The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell Read online

  The birthday party is winding down. All the younger guests have been collected by their parents. Laura and her crew have also hastily departed as eight year old Mason was suddenly stricken with a stomach bug. He puked all over the bounce house. Beth was delighted. I didn’t even get to talk to my friend about the strange kid across the street.

  Garbage bag in hand, I plop down amidst a pile of wrapping paper that my child has discarded in efforts to rip through his birthday gifts in less than 2 minutes. Evan is digging through the wrapping paper pile and shoving scraps into his mouth faster than I can get them into a garbage bag. I am attempting to organize the mess by attaching the card to what I think is the gift that it matches. Thank you cards are going to suck this year.

  Dear so and so, Thank you for the gift. From, Colton, on twenty cards printed from the computer. I’d rather have root canal than hover over Colt as he writes out all the cards. I’m sure Beth will be appalled as usual. The thank you cards from her children are all handwritten with a picture in each and a personal note from Beth herself. It makes me want to vomit every time I get one. She even sends them for Christmas presents.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t heard a cop car go by in the last hour,” Beth remarks absently as she flecks the side of the wine glass with her perfectly manicured fingernail. I guess a piece of food has escaped our 22 year old dishwasher’s attention.

  “And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?” I practically growl.

  “Now, Amy, that’s no way to speak to your sister,” my mother admonishes. “How would you like it if your daughters spoke to each other that way?”

  I glance down at the ground and roll my eyes. My mother would die if she knew how my daughters spoke to each other.

  “Excuse me,” I correct. “What do you mean by that, dear sister Beth?”

  “No need to be snarky,” Beth scoffs. “I am just referring to all the news coverage about the suspected drug ring in this neighborhood.”

  I sit up, suddenly at attention. What? Could that be why Mary was all squirrely earlier? Maybe they didn’t kidnap Sean, but they are using him as a drug mule!

  I can hear my sister and mother prattle on about how things are so dangerous nowadays and nothing like they used to be but I am too busy considering the idea of Sean as a drug mule.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Amy, I admonish myself. Mary and Walter as criminals? Seriously? You couldn’t find two less harmless people if you cased out a nursing home. Stop letting your imagination get the best of you.

  I open my mouth to ask my sister what else was in the paper, but she and my mother have moved on to another subject.

  “Did you see that Donoghue woman’s outfit?” My mother is critiquing the ensemble worn by the mother of one of our guests. Cammi (with an I!) Donoghue picked up her son in shortie shorts and a halter top that exposed almost every inch of her surgically enhanced DD breasts. None of the men seemed to mind as they practically fell over each other to help her find her child at the end of the party.

  “Oh Gawd, I know!” Beth replies. “So trashy! Didn’t she realize this was a kid’s birthday party and not a bachelor party?”

  I chuckle to myself remembering that my brother in law Derek had made the biggest fool out of himself in front of Cammi by talking directly to her chest until Lexie asked him, loudly, “Uncle Derek, why are you looking at that lady’s bra?” Derek turned crimson and excused himself to rush inside. Presumably to go take a cold shower. Beth had been mortified. Good. My sister was rarely mortified.

  “If you ever dress like that, Allie, I will personally drive you to the convent,” my mother tells the 13 year old who is not listening to any of this conversation at all. Allie, whose once gorgeous blonde hair has been recently dyed jet black, is sulking on an oversized chair in the corner, clutching her phone as she feverishly sends text messages. I can tell that she is thoroughly disgusted that I had the audacity to insist she be with the family after Kaitlyn reluctantly helped her mother wrangle up her brothers and load them into the minivan. The Princess of Preteen Angst prefers to be locked away in her room where I can only imagine what she does.

  When this prepubescent funk arose the year she started middle school, I assumed it was her homework, but once we got her report card dotted with Cs and notations like “room for improvement” and “not applying herself”, we knew better.

  So Daddy and Major Hypocrite Mommy, as Allie so delightfully referred to me, sat our daughter down and explained the rules. Homework was to be a priority. No TV, no phone, no computer or iPod until homework was done and checked by a parent. Preferably Roger, due to my lack of intelligence past fifth grade level.

