Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense Page 12

  I do feel slightly better after throwing up, however. If I can just grab my clothes and change before anyone else gets up and sees I peed my pants, that’ll be even better.

  Running my wet hands through my hair, I pull the bathroom door open, only to find Lexie and Colt shoving each other right near the entrance.

  “Mom, tell her I was here first!” Colt screams.

  “Duh, you idiot! She doesn’t know you were there first. She was in the bathroom,” Lexie says.

  Colt points a finger. “Ah ha! See, you admitted it! I was there first!” The sound of his voice rips through my head faster than the kids opening their gifts on Christmas.

  “Colt, please,” I moan, clutching my head. He glances up at me, concern in his expression.

  “Are you okay, Mommy?” he asks, while Lexie uses the opportunity to push past him to get into the bathroom.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him with a halfhearted smile. I pat him on the head, hoping he will believe me and not probe. When he was little he wanted to be a doctor, so I ended up being his “patient” a lot. Whenever anyone was sick or injured, he would get out his little plastic doctor kit and take care of them. After I broke my foot last year, he was the only one of my kids who showed any empathy whatsoever. Evan sat on top of me, playing with my hair, and the girls wanted to know when I would be able to drive them places again. Colt brought me chicken soup and actually tried to feed me a couple of times, which resulted in second degree burns on my neck. But it’s the thought that counts, right? And obviously I am doing something right if I can get one of my four kids to care about someone other than themselves.

  Then, just when I think Colt has actually given me a small reason to smile this morning, he wrinkles up his nose and asks, “Did you pee yourself?”

  Allie picks that exact second to stumble out of bed. “Ewww, Mom! That’s so gross!” says the girl whose breath currently reeks of the garlic she consumed the night before.

  “Just wait till you have four kids and your bladder resembles an accordion,” I snap at her.

  I bend down to rummage through my suitcase for a change of clothes, but I can still hear her muttered response. “I would never have four kids.”

  Never say never, kid. I glance over at Roger, who is somehow sleeping through this loud conversation. I never thought I’d see the day your father was cheating on me with a younger woman, either. But guess what?

  “Whatever,” I mumble, and I grab a clean bathing suit and the cover up I bought yesterday. The toilet flushes and Lexie emerges from the bathroom. I shove past Colt and barricade myself in the bathroom.

  “Hey!” I hear him shout from the other side of the door. “I have to pee! I’ve been waiting forever!”

  “Sorry! I’ll be right out!” I shout back while I strip off my pants and toss them on the counter. I fill up the sink with warm water and give myself a quick sponge bath—no time for a shower with five other people who need to use the bathroom. As I let the water drain, I glance around for a dry towel and find none. Of course there are plenty of wet ones tossed all over the floor. Glancing at the towel rack, I see that there are quite a few washcloths. God forbid anyone use those. I use one to dry myself, and then pull on my bathing suit and throw my pee-pee pants into the sink. I push down the plug and fill the basin with warm water again, add a drop of shampoo, and then vigorously rub the pants in the crotch area. Then, I unplug the sink and rinse the pants with cool water until there are no more bubbles left.

  I pull the pants out of the sink and hang them over the shower curtain rod along with the rest of the family’s bathing suits. What? I know it’s gross—I’ll wash them thoroughly when I get home.

  Colt is still banging on the door, but I don’t really hear him. I don’t really hear or feel anything. Once I threw up, my ability to feel completely vanished. Except, of course, for the throbbing across my forehead. I am wondering if I will ever be able to feel anything again; happiness, fear, sadness? Anything but this nauseating calm that has washed over me.

  And then Roger bangs on the door. “Amy! We only have one bathroom! You can’t dawdle in there for an hour and a half like at home!” And...I feel again. Angry Amy is back.

  I slam my fist on the sink top, wishing it was Roger’s head. Dawdle? Is the man who spends forty-five minutes a day pooping, talking to me about dawdling because I’m taking five minutes to change in private? Oh, he has some nerve! It must be so nice when you get all the privacy you want at your girlfriend’s.

