Say Never (22 page)

“Where do you want me to put it?”

I glance around the front seat of the Camaro. I hadn’t thought to put in a trash bag, and because it’s a rental, the ashtrays have been pulled. “Out the window,” I tell her, rolling down her window part-way as I stop for a red light.

“Huh-uh. That’s littering.” Her tone is laced with sarcasm which she punctuates by blowing another bubble and popping it forcefully.

What I do next is something I have never done in my life, nor ever thought I would do. I’ve witnessed mothers do it on countless occasions, and every time, I’ve wanted to vomit into the nearest trash receptacle because the idea of doing it gives me the creeps. But desperate circumstances require desperate measures.

I stop the car then put my hand out to Cera, palm up. I waggle my fingers in a “gimme” gesture, and Cera immediately spits her wad of gum into my awaiting hand.

I flinch with revulsion. I am not a germ-aphobe, but neither am I a forensic criminologist. I’d just as soon not have some eleven-year-old’s saliva touching my skin. I move my hand toward my own window, then realize I haven’t opened it yet. I fumble with my left hand to depress the window button, but I can’t wait another moment to rid myself of the offending pink blob. I jerk my right hand toward the window and watch with horror as the gum hits the glass on the inside and starts to skid down toward my left leg.

“Shit!”

With a yelp, I grab it with two fingers and chuck it out the window. Immediately, I reach into my purse and pull out my travel-sized hand sanitizer only to find it empty. I drop it on the console between the seats.

“Jeez. It’s just gum,” Cera snipes. “It’s not like I have a communicable disease or anything.”

“I know,” I tell her, then proceed to rub my palm against my thigh with such fervor, I might start a fire. The light turns green and I punch the gas.

As we approach the next intersection, the light turns yellow. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Cera. She kisses her index finger and touches the dashboard, then glances over at me and realizes she’s been caught.

“What?” Defensive with a capital DEF.

“What
what?
” I retort. “You’re the one who just kissed the dashboard.”

“It’s for luck, stup—
Meg.
”

Was she about to call me stupid?

“Luck? I don’t get it.” But then again, she’s eleven. I really don’t get anyone under the age of thirty.

“Yeah. You know, good luck? So bad things won’t happen?” She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly, as though I’m intellectually impaired. “I do it whenever I go through a yellow light. My friend Melissa started it last year.”

“And what happens if you forget the kiss?” I ask. “Earthquake? Gang wars? Plague?”

Cera goes silent and I glance at her. She stares out the passenger window, shoulders slumped.

“Hello?”

“I know you’re totally making fun of me,” she says quietly, barely masking her anger.

I hit another red light and brake for it. “I’m not making fun of you,” I assure her, even though I am. “I’m just curious what you think will happen if you forget.”

She whirls around to face me, her mouth set in a grim line. “I forgot yesterday, okay?”

As if that means anything. I think for a moment and then it dawns on me.

“Well, yeah, your grandma being sick is definitely bad luck. But I doubt it had anything to do with—”

“Not my grandma, dummy! My bad luck is being here! With you!”

I don’t even bother counting to ten. I know it won’t help. I shake my head at the girl, hoping the gesture will convey my disdain for her. She meets my eyes and holds my glare for a long moment and I suddenly feel myself start to tremble. Not because Cera is intimidating me in any way, but because I realize that I’m looking in the mirror.

Buddy’s condo is on the way to the rehab, so says my brother’s meticulous directions, backed up by a MapQuest printout (as if I don’t have GPS on my phone.
Please
.). I decide to stop there on the way to see Caroline.

He lives in a complex called Sunset Heights in Pelican Point, the next town north along PCH, with roughly eighty units of beige stucco-fronted condominiums. The signs along the front lawn carefully spell out the rules of the establishment:
no dogs, no smoking in the common areas, no soliciting, no lewd behavior, no parties unless cleared by management, and no excessive noise.
You have to qualify for AARP in order to live there, although there’s no mention of that fact anywhere to be seen, which, according to my father, makes it the hip place to be among the fifty- thru hundred-year-old set. The complex doesn’t provide full or part-time care, so unless you can pee, feed yourself, and get yourself up and down the stairs without assistance, Sunset Heights isn’t the place for you. However, the condos are strategically located across the street from Pelican Point Hospital, so if you suddenly find that you’ve fallen and you can’t get up, you can holler for help and someone across the street might hear you and send the paramedics.

I pull into the assigned guest parking space at the rear of the complex and alight from the Camaro. Cera remains in the passenger seat, glued to her cell phone, in the process of sending a text. I open the back door and withdraw my sleeping nephew, surprised at how heavy he is when he’s unconscious. I stand next to the car tapping my foot impatiently and worried that my right arm is going to fall off.

“You want to wrap it up? I ask.

“Just wait,” Cera says. “This is important.”

“Seriously. You’re eleven. What can be so important?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she replies, her eyes never leaving her phone.

You’re fucking A right, I wouldn’t,
I think. “Get out of the car now!”

She makes a big show of finishing her text, then slowly gets out of the car, stuffing her cell phone in the back pocket of her designer jeans.

“You’re not too good with kids, are you?” she asks, eyeing me over the roof of the Camaro.

“I’m great with kids when they behave themselves.”
Which is
never.

She looks around without much interest. “Where are we?”

“My dad’s place,” I answer, then head for the concrete path that cuts through the complex.

At 27C, I carry my nephew up the small flight of stairs to the front door. Cera shuffles a few feet behind me. I depress the button for the doorbell and I’m instantly greeted by my dad’s hearty bellow.

“Who’s that at my door?! I’m coming! Just give me a minute, I have to find my pants!”

“Buddy, it’s Meg.”

