Say Never (7 page)

“Who wants pizza?” I shout, and the girls go completely ape-shit with glee. Now I know what The Beatles felt like.

I march to Danny’s kitchen, the midget brigade close on my heels, and grab three Di Giorno cheese pizzas from the freezer. The squeals of anticipation are grating, especially since the Motrin seems to be wearing off. I’m acutely aware of the fact that as soon as they have food in their mouths, they won’t be able to make noise. I violently tear at the packaging, almost breaking one of the pizzas in half, then slap them onto the two racks in the oven. My vision being what it is—which is going downhill fast—I can’t quite make out the numbers on the knob of this ancient oven, so I crank it to where I think four hundred degrees is and slam the door shut.

The girls are all talking excitedly at once, their volume level rising. I can’t make out what they’re saying—it sounds like they’re all speaking in tongues—but I do catch the word pizza every now and then. I have to refrain from covering my ears with my hands, and suddenly wish I hadn’t packed my earplugs in my suitcase. Earplugs would really come in handy just about now.

I move toward the archway to the dining room, hoping to escape the cacophony, but the girls move with me, like a herd of freaking sheep. I try to count to ten, but their babbling is making it impossible for me to think.

Oh, God. I can’t do this.

“SHUT! UP!”

Deathly (blissful) silence falls instantly and six pair of wide eyes look up at me.

“You said the S-H word,” says Simone quietly.

“I most certainly did not,” I reply.

“Did too,” says ponytail girl.

“The S-H word is another word entirely,” I point out. “And, by the way,
shut up
is
two
words.” You’d think five-year-olds would at least be able to count.

“She said it again!” Hello Kitty shrieks.

“I didn’t! I said it as…as…as an example!” And why is it that they’re so concerned about
shut up,
but didn’t think twice about screaming
fuck me
at the tops of their lungs?

On the heels of this question comes the realization that I haven’t seen my potty-mouthed nephew for a while.

“McKenna, where’s your brother?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

She shrugs her shoulders and bites her bottom lip, and the resemblance between her and Caroline is striking.

“Okay, come on, girls. Back to the living room. The pizzas won’t be ready for twenty minutes or so.”

“But we’re hungry NOW!” Beyoncé screams.

“I’m starving!” says Hello Kitty.

“If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll have a mood disaster,” the
Ring
girl says solemnly. “Mommy says my mood disasters should be voided at all
cots
.”

I try to ignore the creepy-crawlies climbing up my back.

“Okay, fine!” I spy a bag of Doritos and a package of Chips Ahoy on top of the fridge and make a rush for them. I tear the package of cookies open with my teeth while simultaneously ripping open the Doritos, then toss them both in the middle of the kitchen table. I vaguely recall Danny telling me not to give snacks, but he’s not here so fuck him.

A series of delighted shrieks and loud crunching sounds follow me as I push through to the dining room. Tebow isn’t there, nor is he in the living room, the bathroom, or the foyer. I glance at the front door and freeze when I realize that I forgot to slide the bolt into place.

Since it’s November, darkness has already fallen. Can you say
the S-H word?

I can’t because my throat is constricted to the point of not being able to breathe.

Please, God, let Tebow be inside the house.

I turn away from the front door and scramble down the hall toward the back of the house, calling my nephew’s name and peering into each room I pass. McKenna’s room, no; Tebow’s room, nothing; bathroom, nope; master bedroom, nada.

He’s outside, he’s outside!
my mind screams.
Danny is going to kill me. No. Danny won’t kill me. He’s too nice. However his bitch of a wife will have no problem causing me great bodily harm.
But I work out
,
so I could probably take her, especially since she’s in traction. Shut up, Meg! Find Tebow!

My breathing labored and my heart rate dangerously high, I reach the guest room at the very end of the hall. I push the door open and almost cry with relief as I see my nephew seated on my bed, happily playing with the contents of my overturned purse. He looks up at me and giggles, then waves something in the air. At first I think it’s his pacifier, but when I move toward the bed, my stomach drops to my knees. Because he’s playing with my pack of birth control pills. My
open
pack of birth control pills. And he’s drooling.

Shit!

I make a grab for the plastic pack, but Tebow thinks it’s a game and pulls it away from me.

“Tebow! Give Auntie Meg her, uh, candy.”
Stupid stupid stupid. He’ll
never
give it up if he thinks it candy!
“I mean, her icky nasty bug poops.”

My nephew grins at me as he clutches the plastic case to himself. There’s a sparkle in his big blue eyes that would ordinarily be irresistible, but at the moment makes me want to spank him.

“Just give me my damned birth control pills, you little hose-bag.” I manage to snatch the pills from him only to receive a blistering wail. A millisecond later, tears erupt from his eyes.

“What’s a hose-bag?”

“What’s birf control?”

“You said the D-word.”

I whirl around to see McKenna and two of her compatriots standing at the bedroom door, their mouths decorated a very unlovely Doritos-orange.

“Smoke!” comes a shrill cry from somewhere else in the house. “Smoke!”

I quickly try to organize the thoughts careening around in my head and put them in order of importance.
I have to count my pills and make sure Tebow didn’t eat any, and if he did, I have to call poison control, but I really should investigate this smoke business, because the aforementioned situation will be completely moot if we all burn to death in this house!

I jump off the bed and race to the kitchen, where thick oily smoke is spewing from the ancient oven like an erupting volcano. As soon as I open the oven door, the smoke alarm in the dining room starts blaring, and the sudden deafening noise causes all of the girls, who
of course
, have followed me into the kitchen, to start sobbing and wailing in terror. I wave the smoke away and see that the three pizzas are a charred mess and the cheese has dripped over the rack onto the burners below.