  Allie had rolled her eyes, which were made up to look like a raccoon, asked us if we were “done yet”, and promptly went back to ignoring us.

  The next marking period, the grades were even more catastrophic. This time, Major Hypocrite Mommy went ballistic and took away Allie’s phone and iPod. I was rewarded with a scathing look from my daughter. As her grades continued to deviate greatly from her actual potential, I wished desperately that I could get inside her head and figure out how to reach her.

  Hopefully, the issue was just a boy or a group of friends that was excluding her, something that would work itself out eventually. I prayed that if something more complex was going on, my baby girl would confide in me.

  I’m sure some teenage boy crisis is currently looming on the horizon as Allie’s fingers click away at the keys. Her face is neutral, but she hasn’t put that phone down yet and every once in a while, she sighs despondently after reading a message.

  Knowing conversation with Allie is futile and anxious to connect with my mother and sister, I interject with, “Speaking of outfits, what was Joey wearing?”

  My sister Joey arrived at the party in some flowing dress thing that screamed leftover flower child. She had just left a few minutes prior to go to the airport. She told us that she was picking up her new boyfriend, Enrique. Since she was dying for us to meet the flavor of the month, she was bringing him back to the party, which was now over. But Joey wouldn’t care. Knowing her, she would show up at 10:00 and not understand why we were all in bed.

  My mother instantly jumps to her youngest daughter’s defense. “Joey designed that outfit herself, Amy. It’s part of her new line. Target is picking it up next month.” She clicks her tongue at me in her admonishing way.

  Beth shakes her head, glamourous hair swishing on her shoulders. “Don’t you read her blog? Seriously, Amy. She is very excited about the whole thing. This is her first big break. You could at least be happy for her.”

  I feel my face turn red as I realize my attempt at bonding has once again gone horribly awry. I should have known that Mom and Beth would defend Joey. Beth considers anything Joey does to be amazing, like she is her pet and Mom is just happy that Joey is not living with her and Dad anymore. She’s 33 years old but they act like she’s eight and a real living, breathing prodigy.

  Truth be told, I am very proud that Joey is actually accomplishing things for once, but I am still jealous. I am jealous of the way she reached her goals and accomplishments. She had always marched to the beat of her own drummer, being very artistic, flitting in and out of activities and life in general. She could be found drawing feverishly while lying in the grass one day and then the next, she was holed up in her room writing lyrics to be played on her guitar. My parents indulged their youngest child with art and music classes and ignored her horrific grades, which were even worse than mine. They dismissed my whines of “Why don’t you yell at Joey about her grades?” with explanations about how Joey was different and had different gifts and blah, blah, freaking blah. They believed Joey was going places.

  And she did go places. Europe and South America. California and Hawaii. At first, it was on my father’s dime, but then once he balked at sending her on any more “getaways” she discovered she could get what she wanted from men by simply batting her eyelashes. Oh did I mention Joey is a drop dea
d gorgeous brunette bombshell with a Marilyn Monroe figure? Yup. Joey is beautiful and creative, Beth is perky and smart, and I’m the plain Jane without brains wedged in between them. Thank goodness I married Roger or I’d probably still be living with my parents, eating ice cream out of the carton on Friday night while I pet my cat. Yes, that was a double entendre.

  As if on cue, Joey waltzes through my front door right then, beaming like a sunray. Her perfectly tanned arm reaches out to pull in another perfectly tanned arm. Attached to that arm is perhaps one of the most flawless specimens of manhood I have laid eyes on. He steps into the house and it’s like the heavens opened up and we can hear harps playing and angels singing. Every detail of his finely chiseled face is flawless; his dark brown chestnut locks tousled in a sexy hair gel commercial sort of way. He is lean and muscular; his clothes hug his body like they are afraid to leave him, revealing that there is not an ounce of fat on his godlike frame.