“Woohoo, my baby girl! It’s about damn time,” he shouts from the other side of the door. “Still need my pants though, honey. Just a sec.”

Two minutes later, the front door opens and my father puts his arms out to me. In the scant few seconds before he envelops me in his traditional bear-hug, I notice that his white hair needs a trim, he hasn’t shaved yet today, and he’s added a few pounds to his already burly frame.

Tebow is the only thing that saves me from being hugged to within an inch of my life, and even with the toddler in my arms, I feel the air squeezed out of my lungs by arms that haven’t lost their strength. At seventy-seven, my dad can still bench press a Chevy.

“That’s my girl, my Meggie-weggly.”

My nephew stirs in my arms. “Buddy, watch out for Tebow.” My dad steps back and chucks Tebow under the chin. Tebow’s expression morphs from sleepy confusion to happy recognition. He squeals delightedly at my father.

“If it isn’t my grandson! How’re you, my boy. He’s the galdarn spitting image of me, don’t you think, Meggie?” He pats my head then pulls me into him, pressing my face against the corner of his armpit. My nose tells me he’s already showered, and for that I am extremely grateful. “I am so darn happy to see you, girl! It’s been too long since you’ve visited your old man.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I say out the side of my mouth. I manage to extract myself from his embrace and take a moment to set Tebow down. The boy instantly toddles past his grandfather’s feet and into the condo. “How are you doing, Buddy?”

“Not how, but
who,
cupcake!
Who
am I doing! That’s the question. I got me a little romance going with 43B. Just a doll, just a doll. She’s had some work done, doesn’t look a day over sixty. I tell you, being a man over the age of seventy—with a pulse—really has its perks. Hey! Who’s that fifty cent piece skulking around down there?”

I follow his gaze down the stairs to Cera. She stands on the concrete path shifting her weight back and forth.

“That’s Caroline’s daughter, Cera,” I tell him.

“Whose daughter?” He squints down at her and she returns his gaze with a suspicious look of her own.

“Caroline? Danny’s wife?”

He breaks into a grin. “I know who you meant, I was just messing with you!” He rolls his eyes dramatically then pushes me aside and hollers down to Cera as though she is hearing impaired. “Well? What are you doing down there, anyway? Come on up and say hello like a person, for crying out loud!”

Cera looks around, possibly for an escape route, then grudgingly climbs the stairs. “Are you gonna hug me?” she asks, making it clear she has no intention of letting him.

“Well, kid, I thought I’d start with a handshake.” He puts his beefy paw out to her, smiling openly. Tentatively, she places her hand in his, probably afraid he’ll crush every bone in her fingers. He pumps her arm up and down a few times. “I guess it’s about time we met, huh? What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” she corrects him, then jerks her head in my direction. “She did. But it’s Cera. With a C.”

“Well, Cera with a C, don’t let’s all just stand out here on my nonexistent porch. Come on in for a minute.”

He turns and walks inside, and I notice how he still favors his right side from the mild stroke he had five years ago, which was the reason for my last visit. My dad claims the stroke gave him new perspective on life and inspired him to start a bucket list; a list which includes having as much sex as possible before they put him in the ground. The idea of my dad having sex might gross me out if I thought about it for too long, but I’m pretty sure he never had sex with anyone after Melanie, so I figure he has a lot of catching up to do. Plus, I never let myself think about it.
Ever
.

His condo is a small one bedroom with a living room/dining room combo and a u-shaped kitchen with an eat-in counter. The space is minimal, but bright and cheerful. There are many decorative touches that I know have been donated by his legion of female admirers—he tells me about them every time we talk on the phone. I recognize the sunny yellow curtains on the sliding glass door (Mona Kappleman), the hand-stitched floral pillows on the couch (Dodi French), a row of Hummel figurines (Audrey Van-Something), the Tiffany lamp on the side table (Miriam Ziff), the lace doilies on the coffee table (Mary or Meryl—can’t remember which— Nussbaum), and paintings of pastoral scenes done in watercolor which adorn the walls (Jeanne Bartholomew). I don’t know what his current squeeze has added to the place, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

Tebow waddles over to me and tugs on my pant leg. “Baba?” he says, giving me a plaintive look. Crap. I left the ‘baba’ in the car.

“Be right back,” I say to no one in particular. I hurry to the car and grab the diaper bag, then practically run back to my dad’s condo. I’m not sure why I’m so worried about leaving him alone with Cera.

Maybe because she has the personality of a serial killer?
Yeah, that could be it.

But when I reach the living room, I see that they are seated across from each other, Cera on the couch and Buddy in his recliner, talking easily. I feel something stir in my chest at the sight of them.

Tebow sits on the floor next to Buddy’s toy chest, rifling through the Caroline-approved toys within. When he sees the bottle in my hand, his eyes light up and he stands and rushes at me like a linebacker heading for the goal line. I hand him the bottle and he returns to his spot on the floor.

“My new girl Bettina made me a linguini with clams and an
arrabiata
sauce to die for,” Buddy tells Cera. “I got leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry. She’s an actual chef, you know.”

“Really?” Cera answers, and I can’t tell if she’s sincerely interested or putting on an act for my dad.

“Oh, yessiree!” he says, leaning back in his chair. “She had her own cooking show a while back. Bettina’s Basting, Braising, and Baking. You might remember it. I think it was on in the late 80s, early 90s.”

“I wasn’t even born yet.”

“What?!!” my dad cries. “Are you serious? I thought you were at least thirty, thirty one!” His joke gets a genuine laugh out of Cera and I’m surprised by the sound. She hasn’t laughed once in my presence. Her features are relaxed and she looks like any other child her age, not the spawn of Satan I thought her to be.

“So tell me, what grade are you in?”