I am offended. Why does everyone laugh at the thought of me being romantically involved with someone?
“I have a date. An actual date with the vice president of a company.” I want to say more, but I know I’ll be skewered if I do. Carol is like a blend of Mom and Amy. Half reasonable and half batshit crazy.
You never know which half you’re talking to at any give time.
“Is this the billionaire Mom’s been rambling on about? I thought that was some kind of fantasy of hers.”
“It is,” I mumble.
“So you’re not dating a billionaire? She was going on about getting her grandkids into exclusive prep schools like Milton Academy and Buckingham Browne & Nichols—and all kinds of other weird stuff last night.”
In the background I hear my seven-year-old nephew, Jeffrey, arguing with his four-year-old brother, Tyler, who only whines in response. Tyler has a speech disorder and the words don’t come easily, but he’s highly fluent in Whine. My trained ears tell me they’re arguing over access to the iPad Mom and Dad got them for Christmas.
“I-duh! I-duh!” Tyler screams.
“Give it to him!” Carol bellows. “When he uses a word right, you have to give it to him.”
Jeffrey says something muffled. Carol says something muffled. And then I hear Jeffrey, clear as a bell, shouting, “Eith cream! Eith cream!” Jeffrey has a lisp. Or, as he says, a lithp.
“Eye-kee! Eye-kee!” Tyler says, joining in.
“What are you doing?” Carol says, clearly to her oldest. I know that tone. It’s the same tone Mom has used on me for twenty-four years. It must be embedded in our DNA. I shudder. Someday I plan to have kids. “Someday” just got kicked back another year.
“If he geth what he wanth by thaying it, why can’t I?” Jeffrey moans.
I snort. The kid has a point. Tyler’s speech therapist told Carol that in order to reinforce language, she has to walk a fine line. Encourage speech by giving him what he asks for. But after a while, that can lead to problems, so…
“Tatum Channing!” Carol shouts. “A million dollars! A free nanny!”
Declan McCormick, I mouth.
Jeffrey giggles. “I want to talk to Thannon!” Shuffling sounds, and then:
“I can fart on command now when you pull my finger,” he announces.
“You will be a CEO one day.”
“No. I want my own YouTube channel. I’m going to do that inthtead,” he says seriously.
“More money in it,” I reply.
“Yep. Did you know Tyler peed himself at the dentitht thith morning? It was groth.”
“I’ll bet.” Carol’s life is like birth control for me. I absolutely adore Tyler and Jeffrey, but I could do without the pee, poop, farts, vomit, and other nasties from the kids. I mentally add another year between me and motherhood. At this rate I’ll start when I’m sixty.
“I need to talk now, honey,” Carol says. Jeffrey leaves without saying goodbye.
“You live a life of luxury,” I say. 4:23. Carol gets exactly seven minutes of my attention.
“Speaking of luxury, I got an actual child support check today!”
Of all the words I expect ever to hear from Carol’s mouth, these are not it.
“WHAT?” Her ex, Todd, ditched her and the boys three years ago. He’s played “Daddy for a Day” here and there. More there than here. It’s been seven months since anyone has seen him.
He has never paid her a dime in child support. Tyler never even learned to say the word “Dada” or anything close to it. He occasionally says “Puh-puh” for Papa, which is what Jeffrey calls my dad.
I just get a big old smile. When you have a speech disorder and you’re four years old, “Shannon” isn’t exactly top on your list of easy words. A smile and hug is close enough to my name.
“I know!” Carol exclaims, then lowers her voice. She doesn’t speak ill of Todd in front of the boys. Ever. I give her huge credit for that, because I don’t know if I could stay that classy in her shoes. “An actual check from the state.”
“That means he got a job working over the table!” Carol has a child support order. Todd owes close to five figures in unpaid support. He refuses to get jobs on the books, and never files taxes. She’ll never see that money.
“Something like that,” she says, her voice hiding something.
“How much was the check?”
She pauses, then says with a laugh, “$11.61.”
I snort again. “Don’t spend it all on one place.”
“I spent ten dollars on my birth-control pill copay and the rest on Pokemon stickers for the boys.” Again, that pause. I hear her gulp something quickly and then Tyler’s distinct whine.
“I’ll get water for you, honey! Just a minute!” Carol tells him. She says quietly into the phone, “He’s incarcerated. The pay is from his wages at a prison in Ohio.”
“WHAT? Does Mom know?” For years Mom has made jokes about Todd finding his way to prison, but we all wrote her off as just being angry.
“Not yet. I’ve barely found a way to manage all this filthy lucre. Let me breathe a few times before tackling Mom and Dad’s reaction.”
“Don’t run out hiring financial planners just yet,” I crack.
Her bitter laugh makes me cringe. “Yeah. Right. Now his back support obligation is reduced!”
“Eleven dollars? Oh, Carol. That won’t even buy a pack of diapers.” Mom and Dad help her as much as possible, but…
“That’s why I need to get Tyler toilet trained,” she says with a resigned tone.
I feel myself weighed down by the weight of her weariness. Suddenly my date with Declan feels trivial. A bit flighty and selfish. I want to tell Carol I’ll help her.
“I can’t tonight,” I tell her. It feels icky, like I’m rubbing her nose in my happiness and romantic promise.
“No, no, Shannon, don’t feel bad!” she protests. “You should go out with him! What’s he like? Does he have a helicopter?”
What is it with the women in my family and their obsession with men who ride in helicopters? “He’s hot,” I whisper.
“Hot Guy!” Amanda shouts from behind me.
“Hey!” I shriek. “Josh is the one who does that to people!”
“Hot Guy!” he says in a falsetto, standing right next to Amanda when I turn around, heart thudding out of my chest. Assholes. Maybe they’re both part vampire. And not the hot, sparkly kind.