  Joey flounces to the center of the room, tugging the god of oh my word behind her. Out of the corner of my eye, I witness my mother drop her empty wine glass, causing the last few drops of Shiraz to bounce onto the already stained and tattered carpet. Allie’s head jerks up so fast I think she might have gotten whiplash.

  “Everyone…” Joey announces as we collectively hold our breath around her. “This is Enrique!” She adds a little roll to her R, and Enrique winks, practically causing me to swoon.

  Enrique smiles with a sheepish grin. Oh God. His teeth are white and straight and he certainly didn’t need braces. I always notice the teeth of other men. Roger had desperately needed braces as a kid but his mother couldn’t afford it and his father wouldn’t pay for his son to have “a hunk of metal in his mouth”, so instead, my husband looks like a castoff from the Ozarks. On a positive note, maybe he could star in his own reality series.

  The room is eerily still as Enrique continues to grin and my sister stands beside him, clutching his hand and beaming like a jackass. Although, I can hardly blame her. If he was holding my hand I’d be grinning like a fool, too.

  I wonder what his hand feels like. Is it warm and smooth? Or is it rough and calloused by life? Does it feel smooth when he’s touching…I blush as I cut off my inappropriate train of thought before I get carried away off to my usual fantasy island.

  Finally, my mother rights her wine glass and stands up, brushing fur off of her slacks. She strides confidently over to Enrique and reaches for his hand. From the melting look on her face, I can tell his hand is of the warm and smooth variety. Her eyes nearly roll back in her head orgasmically.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you, Enrique,” she gushes, her voice sounding high pitched and girlie. Beth covers her mouth with her hand but not before I catch a smirk appearing on her lips.

  Oh, to watch my mother make a fool of herself in front of this hunk of meat would be delicious. It would be ammunition for years to come.

  Instead, Mom clears her throat and seems to gain her composure. “Josephine has told us so much about you…”

  Yeah except she left out the part that you’re gorgeous and stunning…oh and she didn’t tell us what you do for a living or where you live….nope, Josephine has not told us anything about you.

  Joey waves her hand at our mother. “No, no Mom. Enrique doesn’t speak English. He only speaks Spanish. He’s from Brazil.”

  Beth furrows her brow which would probably enrage her plastic surgeon. “They don’t speak Spanish in Brazil, Joey. They speak Portuguese.” Leave it to Beth to know the official language of a foreign country.

  Joey is nonplussed. “Oh. Maybe it’s Portuguese then. I don’t know exactly. Sounds like Spanish.”

  A red warning flag goes up. “Uh, Jo? Do you speak Spanish?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

  My sister shakes her head.

  Beth interjects while wrinkling up her pert little button nose, “How do you talk to him then?”

  “Um, well, we don’t really talk as much as…” Joey stammers, vaguely aware that her 13 year old niece is staring at her with total admiration. I’m sure this guy is Allie’s teen dream man. Hell, he’s my pre-menopausal, mid-life crisis dream man.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes, Joey!” Beth turns bright red, realizing what Joey is implying. Beth is definitely something of a prude.

  My mother continues to smile brightly as she stammers, “Donde esta la cucina?” She sweeps her hand toward the couch.

  I grimace. My foreign language skills are severely lacking, but I am pretty sure my mother just asked Enrique where the kitchen was. Allie snorts and then covers her mouth, probably embarrassed at erupting into an unladylike noise in front of Enrique. Joey snickers while Beth rolls her eyes. Even Enrique is trying not to laugh at this silly woman.

  “What?” My mother glares at us. “I am trying to be polite and offer him a seat on the couch!” She turns back to Enrique and continues to butcher the Spanish language. “Mi llamo es vino?” This statement sends Allie into a fit of giggles, something I have not seen in ages. Enrique is now thoroughly confused and looking to Joey for assistance. She just shrugs.

  “Mom, I don’t think that means what you think it means…” I start to tell her.

  “Grandma! You just told him your name was wine!” Allie scoffs as she leaps to her feet.

  My mother choses me to glare at. I guess Allie correcting her gaffe is my fault for giving birth to the child.

  “Well if you’re so smart, you talk to him!” She snatches up her forsaken glass and storms out to the kitchen, presumably for a refill.

