I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (17 page)

Tig frowned. “Just think of it as short-term help for a short-term problem. The colic will go away. You'll feel better, then you can go off the meds.”

Wendy's eyes filled like a flash flood. “I went off them when I got pregnant and vowed never to go on them again. I'm the cheerful sister.
Me
. I'm the fun one. The fun one doesn't need antidepressants. Quit trying to turn me into you.”

“Nice, Wendy.”

Tucking her knees to her chin, Wendy rested her head on her arms. “I just need sleep. I could use something more than a phone call from Phil, too.”

“Oh, you've been talking?”

“Yes, we're not totally dysfunctional. I can't cut people out like you can, Tig.”

Tig inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I'm not going to arm-wrestle you for the title of Sister with the Biggest Issues. Go to bed. I'll take over from here. When she wakes, I'll feed her one of the millions of bags of pumped milk you've stored in the freezer.”

Wendy stood up in the same arthritic way as the residents of the nursing home. None of the healthy flush associated with new mothers bloomed on her skin, none of the joy. That week, Tig had noticed a mother in the audience holding an extremely small baby with the look of first-love infatuation reflected in her smile. Mother and infant gazed at each other as if no one else in the world existed for them. When Wendy looked at Clementine, it was as if her daughter were a crossword puzzle and Wendy couldn't figure out a four-letter word for mother-daughter bond beginning with L, O and ending with V, E.

As Wendy eased herself out of the room, Tig said, “I got this. Go to sleep. I'll wake you only if I have to.”

“Thanks.” Wendy sniffed and scratched something that looked like dried pancake mix off her sweatpants and shuffled off to her room.

As the door to the bedroom closed, Clementine opened her eyes, then her mouth; she furrowed her brow and brought her fist to her mouth. Tig rocked the car seat and gave her niece her finger to grip. This small offering seemed to change Clementine's mind. She searched the room for a place to lay her eyes and Tig centered herself in Clementine's view.

“Hi, girlie. Hi, sweetie. Mommy's going to take a nap. Aunt Tig's in charge. Can you give me a smile?” When Clementine dropped her chin and grimaced, flared her nostrils and pushed her tongue out like a drunk licking the salt from the tequila glass, Tig laughed. “Not quite, but I'll take it.”

Over the next several hours, Clementine's crying jags were miraculously abbreviated compared to what they'd been over the past month. Throughout the evening, Tig used every last piece of information she knew about her niece. Clementine liked the low-flow clear nipples on her bottles as opposed to the flatter gold ones. She preferred the football hold and would pass liberal amounts of gas in this position. When using the electric swing, the high speed made her spit up, the lowest speed pissed her off to no end, and she would only tolerate the swing long enough for Tig to thaw half a bottle of breastmilk.

By eight-thirty, the baby care had exhausted both aunt and niece. Tig lay down in her own bed to feed Clementine what would hopefully be the final bottle for the night. She built a barrier between the baby and herself, creating a kind of walled security bed complete with terry-covered hot water bottle, every pacifier any child could possibly want, six diapers, a package of wipes, and a large bear with the choice of womb or heart sounds positioned close enough to hear but far enough to discourage suffocation. Tig didn't bother taking off her work clothes before she crawled in. Thatcher curled herself on the floor, the ready sentinel hoping to be of service.

Sometime in the night, her door opened. Tig, too tired to acknowledge it, turned on her side, resting her hand on Clementine's foot. Later still, she blinked as a car's headlights fanned the room, then faded into darkness.

The crying came on so loud and fast that Tig sat up in bed and frantically looked around the room. Thatcher scuttled to attention and trotted away, looking over her shoulder as if to say,
Not again, I'm outta here
.

Tig cradled the baby and made her way to the kitchen. A bag of thawed milk sat on the refrigerator shelf, and she tried placing the screaming child into the swing. Clementine hollered louder.

“Let's see if we can get you fed, let your mama rest or shower, or whatever she's doing.” She ran warm water over the packet of milk. Just as she poured the milk into the bottle, Clementine shifted in her arms and Tig watched most of the milk pour down the drain. “Shit.”

