag and brought it to his face, sniffing it. Figgy raised a hand up and turned away, a percussive “bah” sound exploding from her mouth.

“What?” Alex said.

Helen moved in and cupped Sylvie on the shoulder. “We're just all glad you're safe,” she said. “Why don't I take you to the bathroom and get you cleaned up. Your dad and mom have been so worried—they should have some time to relax.”

Alex started to object, but Figgy was already nodding in agreement and sending Helen and Sylvie on their way. Alex watched as Sylvie happily skipped alongside Helen and her boys, down the wide marble stairs and out of sight. He didn't move. He felt woozy and lightheaded, like he'd been punched in the gut.

“You realize that she'll literally do
anything
to please you,” she said, pivoting toward the elevators.

Alex tailed behind her. “Honey, she's
seven
!” he called after her. “I didn't ask her to go anywhere! This is so not my fault.”

“You were supposed to have her. You know I've got work to do. And if you hadn't gotten her so worked up about
authentic
Hawaiian food—”

Alex turned her around. “So I'm to blame—because I made her hate chicken fingers? I don't even know what to say. I was with Sam on the beach—and where were you? Napping?”

The elevator doors slid open. They got in, taking a moment while the doors closed and they were alone.

“You knew the deal with this trip,” she said. “I'm wiped out. I need rest. I've been carrying the load all year long—I just need a break. Why can't you give that to me?”

The elevator jolted upward. So this is what Helen Bamper meant the night before, about making things
easy
. Was that really his job now? He crossed his arms. “Look—I thought this was a family vacation. I didn't realize I'm just here as help.”

They rode in silence for a floor before she exhaled and turned to him. “Of course you're not
help
.” She slouched against the wall, the fight draining out of her. “I'm not saying this was your fault. I was just so scared. I'm crazy when I'm ovulating.”

Alex sucked in a breath.

“Wait—you're what?”

“All the hormones,” she said. “I get nuts.”

He blinked, the obvious finally hitting him. This afternoon in the hotel room, when he'd headed out the door, Figgy was still balled up in bed, rocking back and forth like an automatic paint mixer.
Modified plow my ass.

“Wait—so you're… off the pill?”

She said nothing, her shoulder rising in a small shrug. Alex felt his head throb as what she was saying sank in.

“You… pulled the goalie? Without any discussion—”

“We've talked about it,” she said.

“Barely!” Alex blinked hard, his chest swelling. “This isn't a good time, Fig—how could you think it is? It's not like before with Sam and Sylvie—you were home, remember?”

“And
you're
home now,” she said. “Look, I'm going to be forty in a few weeks—I can't wait for a good time. There's never a good time. Didn't you see Helen and her kids today on the lawn? I want that—don't you want that? A whole crew? I'll put in a nursery at the studio. I'll get a work nanny, breastfeed in the room—it'll be fine.”

So this is how it was, Alex thought—she'd gone into steamroller mode. This is how she was with her career, with the house, with everything she wanted—singular, unwavering. She wanted a third kid and she was going to get it—no matter how he felt about it. “You're kidding, right?” Alex was hollering now. “Do you realize we almost
lost
one today? Two, if you count the thing with the jellyfish?”

Figgy started to respond, then stopped short. She reared back, eyes glassy with tears. “Sam looks pretty rough,” she said. “Oh God. I'm so sorry—I'm just so
tired
.”

She collapsed into his chest, arms slack at her side, sobbing. “I'm failing everyone. I'm exhausted at work. The kids barely know me and now
you
hate me. I'm doing everything wrong. The
only thing I do well is get pregnant. And I guess I figure getting knocked up will force me to slow down at work—I'll finally have an excuse to take some time.”

Alex shook his head. He lifted a hand and stroked her hair. “Oh, stop,” he said softly, following the script he knew would end the fight. “We'll figure it out. I don't hate you.”

The elevator doors slid open again. Figgy ran the back of her hand across her cheek and moved past them into the hallway. Alex followed behind. By the time they'd reached their room and Figgy stood back so Alex could swipe the key card, a plan had taken form. For the first time in a long time, he knew exactly what he needed to do. He'd take care of Figgy and the kids for the remaining days of the trip. He'd play the part of caretaker, big daddy, point man. He'd keep a close eye on Sylvie and schmear the bellboy and no one would know the difference. And the day they got home, he'd call Dr. Finkelstein.

Eleven