  I gasp, wondering if Victoria has an apartment nearby and if Roger has been to it. Maybe that’s where he was supposed to meet her yesterday and couldn’t because I went down to the bar.

  I feel a spark of triumph ignite as I swing the bathroom door open, revealing both Roger and Colt standing there in their underwear and scratching their privates. Roger also has a newspaper tucked under his arm. Of course. It’s time for the morning constitutional. Can’t get in the way of that. Don’t worry about the fact that I haven’t pooped in three days because I haven’t eaten anything with fiber in it, nor have I had five minutes alone to go to the frigging bathroom.

  “About time,” Roger grumbles, brushing past our son who just wants to pee.

  Keep calm, Amy. Do not punch him in his fat meatball head.

  “But I have to go!” Colt whines as the door slams shut. “I’ve been waiting!”

  “Oh, go pee on a tree!” I yell as I yank my cover up over my head. One of the many advantages to being a guy, right? Peeing wherever you want? Not ever having to share your body with an alien intruder for nine months as you become grotesquely stretched out of shape? Not ever having to give birth and subsequently peeing yourself when you puke, cough, sneeze, or do jumping jacks for the rest of your life? Oh, and don’t forget, being able to cheat on your naive wife without her suspecting a thing. That just might be the most important advantage to being a guy.

  I glance around at my children in various stages of undress. Evan is naked from the waist down, but has the bathing suit on his head. Colt, as I mentioned, is in underwear and tee shirt of some NFL team—I can’t figure out the logo since I think it’s a throwback tee-shirt. Allie is oh-so-discretely attempting to change in the small closet that houses the safe, and Lexie is just disrobing in front of the window, oblivious to the fact that not only can everyone in the room see her, but everyone who happens to look up at the window, too.

  “Don’t any of you see how lucky you are?” I scream again, my voice threatening to crack. I will not cry. Roger will not make me cry. I will be strong for my children. He will not break me.

  When my sister Beth went through similar problems with her husband Derek (the exception being she also cheated on him), she started taking kickboxing classes. She told me that it completely empowered her and made it easier to get over what Derek had done to her. At the time, I thought she was just trying to get me to join her so she could get me to exercise, but now I am thinking her claim may have a lot of validity. After all, if I could just punch Roger in the face just once, I’m pretty sure I would feel much better. Or the nuts. Either one works.

  I gather up the beach toys and towels, and shove them unceremoniously into the beach bag, fighting back the deluge of tears at the same time. “Let’s go to the beach, kids!” I announce happily, pasting a sunny smile on my face. I will smile for these kids even if it kills me.

  “But, Mom,” Lexie starts to say, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand.

  “No arguments. We are here for a fabulous beach vacation, and a fabulous beach vacation we will have!” I announce with the fake chipperness of a game show host. Show them what’s behind curtain number one, Bob! Why, it’s a happily divorced family!

  Allie and Lexie exchange glances that say, “Oh boy, Mom has lost it.” I ignore them and grab the sunblock, shoving it into the bag. Of course, the cap isn’t on tightly, and half the bottle of sunblock ends up squirted all over the towels.

  I briefly stare at the mess in the bag and then shrug.
No point in getting upset over things I can’t do anything about, right?

  Of course not, Amy! Get mad over things you can do something about! My oh-so-helpful conscience is agreeing with itself. It always thinks that it has come up with the most wonderful ideas.

  “Mom, I think what Lexie—” Allie starts to say, but I cut her off, too. Why must everyone argue with me today? Hasn’t this day been horrific enough without having to fight with them before nine o’clock in the morning?

  “Not another word, people. We’re going to the beach and we’re going now.”

  Colt glances at the bathroom door that Roger is ensconced behind. “What about—”

  “Don’t worry about him,” I mutter. “He can find his own way to the beach. He doesn’t have any problem finding anything that’s blond and easily spreadable.”

  Allie’s mouth gapes open. “Mother!”