Tig slung her niece onto her shoulder and reached for another bottle. She ran the water and called out, “Wendy, I could use your help out here.”

Tig tried putting the now-screaming, red-faced baby, who looked disturbingly like Newman Harmeyer, into the football hold, but Clementine cried harder. Tig rotated her until she was able to get the bottle to her mouth. “There,” she said, “there you are.” The baby swatted the bottle with her fist and Tig almost lost her grip. She walked the length of the kitchen, and shoved her sister's door wide.

“Wendy, I was . . . .”

Wendy's bed was empty. Tig kicked open the bathroom. Empty, too.

“What the heck?” Trying again to keep the bottle in Clementine's mouth, she said, “Where's your mama, honey?”

Tig strode out of the bathroom. A small scrap of paper flapped on Wendy's pillow.

Tig stormed out of the bedroom to the front window. “Jesus Christ.” Wendy's car was gone.

The bottle dislodged from Clementine's mouth and the infant inhaled. Tig plugged the infant's perfect, candy-ribbon lips with the nipple and searched her purse for her cell phone. When Wendy's voicemail picked up, which Tig had predicted, she pulled the bottle out and let Clementine wail for at least thirty seconds before replacing the bottle, hanging up, and soothing her like only an angry auntie can.

• • •

Tig rushed into the studio, carrying Clementine in her car seat. Macie and Jean snapped to attention and watched as Tig fished a pacifier out of the child's rumpled jumper, disentangled Clementine from the straps of her seat, and rummaged in the diaper bag for a bottle.

“Can someone give me a hand here?”

Macie jogged to Tig and helped ease the diaper bag from her shoulder. Jean swiftly took Clementine and proceeded with a series of deep knee squats. The redness drained from Clementine's face as she gave herself up to a kind of disgruntled quiet.

“This is the only thing that comforted the twins. My ass never looked so good as it did in the first three months post-baby.” Jean continued bobbing. “When's the sitter coming?”

Tig frowned at Jean. “I don't have a sitter. How would I get a sitter? I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes. Wendy took off and I can't get hold of her. This is the first time Clem's been quiet since five
A.M
.”

Jean said, “Do you have one of those baby sling things?”

Nodding, Tig pulled a large, paisley-patterned piece of fabric from her bag.

“Macie, put this on. We can't have her screaming all through the broadcast. And I can't keep doing this. You'll have to walk her around. I'll screen the calls, and we'll figure the rest out after the show.”

Tig helped Macie position the sling and slid Clementine in, tucking her tightly to her chest. Macie, dressed like a pierced Raggedy Ann doll with pigtails, striped sailor shirt, and hot pants, wriggled until she was comfortable and gave Tig a thumbs up, beginning her series of knee bends. The baby quieted again and grasped a black braid.

Jean shook her head at the ridiculous image. “You look part marsupial, part elementary school poster child for abstinence.”

Macie stuck out her pierced tongue and lisped, “Shut up, Mrs. Harmeyer.”

“Tig,” Jean said, “You can't wear the same thing as yesterday. I have an extra sweater and some makeup here. Let's see what we can do with you.” She pulled Tig into the wings and said, “What's your plan?”

Tig shook her head, incredulous. “My plan was to get to work. Beyond that, I am considering killing Wendy.”

Jean brushed makeup onto Tig's cheeks and paused. “From what you tell me, this is what she does, so I can understand your outrage.” Tig nodded, disgusted. Jean pulled out a lint brush and proceeded to dehair Tig's pants. “But consider this. Wendy has lost her partner, is faced with single parenting for the next eighteen years, has a constantly screaming child, and is, from what I gather, suffering from postpartum depression. I did something equally stupid around the same time.”

Surprised Tig said, “You ran away?”

“Worse. I stayed.”

“How can that be worse? You took responsibility.”

“I dug in. I adapted. I didn't even try to solve the problem of a husband who ran in any direction but home. I gritted my teeth, didn't ask for help, and resented everyone who didn't have twins screaming in their ears.”

“It's not the same. Besides, what could you have done?”

