Twisted (6 page)

with my mommy while she talks me through the heaves.

I’m not going to make it to the bathroom, so I lunge for the

kitchen sink. As I splatter my breakfast into it, Drew holds back

the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail.

I want to tell him to go away, but another round of retching

commences. Some women have no problem going to the bath-

room, passing gas, or throwing up in front of their boyfriends.

I’m not one of them.

Maybe it’s stupid, but if I were to die suddenly, I don’t want the last image Drew has of me to be one where I’m sitting on the toilet.

Or in this case, barfing in the sink.

his voice is kind. Soothing. “Okay . . . easy. You’re okay.”

When it seems like the worst is over, Drew hands me a wet

paper towel. Then he glances toward the drain. “Well, that’s

colorful.”

I croak, “Ugh—I knew I was getting the flu.”

“Seems like it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time be sick. I have the Rob-

inson meeting today.” Anne Robinson is a client I’ve been court-

ing for months. Old money—and I stress the word old. She’s like,

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ninety-five. If I don’t sign her today, it might literally be too late to sign her at all.

“You’re sick, baby. And I don’t think Mrs. Robinson will be

impressed if you yak all over her antique brooch. Lucky for you,

you have a genius boyfriend who performs exceedingly well in

clutch situations. Give me the folder—I’ll run the meeting. Annie’s as good as yours.”

he scoops me up in his arms.

“Drew, no—”

he cuts me off. “Nope. No bitching. Don’t want to hear it. I’m

putting you to bed.”

I smile weakly.

Drew tucks me in and leaves a glass of ginger ale on the night-

stand.

I think he kisses my forehead, but I can’t be sure. Because I’m

already drifting off to sleep.

Three hours later, I walk out of the elevator onto the 40th floor of our office building.

My stomach’s empty, but after a good nap, I woke up feeling

better. Refreshed. Ready to take on the world and Anne Robinson.

I walk to the small conference room and peer in through the glass.

Can you see Drew? Sitting next to the little gray-haired lady

in the wheelchair? While he’s speaking to the legal representation seated around the table, Mrs. Robinson’s hands disappear under it.

And a second later Drew flinches, like he’s been given an elec-

tric shock.

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Old women have a thing for Drew.

It’s completely hilarious.

he gives Mrs. Robinson a harsh look. She just wiggles her eye-

brows. Then he rolls his eyes before looking away, spotting me in

the process.

Drew excuses himself and comes out into the hall, relief shin-

ing on his face like a beacon. “For the love of all that is holy—

thank God you’re here.”

My lips slide into a smirk. “I don’t know; Mrs. Robinson seems

to be enjoying your company.”

“Yeah—if she tries enjoying it any more, I’m going to staple

her hands to the conference table.”

Then he looks me over, concerned. “Don’t think I’m not over-

fucking-joyed to see you, ’cause I am. But what are you doing here?

You’re supposed to be in bed.”

I shrug. “Must’ve been a three-hour bug. I feel fine now.”

Drew cups my cheek and palms my forehead, feeling for a

fever. “You sure?”

“Yep. Right as rain.”

he nods, but his eyes are suspicious, not totally convinced. “All

right. Oh—we’re supposed to have dinner at my parents’ tonight.

Think you’ll be up for it, or do you want me to cancel?”

Dinner at the Evans’ is always an interesting affair.

“I should be good to go.”

he hands me the Robinson folder. “Okay. Your investment

strategies got them all quivery. They’re wet and spread-eagled, just waiting for you to nail them.”

his imagery is slightly disturbing.

“That’s gross, Drew.”

he’s unperturbed. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.” Then he

kisses me quickly. “Go get ’em, killer.”

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he walks away and I head into the conference room to seal

the deal.

So you’re starting to get it now, aren’t you? The problem, the big picture? I know it’s taking a while, but we’re getting there.

Enjoy the good times while you can—they won’t be lasting

much longer.

The reason I’m showing you all this, is so you’ll understand

why I was so shocked. how accidental—unintended—it all really

was.

I guess life is like that.

You think you have it all under control. Your path so perfectly

mapped out. And then one day you’re driving along and
Bam!
You get rammed from behind on the freeway.

And you never saw it coming.

People are like that too. Unpredictable.

No matter how well you think you know somebody? how

confident you are of their feelings, their reactions? They can still surprise you.

And in the most devastating of ways.

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Visiting with Drew’s family is never boring. Coming from a

single-child home, I found the family gatherings a little over-

whelming at first. But now I’m used to it.

Drew and I arrive last.

Frank Fisher—Matthew’s father—and John Evans stand by

the wet bar in the corner, trading stock quotes. Delores is perched on the arm of the recliner beside Matthew, watching the football

game, while Drew’s sister, Alexandra, aka “The Bitch,” and her husband, Steven, sit on the couch.

Mackenzie, Drew’s niece, sits on the floor. She’s changed since

the last time you saw her. She’s six years old now, her hair is longer, her face a little thinner—more girlish, less toddler, but still adorable. She’s playing with a gaggle of dolls and miniature nursery

accessories.

Drew’s mother, Anne, and Matthew’s mom, Estelle, are most

likely in the kitchen. And if you’re wondering where Steven’s wid-

owed father, George Reinhart, is, we won’t be seeing him until later.

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As we walk into the room, Steven greets us and offers us both

a drink.

We settle on the love seat, drinks in hand, and watch the game.

Mackenzie pushes a button on one of her dolls, and an anima-

tronic voice fills the room. “No, no, no! No, no, no!”

Mackenzie’s head tilts as she looks at the annoying doll. “I

think you’re wrong, Daddy. No-No Nancy doesn’t sound like

Momma at all.”