  I shake my head, appalled at my own outburst. I thought you were going to hold it together for the kids, Amy? “I was talking about the sand! Geez, Allie! Get your mind out of the gutter. What has high school done to you?”

  The kids trudge after me, obviously annoyed that I had the nerve to drag them to the beach on their beach vacation. We reach the elevator, and before we can start our morning round of “it’s my turn to push the button”, Colt gasps.

  “What?” I ask, quickly inspecting him for signs of trauma that would cause him to gasp like he was injured.

  “I forgot my goggles!” His eyes are wide and stunned.

  “Okay, so we’ll wait,” I say, holding out the room key. “Go back and get them.”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “I can’t do the key.”

  “Yes, you can,” I insist, thrusting the plastic card into his hand.

  He continues to shake his head. “No I can’t! I tried it and it made a loud buzzing noise.”

  I sigh, dropping my hand to my side. I highly doubt it was a “loud buzzing noise”, but knowing Colt, it was enough to traumatize him. Because he is so into sports, buzzing and whistles usually signify a penalty or something, and Colt hates being yelled at. In sports that is.

  I hand the key to Allie. “Can you go get his goggles, please?”

  Momentarily shifting her gaze from her phone, she raises her eyebrows at me. “No way. Dad is probably walking around naked in the hotel room right now.”

  Her statement leads to a round of groans from all of us. She is probably correct about that. As much as I don’t want to see him naked right now, either, traumatizing any of my children would probably be worse.

  The elevator dings and the door pops open. There is a young couple in a lip lock inside the elevator. Ugh. Just the sight of people being lovey is enough to turn my stomach. I want to shout at them, “I used to be like that too! Just forget it, it won’t last! In twenty years you'll hate each other because he cheats on you!” But I don’t say that, thank God.

  “Fine,” I grumble, shrugging the bag off of my shoulder. I hand it to a startled Allie. “Take them downstairs and wait for me in the lobby.” I glance back at the oh-so-lovey couple pawing at each other with reckless abandon as they stumble off the elevator. “I’ll take the stairs.”

  As my kids clamor onto the elevator, I head back to the room. I slide the key card in and quietly turn the handle of the door, not wanting to alarm Roger. Pushing the door open, I can see that he is still in the bathroom. Perfect. I don’t even have to talk to him.

  Spotting Colt’s goggles on the dresser, I silently close the door and nimbly tip-toe across the rug. Passing the bathroom door I overhear, “Yeah. I can talk now. Amy’s gone. You won’t believe what it’s like to get rid of her.” Roger’s voice reverberates against the tile floor and walls of the bathroom.

  I halt in my tracks. Is he on the phone with her? Disgusted, I am tempted to just wish explosive diarrhea on him, and leave as quickly as possible, but of course, my curiosity gets the better of me. I sidle up close enough to the door to hear without actually leaning against it.

  “I think they went down to the beach. Yeah, I know. Well, I tried to get away last night, but as you know, Amy went down to the bar.” A pause and then a laugh. “Yeah, she was a little tipsy when she got back.”

  I suck in my breath, desperately attempting not to get infuriated. Was Roger’s little friend watching me last night?

  Roger is silent for a minute, listening to the other party on the line. I can almost see him nodding his head in agreement. He’s probably staring at his cheating balding head, too—inspecting his hair in the mirror, wondering which ones got up and left his scalp last night while he slept. He sheds like a Siberian husky in July when he sleeps.

  “I should be able to get away this afternoon for long enough to do it.” Oh really, Roger? So you think. I will do everything in my power to prevent that.

  I resist the urge to throw myself against the bathroom door and drag him out by his last ten strands of hair. “No, not now.” He sighs and then adds. “Listen, I’ve gotta make an appearance at the beach. I think she’s pissed at me, and when Amy gets pissed, all hell breaks loose. And then months of planning—”

  Oh you better believe I’m pissed, Roger! You’ve never seen me so pissed. And you can just shove your plans where the sun don’t shine.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying now because he’s turned the water on. I lean my ear against the door and can make out, “Of course...you know you’re my favorite out of the two of you.” Followed by a laugh.