“I could have left, gone to my parents', nipped it all in the bud.” Jean helped Tig into a pale pink cardigan and grabbed a hairbrush. “But instead I played the good wife, because I believed the bullshit line, for better or for worse. When you blindly make that promise, you're thinking worse is being laid off from work or maybe a car accident. It never occurs to anyone at the altar that worse could be blatant disregard followed by adulterous skirt-chasing. If I'd had the courage to get my butt on the road like Wendy is doing, maybe my future would have held a cruise for me instead of the divorce courts.”

• • •

Twenty minutes later, the audience patiently waited for the start of the show. Occasionally, a wail erupted from somewhere in the studio but was quickly silenced by Macie. Tig checked her messages. No Wendy, and, as always, no Pete. She realized that with all the drama, and so little interaction with him, Pete had fallen off the radar of her life. She wondered if this was proof of how their relationship had worked, or if it was proof of its imperfection.

An intern from the college handed her a fresh double cappuccino, which helped warm her anger, the caffeine licking her drowsy wounds. In the control booth, Jean sat, ready to command applause, information, and commercial breaks. They were a three-women and one-irate-infant show.

Tig prompted the first caller, “Yes, caller. You're on the line.” There was a shuffle and hang-up. Tig smiled. “Stage fright.” The crowd laughed a little. Tig touched her earbud and adjusted her microphone. “Hello?”

A thin, girlish voice came through the speakers. Tentative. “I don't know if you remember me.” The caller hesitated.

“You've called before?”

The caller cleared her throat. “I just want you to know that I don't blame you exactly. I just think you should be more careful.”

Tig felt her stomach lurch. “Blame me for what? I don't understand.”

“My husband died,” the caller said. Then, correcting herself, added, “Killed himself.”

Alarmed now, Tig said, “I'm terribly sorry.”

“You said he should stop. You know, with the prostitutes. Several weeks ago. You said if I didn't like it, he should stop, so he did.”

The frown cleared from between Tig's eyes. “Ah, yes. It was a very short call. I remember now.”

“He stopped using prostitutes, but then killed himself. He didn't leave a note.”

Tig inhaled. “My God.”

“I'm calling to tell you I don't think it was your fault, but his family says differently. They're suing you, the radio station. I wouldn't have called you here, but your home phone is unlisted. I had to tell you before, you know, you get the papers. It only seemed fair.”

Tig felt the faces focused on hers. Any words she might have said were lodged in her throat as she struggled to breathe and remain calm.

The woman spoke again. “He was troubled. He needed help. They say you should have taken more time.”

Tig glanced at Jean, who gave her the cut sign, a straight finger across her neck. Tig shook her head vigorously.

To the woman, she said, “I can't imagine what you are going through. What that was like for you? Any of it.”

“We have a two-year-old daughter. What will I tell her about her father?” The woman began sobbing. “I'll never know the reason. I mean, for the other women.” The caller gulped and said, “He loved me. I know he did.”

“That's what you tell your daughter, then. You tell her that he loved you . . . both.”

The woman sniffed and took her time before speaking. “I think I caused this. Not you. Me.”

Tig sat up straight. “Listen to me, because if what you're saying is true, I won't be talking to you again. People won't allow it. But I have this to say. Never in my life have I ever been successful in making an adult do something he or she didn't want to do. If your husband was trying to give up these women, he was doing it because he wanted to, because he loved you, because he knew it hurt you. Stop blaming yourself.” She breathed and washed her hand across her face. “If you do, I might be able to as well, but I doubt it.”

Clementine bellowed from the wings. Tig gazed out at the listeners, who began a respectful steady applause. Jean started the theme song button and the
On the Air
sign was extinguished.

Tig stood, turned, and tried to leave the stage. The wire from her headset held her in place as effectively as a mousetrap. She pulled the microphone from her head and dropped it on the floor. The crowd's murmurings became louder as Tig bumped into the chair and spilled her coffee. She staggered off the stage and jogged into the wings. Jean left the booth and tried her hand at crowd control. Tig spotted Macie, who was rocking the screaming Clementine. Her braids were undone and Macie's face showed the strain of caring for the chronically unhappy.