Say Never (17 page)

“Okay, Bianca, thanks.” He makes a final note, then turns to me. “You are?”

Before I can answer, Bianca says, “This is his auntie.”

“Right,” he says. “Anything to add to the description?”

My guilt instantly turns to anger. “A description is pointless! Just tell them to look for a little kid with a pacifier hanging out of his mouth and no grownup around!”

The security guard, whose nametag reads ‘Trevor’ peers at me. “Ma’am, just calm down.” He turns to Bianca. “I’m going to pass this description on.” He lifts up his handie-talkie and starts relaying Bianca’s information into it.

My forehead is damp with perspiration, my pits are soaked. I leave the security guard and Bianca and start searching the rest of the floor. In each department I enter, I am met with Bloomingdales’ employees, all searching for Tebow. My panic gives me away as “The Woman Who Lost Her Child.” Some of the salespeople look at me pityingly, others glare at me with contempt.
How could you let this happen?
they silently ask me.

How could I let this happen?

When I reach the jewelry section, I stop and gaze past the entrance of Bloomingdales and a prickle of horror slices through me. What if Tebow really has wandered out into the mall? What if he’s waddling through the throngs of pre-holiday shoppers in search of the toddler equivalent to Mecca…the Disney Store?

I shake my head and dismiss the idea, not because it couldn’t happen, but because I can’t deal with the possibility of my nephew being
out there.
I turn away from the gaping portal of fear that is the Bloomingdales entrance and head for men’s fashions. I should call Danny, I know I should, but the idea of telling my brother what’s happened fills me with unspeakable dread. How do I explain this?

Sorry, Danny, but I was busy trying on designer freaking clothes while your son was in a stroller completely out of my line of sight. Oh, yeah, and I didn’t strap him into the stroller because I couldn’t get the buckle to latch…

My legs feel like spaghetti as I sprint through men’s fashions, juniors, lingerie, scanning the crowds of shoppers as I go. Every time I see a child under three feet tall, my gut spasms, but none of them turns out to be my nephew. I reach into my purse for my cell, knowing I can’t put off calling my brother. He needs to know. He should be here leading the search. I am in no way capable of dealing with this situation.

With trembling fingers, I dial his cell. I pray he’ll answer, but I’m also sort of hoping for voice mail.

“Hey, sis,” he says. His tone is casual and warm and so at odds with my current circumstances that I freeze in my tracks. “How’s it going? Did you need me to explain any of the instructions?”

“I lost him, Danny! I’m so sorry, but I lost him and I can’t find him and—”

“We found him! We found him!” I hear the shout from two departments over and I almost faint with relief. I throw the cell into my purse and race in the direction of the triumphant voice, passing the hordes of Bloomingdales gawkers, who are different from NASCAR gawkers in that Bloomindales gawkers hold Fendi bags instead of beer cans. This thought makes me giggle, and as I make my way back to where I started, I realize I am on the brink of hysteria. Blind with tears, I nearly crash into Bianca at the accessories counter.

She takes my hand and leads me back to the fitting rooms. We pass the cubicle I was using only moments ago, and I glance at all of my would-be purchases hanging on the hooks. The sight of them makes my stomach churn. Bianca stops at the next room and presses her finger to her lips to quiet me because I’m still laughing maniacally. The laughter dies in my throat. She pushes open the door and I peer into the room.

Tebow is curled up on the small round ottoman in the corner of the cubicle, sucking on his pacifier, fast asleep.

I have never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life. I reach for the door handle, pull the door shut, then burst into gut-wrenching sobs.

Ten

Meg:
And what is it that makes you think you’re an expert in the field of child psychology?

Caller:
I’m a mom, that’s what.

Meg:
Last I checked, they didn’t give out degrees for being a mom. When they do, fax me a copy and we’ll talk.

* * *

I sit in the cramped office of the Bloomingdale’s’ head of security.
Joseph T. Bridgeford
says the nameplate on his desk. Tebow is strapped into his stroller, playing with a paper mache duck made by one of Joe’s grandchildren.

According to Bloomindales regulations, every time an item goes missing, be it a cell phone a purse or a
child
(cough cough), an incident report has to be created and filed. And although the ‘incident’ itself lasted no more than five minutes, from terrified realization to relieved discovery, the
reporting
of the incident has already taken three quarters of an hour.

Bridgeford peers at the computer, then vigorously pulls at his closely cropped beard, as though he’s trying to make the hair grow faster.

“So, at what point did you realize he was missing?”

I count to ten. “He wasn’t missing,” I say for the umpteenth time. “He was in the next fitting room over. The whole time.”

“But you went looking for him throughout the store.” Bridgeford narrows his eyes at me. “And you were, uh, naked…”

I swallow hard then clear my throat. “Not entirely. And only for a few minutes.”

“Mmm hmm.” He turns back to the computer and starts two-finger typing.

I look at Tebow who is now sucking on the duck’s butt.

“Tebow, no,” I tell him. He looks up at me, the duck hanging limply from his mouth. I gaze at him for a long moment as Joe Bridgeford
clack clack clacks
on his keyboard. I’ll be damned. My nephew’s eyes are amazing, with flecks of yellow that shimmer in his irises like gold on the bottom of a pond.

“Don’t eat the duck,” I say gently. Tebow opens his mouth and the duck drops into his lap.

“Drucky!” he exclaims.

“That’s right, Tebow! Very good. Duck! Say it again. Duck.”

“Fuck me!”

Bridgeford’s typing comes to a halt and he jerks his head toward my nephew. I’m expecting him to give me some kind of admonishment, or call into question my skills as a guardian—or lack thereof, as the case may be. But instead, the old man just grins.