  And then, I feel like I’m falling—the room shifts, my body crashes, and I’m staring at the ceiling. And at Roger’s face, peering down at me.

  “Amy!” Roger yelps, clearly wearing a guilty expression. “What are you doing?” He chuckles nervously, glancing around to see if the rest of our crew is present before he sticks his hand out to help me up.

  I’m about to read him the riot act, reveal that I am on to him, but then I realize, he’ll just deny it, or try to explain it away. No, I need proof, proof so iron-clad that Roger can’t deny that he’s having an affair. Something I can wave in his face and watch him squirm over.

  I paste another fake smile on my face (man, I’m getting so good at these I might be becoming my sister Beth). “Colt forgot his goggles. He said they were in the bathroom. I didn’t realize you were in there.” Wow, Amy, you’re getting good at this lying through your teeth thing. Have you been taking classes from Roger?

  I step into the bathroom, knowing full well that the goggles are sitting on the dresser.

  “Oh,” Roger replies, and even though I can’t see his face, I can tell from his voice that he is relieved. “I was coming down as soon as I changed into my swim trunks,” he tells me, as if I have any reason to doubt what he was doing so long in the bathroom. I hear the drawer slide out of the dresser, and then he calls out, “Here they are! I found them on the dresser—Colt was wrong!”

  I offer myself a congratulatory smile in the mirror. He doesn’t seem to think I overheard his conversation at all. Good. I rub my hands together like a spider getting ready to feast on her prey.

  I step out of the bathroom to see Roger with his bathing suit in one hand and his son’s goggles in the other.

  “Thanks,” I say with a sunshiny smile. “I guess I’ll see you down at the beach?” I ask in a syrupy voice. Take it down a notch, Amy...you were just acting like a bitch to Roger earlier. And yesterday. He may get suspicious.

  Good thing Roger is oblivious. He doesn’t seem to notice my sudden change of attitude.

  He does appear confused, though. “You’re going to the beach before breakfast? You think the kids will be okay with that?”

  Oh crap. That’s probably what they were desperately trying to tell me this morning...that we haven’t eaten yet! Ughhhh, I hate when Roger is more aware than I am.

  “Of course not, silly,” I giggle as I swat him on the arm. Too much on the giddiness, Amy. Tone it down. I pretend a mosquito is in the room and swat at the air. Roger wrinkles his brow, possibly co
ncerned about my mental status. “We’re going to breakfast first. On the beach!” I add that part as an after-thought. Hopefully one of the six million restaurants on the beach serve breakfast.

  “Okay,” Roger replies, buying my lie. “I’ll meet you down there in five minutes. The Sandpiper, right? That’s the one that advertised breakfast on the beach.”

  Thank you, Roger, I silently reply, bobbing my head up and down. “Yup, that’s the one.” If I recall, The Sandpiper is right next door. I move toward the door and step through before briefly propping it open with my foot. “Meet you there in five.” The door slams behind me and I breathe a sigh of relief. I head to the exit door to take the stairs and meet the kids in the lobby.

  Kids, we have a change of plans.

  ~Thirteen~

  Roger spreads the beach blanket onto the cool sand after dropping the picnic basket to the ground. He kneels down and pulls out two flutes, setting them on the blanket. Then, he extracts a bottle of Dom Perignon. Bracing the bottle between his knees, he grips the cork with his thumbs. With one swift thrust, the cork goes flying, bubbles of champagne escaping from the mouth of the bottle. He holds up the bottle and laughs heartily before pouring the liquor into the waiting flutes. Then he lowers himself onto the blanket and offers his already reclining companion a glass of the world’s finest champagne. She accepts with a devious smile playing on her crimson red lips.

  “Oh, Roger, you’re so manly and strong!” Victoria purrs as she runs her tongue along his earlobe. “And so romantic,” she finishes in a raspy voice, channeling her inner Marilyn Monroe. Screw Tinkerbell—this bitch is pulling out all the stops. She’s moving in for the kill with my husband’s favorite iconic sex symbol.