Without thinking, I do a quick pile up of the three blackened disks, yank the pile out of the oven—the cheese sizzling the skin off my fingers as I go—and toss the lot into the sink.

Ouch!” I cry, then open the tap and shove my hands under the cool running water. The girls are in a complete frenzy now, and I can totally relate, as I have the distinct urge to start screaming myself.

“Calm down!” I shout. I shut off the water and push away from the sink. “Just calm the fuck down!”

At that moment, the kitchen door slams open and a chocolate Lab the size of a small elephant bounds into the kitchen, snorting and chuffing and slapping its frantic tail against the cupboards and chairs and whatever else happens to be in its way, i.e. the girls’ legs.

“What the hell?”

“Wow, that’s loud,” comes a deep male voice. I turn in the direction of this unexpected sound and see a tall, dark-haired man wearing faded jeans and a worn cardigan standing at the kitchen door. His eyes are the color of the ocean and there’s a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. His expression is a mixture of shock and amusement. “Did I come at a bad time?”

Great! A comedian! Just what I need!

I shake my head in disbelief, then frantically search the kitchen for a broom or mop. I find a broom tucked behind the fridge and carry it to the dining room where I proceed the whack the smoke alarm until the cover cracks and the horrible siren goes silent. I count to ten, and breathe deeply, fully appreciating my victory over the alarm—I killed that fucker dead—but then remember the frightened girls in the next room. I stomp back into the kitchen to find the lab dancing around the kitchen, busily sniffing hands and feet and butts, and its owner still standing at the kitchen door, taking in the scene and smiling sheepishly. The girls are no longer agitated since the alarm is off, but now they’re making a ruckus about the pizza.

“What are we gonna have for dinner?”

“I’m so hungry!”

“McKenna’s dad promised us pizza!”

“I want pizza!”

Sounding like a complete nut-job, I holler, “I’ll call Domino’s! I’ll call Domino’s! I’ll call Domino’s!” Then I shove the broom back into its place, move to the kitchen table, and glare at the man.

“Could you please get your dog the fu—the heck out of here?”

The man cocks his head to the side. “Oh, she’s not mine. She’s the Monroe’s dog. Godiva. She got into my backyard again, so I was just bringing her home.”

“Are you serious? My brother has a dog, too? What the hell is wrong with him?”

Just then, Hello Kitty stumbles over to me, her face screwed up in a look of agony.

“I don’t feel good,” she mumbles, grabbing at my Donna Karan blouse with her Doritos-stained fingers. I recoil, but not fast enough to avoid a shower of Doritos-and-Chips-Ahoy puke. It splashes across my blouse, slides down my Roberto Cavalli jeans and onto my Louboutin boots. The only thing it misses is my scarf. It’s a good thing, too. Because I really am going to hang myself with it later.

Hello Kitty smiles and looks up at me. “I’m feeling all better now,” she declares.

“That’s great,” I tell her, staring down at my ruined and repugnant midsection, too stunned to move. “Just fantastic.”

Maybe I should take a picture of
this
for Damien to tweet. My fans would just
love
it.

Five

Barry:
I think our guest looks just fine, Meg.

Meg:
Barry, you only think she looks good because she works at Hooters and you have a penis.

Barry:
Meg, I’m offended. DeeDee, here, is doing wonderful charity work.

Meg:
Right. Hooters for Humanity. Where do I sign up?

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I stand in the master bedroom at the threshold of my sister-in-law’s closet, naked save for a towel. God help me, I’m going to have to borrow something from her, and fast. I can hear loud, insanely festive music blaring from the living room which means Dora the Explorer must be coming to a close.

Hanging on the racks before me are various pairs of jeans—none of which are Roberto Cavalli—slacks with elastic waistbands (dear God!), nondescript tops of all different colors, all roomy and oversized and designed to hang down over protuberant bellies.

I hear a shriek from the other room and quickly grab a pair of black sweats and a white t-shirt off the top shelf above the rack. Not bothering with underwear—please! Like I’d ever be caught dead in Caroline’s granny panties—I drop the towel, yank up the sweats and pull on the shirt. My body is still a little damp, but I try to ignore the way the cotton pants squish against my butt.

When I reach the living room, I see that another Dora has begun—apparently, the episodes come in twos, and all six girls and my nephew are accounted for, sitting still and staring at the screen like little zombies.

Why didn’t I put the TV on in the first place?

I turn and head for the kitchen, working out my game plan as I go. First, get a garbage bag for my clothing. (While I am loath to throw out my beautiful ensemble, there is no way on God’s green earth I will ever put any one of those pieces on again.) Second, find a Hazmat suit and some hydrochloric acid to clean the puke off the floor. Third, call freaking Domino’s.

I’m halfway to the sink when I realize that cardigan man is still in the kitchen, seated at the table, calmly stroking the Lab and whispering sweet nothings to her. For a split second, I feel a hot warmth spread through my belly at the sight of man and dog, but immediately squelch it when they both turn to look at me. The man stands up and gives me another one of those sheepish smiles, and his dimples are visible through the stubble on his cheeks. I hadn’t noticed it before, in the midst of all the turmoil, but he is absolutely gorgeous.

Unfortunately, I am wearing an old pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt, my hair is a limp, dripping mess, my face scrubbed clean of makeup except for the mascara stains under my eyes that make me look like a ghoul.
Someone kill me now.