“Well, he sure got the pronunciation right on that one, huh?”

* * *

I screech to the curb at McKenna’s school at exactly two-forty-seven, then waste sixty precious seconds extracting Tebow from the car seat. There are no other cars in the kindergarten pickup area, and I know that I’ve screwed up. Again. When I reach the gate, Tebow under my arm, the padlock is firmly in place.

I haul my nephew to the front office, expecting to see McKenna seated at one of the tables just inside the door, patiently waiting for me. But the seats are empty.

The office hasn’t changed in the thirty years since I attended Dumbass Elementary. The same orange and brown walls, although they must have been repainted at some point, the same beige industrial carpet, the same Formica counter which separates the reception area from the administrators’ desks.

I’m suddenly gripped by an intense memory of me sitting by the door, waiting for Buddy, my muddy sneakers kicking out at the legs of the table, my anguish rising with each passing moment.

My father was rarely late, and only with good reason. He couldn’t stop working when Melanie left, so he had to be both provider and caretaker. And though he was ill-prepared to act as the latter, he took his responsibilities to heart. The few times he missed pickup, he’d rush through the office doors, his face beet red, spewing apologies to a dour-faced five-year-old (me) who held a grudge against him long past any reasonable period of time for such an infraction.

Now here I am, so many years later, in my father’s position. I’m prepared to utter noises of contrition, but there’s no child to hear them.

I adjust Tebow’s position so that his butt is resting on my hip then approach the counter. An older woman with bluish-grey hair sprayed into a bouffant sits at her desk, the phone in the crook of her neck and a pencil in hand. She barely moves her head in my direction.

“McKenna Monroe?” I faux whisper to her. She holds up her index finger and speaks into the phone in a hushed tone, as though discussing nuclear weapon codes.

My arm is starting to shake with the weight of my nephew so I plop him down on the counter. I feel his diaper squish, then detect the telltale waft of noxious fumes.
Crap.
Literally.

The woman finishes her conversation, hangs up, then turns to me and gives me a scathing glare. “Please remove the child’s rump from the counter.”

I acquiesce, setting Tebow down on the carpet. “I’m here for McKenna Monroe,” I say, trying to breathe through my mouth. “I’m her aunt.”

“Well, McKenna’s not here. Her father picked her up five minutes ago.” She sniffs at the air and wrinkles her nose.

“Okay, thanks.” I grab Tebow from the floor and hurry out of the office, holding him as far from my new clothing as possible.

* * *

When I pull up to the house five minutes later, Danny is sitting on the top porch step, his long legs folded, his feet resting on the ground. I’ve finally mastered the car seat, but I take extra time unlatching Tebow, trying to postpone the confrontation I know awaits me. Leaving my shopping bags in the trunk, I haul my nephew up the flagstone path. As we approach, my brother gains his feet. His expression is uncharacteristically irate.

“What the fuck, Meg?”

“Language, language,” I sing-song to him, hoping to diffuse his anger. It doesn’t work.

“You already taught them the f-word. What’s the diff?”

“Before you go all postal on me, Danny, you might want to change your son’s diaper.”

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to smile at his son. “Hey, my guy!” I pass Tebow to him and without another word, he moves into the house.

McKenna is on the floor of the living room, this time playing with Legos, and I notice that these little plastic pieces are more feminine, in the colors of purple, pink, yellow and peach, with little Lego girl-figures. They didn’t make those when I was a kid.

“Hi, McKenna,” I call to her.

“You forgot about me,” she says without preamble.

“I didn’t forget,” I tell her. “I promise. I just got stuck somewhere.”

“You forgot about me and I had to go to the office. I hate you!”

I have a feeling it’s going to take more than the spoon trick to smooth this over. “Look, McKenna. I’m really sorry. It was, like, an emergency. But your dad picked you up, so it’s all okay, right?”

Her silence suggests that it is not even remotely okay. I shrug my shoulders and head for the kitchen. As I take a seat at the kitchen table, I realize that every muscle in my body is as taut as a piano wire. I force myself to relax, gulping in air as though I’ve been holding my breath for the past two hours. In light of the Tebow incident, I pretty much have been.

A few minutes later, Danny walks into the kitchen. His steps are slow and measured and he refuses to make eye contact. Despite the texts I sent him letting him know that everything was all right, I can tell he is furious with me. He has every right to be.

He heads for the fridge and pulls the vodka from the freezer, uncaps it. Instead of pouring himself a shot, he takes a long swig straight from the bottle.

“Í thought you didn’t drink the hard stuff.” My attempt at a joke falls flat.

“Making an exception today,” he says. His dress shirt is untucked from his trousers, the collar open, his tie absent. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there this morning.

“It’s still a little early, bro,” I gesture to the clock which reads 3:25.

“Just give me a break, okay? I’m a little on edge.”

“Where’s Mister Stinky Pants?” I ask and Danny shoots me a venomous look.

“His name is Tebow, Meg.”

“It’s a term of endearment!” I counter. I have no right to be defensive, but I can’t help myself.

“No,” my brother says. “It’s not. Little Man is a term of endearment. Baby Boy or Tweedle Dee or TeeTee. Those are terms of endearment. Mister Stinky Pants is an insult.”

“Tweedle Dee is a term of endearment? Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are morons!”

“Just don’t call him Mister Stinky Pants, all right?”

“Fine,” I say. “Tweedle Dee it is.” Danny says nothing, just takes another swig. “I’m kidding, Danny. Jesus. Chill out.”

He sets the bottle on the counter, then walks over and lowers himself onto the seat opposite me. He continues to avoid my eyes.

“Look, I talked to Dad. He’s going to loan me some money so I can get some professional help until Rosa comes back.”