  I stare at my daughter. “How do you know what she said?”

  Allie flops back on the chair. “Uh, duh…just Spanish class.” She rolls her eyes for emphasis. The emphasis being on what an idiot her mother is.

  A little background here. Allie practically flunked Spanish. Roger and I needed to hire a tutor last year, yet Allie still barely passed. The fact that she could even translate a simple sentence boggles my mind.

  “Spanish is a lot like Portuguese. Do you think you could speak to him for us?” I am hoping to buoy her confidence, thinking she will be thrilled that she can do something the adults can’t.

  Instead, Allie’s reaction is that of horror. She leaps to her feet and stares at me as if I have just asked her to lick the toilet bowl. “Mother! Are you crazy? No!” She snatches her phone off the chair and storms up the stairs toward her bedroom. Thirty seconds later, her door slams. Beth jumps a little at the sharp noise and stares at me in surprise. Really, Beth, you didn’t know that little slam was coming? I guess your perfect spawn never slam the doors.

  Beth scoffs, “Why do you always have to start drama, Amy? The party was going so nicely.”

  “What?” My tone is incredulous. “What drama did I start?” I cannot believe she is somehow making this out to be my fault.

  “Please! You had to embarrass Mom and Allie?”

  I continue to stare at my sister in disbelief. Of course she would say this was my fault. I can’t seem to do anything right today, or any time lately, for that matter. But I hardly think that the fact Joey has no idea how to speak to her boyfriend is in any way, shape or form my fault.

  I look to Joey for assistance, but she and Enrique have seemed to forgotten the entire incident and are already sucking face on my couch like they are 15 years old. His hand is inching up her long skirt, exposing her thigh.

  “You should go try to smooth things over with her,” Beth instructs as she scoops up my son like he belongs to her and exits the room with a glaring look. “I don’t understand why we can’t have one family gathering without tears,” she mutters to Evan who is fighting her off as she heads back outside, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, wondering which “her” I need to “smooth things over with” first.

  Realizing that my efforts to placate my mother have proven futile for far longer than with Allie, I decide to tackle the problem of Allie’s breakdown first. Besides, my mother has Beth and wine to keep her company. Al
lie only has her cell phone.

  I slowly ascend the stairs, my eye trained on the door at the end of the long hallway, Allie’s room. The once colorfully decorated door adorned with construction paper flowers and stickers was now painfully bare, devoid of any feeling. I experience a sinking sensation in my gut every time I look at it.

  Allie’s once pink and lavender bedroom was repainted a beige color at her request last summer. She claimed she wanted something less babyish, so I offered her hundreds of different color samples, every hue imaginable. But no, she wanted brown. She dumped all her old stuff animals and toys into the trash. She removed everything on the walls; framed pictures of flowers, her chalkboard, her cork board with her drawings; all gone. She tossed her American Girl dolls in the hall which Lexie greedily scooped up. I also found bags upon bags of clothing, mostly new, parked in the hallway.

  When I confronted her, she mumbled something about them not fitting anymore. With a heavy heart, I packed away the clothing, some still with tags attached, for Lexie. Despite the instance of my friends that this was normal teen behavior, I couldn’t help feeling like there was something wrong; somehow I had messed up. And for the life of me, I had no idea how to fix it.

  Tapping quietly at Allie’s door, I call out, “Allie?” I am met by a stony wall of silence. Jiggling the doorknob, I try a different tactic. “Allie Pallie?” I call out the nickname that I used for her when she was little. She would curl up in my lap and tell me I was her best pal, so I started calling her “My Allie Pallie”. She would take my face in her hands and squeeze it tightly, and then lean in to leave a wet kiss on my lips. Then she would call me her “Mommy Pallie” and tell me we’d be pals forever. I gulp as I recall this piece of nostalgia. I certainly wasn’t “Mommy Pallie” to her anymore.

  “Go away,” is her muffled response. Her face is probably buried under a pillow.

  “Come on, Allie. Open the door, please. I just want to talk to you,” I plead.