The comment gets Alexandra’s attention. “What do you mean,

Mackenzie?”

Behind his wife’s shoulder, Steven shakes his head at his daugh-

ter, but unfortunately for him, she doesn’t get the message.

Instead she explains, “The other day, when you were out,

Daddy said No-No Nancy sounds just like you. But instead of no,

you say, ‘Nag, nag, nag.’” All heads turn to Alexandra, watching

her like a ticking time bomb counting down to zero.

Steven tries valiantly to defuse her. he smiles and teases, , “You have to admit, honey, the resemblance is uncanny. . . .”

Alexandra punches him in the arm. But he tightens his bicep

before she makes contact, absorbing the blow. She punches him

again, less playfully.

Steven just boasts, “You can’t dent steel, babe. Be careful—

don’t want to hurt your hand on the gun.”

Faster than a speeding bullet, Alexandra’s fingers lash out and

pinch the tender flesh on the back of his tricep, bringing him to

his knees.

Drew grimaces and rubs the back of his own arm in sympathy.

“That’s gonna leave a mark.”

Alexandra’s voice is firm. And final. “I don’t nag. I’m a kind,

nurturing, supportive wife, and if you would just do what you’re

supposed to, I’d never have to say anything at all!”

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he yelps, “Yes, dear.”

She releases his arm and stands. “I’m going to help my mother

in the kitchen.”

After she leaves, Mackenzie looks down at the chastising doll

thoughtfully, then up at her father. “Actually, you’re right, Daddy.

Momma really does sound like Nancy.”

Steven puts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

A while later, Drew, Matthew, Delores, and I are in the den for

Mackenzie’s guitar lesson.

I’m teaching her to play. I was five when my father taught me.

he told me music was like a secret code, a magical language that

would always be there for me. To comfort me when I was sad, to

help me celebrate when I was happy.

And he was right.

It’s a lesson I’ve treasured my entire life. A small piece of him

that I was able to hold on to after he was gone. And I’m thrilled to be able to pass that knowledge on to Mackenzie.

She’s playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”
right now.

She’s good, isn’t she? Focused. Determined. I’m not sur-

prised—she’s Drew’s niece, after all. As she finishes the song, we all clap.

Then I turn to Delores. “Billy called me last night. he’s got a

few weeks off. he’s coming to the city next week and wants to meet up for dinner.”

Sarcasm drips off Drew’s words like chocolate on a strawberry.

“Jackass is coming to town? Oh, goody. It’ll be like Christmas.”

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Delores looks at Drew. “hey—Jackass is my nickname for

him. Get your own.”

Drew nods. “You’re right. Douche Bag has a much nicer ring

to it.”

Are you wondering about the Bad Word Jar? For those of you

who don’t know, the Bad Word Jar was started by Alexandra to

financially penalize anyone—usually Drew—who cursed in front

of her daughter. Originally, each curse cost a dollar, but when Drew and I were working through our issues, I convinced Mackenzie to

bump the price up to ten. Color me vindictive.

Anyway, these days, the Jar is no longer used. Mackenzie has

a checking account now. And since she’s old enough to write, she

keeps a log of who owes what in that blue notebook there—the one

she’s scribbling in right now.

We’re all expected to pay our fines before we leave. Or run the

risk of a 10 percent late fee.

I have a feeling Mackenzie’s going to be a brilliant banker

someday.

She puts her book down and goes back to strumming her gui-

tar. Then she turns to Drew.

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Where do babies come from?”

Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “God.”

I got the basics when I was eleven. My mother took the “stay

my little girl forever and don’t ever have sex” approach. Amelia

Warren, on the other hand, was more than willing to fill in the

gaps. She wanted her daughter Delores and me informed. And pre-

pared. By the time we were thirteen, we could get a condom on a

banana faster than any hooker on the strip.

Whatever you do, don’t let your kids learn about procreation

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from “The Video.” Finding out about the birds and the bees is a lot like finding out there’s no Santa—kids are bound to figure it out

eventually, but it’ll go down much easier coming from you.

Mackenzie nods and goes back to her guitar. Until . . .

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yes, Mackenzie?”

“The baby grows in the mommy’s tummy, right?”

“More or less.”

“how does that happen . . . exactly?”

Drew rubs his fingers over his lips, thinking it over.

And I hold my breath.

“Well, you know when you’re painting? And you mix blue and

red together? And you get . . .”

“Purple!”

“Excellent, yes, you get purple. Babies are kind of like that. A

little blue paint from the daddy, some red paint from the mommy,

shake it all together, and boom—you get a whole new person.

hopefully not purple, but if Aunt Delores is involved? Anything

is possible.”

Delores gives Drew the finger behind Mackenzie’s back.

Mackenzie nods. And goes back to strumming her guitar. For

one whole minute.

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yep?”

“how does the daddy’s blue paint get to the mommy’s red

paint?”

Drew raises both eyebrows. he stutters, “how . . . how does

it . . . get there?”

Mackenzie gestures with her hand. “Well, yeah. Does the doc-

tor give her a shot of blue paint? Does the mommy swallow the

blue paint?”

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Matthew snickers. “Only if the daddy is a very lucky guy.”

Delores smacks him on the head. But Mackenzie’s round blue

eyes stay on Drew, waiting for an answer.

he opens his mouth.

And then closes it.

he starts again.

And then stops.

Finally, like cannon-balling into a pool on the first day of spring, he takes the plunge. “Well . . . the mommy and daddy have sex.”

It’s official. Alexandra’s going to kill him. For real this time. I’m going to be a widow before I’m ever a wife.