Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense Read online

  I open up the bathroom door, Colt nearly knocking me down as I do. Lexie is hopping on one foot outside the door.

  “No fair! I gotta go, too!” she screams as Colt rushes in.

  Colt cackles evilly while he closes the door and tells his sister, “I think I feel a poop coming on, too,”

  “Jerk! You better hurry up!” Lexie kicks the door for good measure.

  Lord, having one bathroom is going to be pure torture this week...as if this vacation wasn’t torture enough already.

  I see Evan struggling to pull a shirt over his head. Roger must have told him to change for dinner, not realizing that he couldn’t handle a button-down polo on his own. I step over to the bed to help him when I am accosted by Roger.

  “Amy, where's my blue shirt?” he asks, standing bare chested in front of me. Thank God he has pants on. “I told you to pack my blue shirt and it’s not here.”

  I point to the shirt at the top of the stack on the bed. “It’s right there.” Note to self, make Roger an eye doctor appointment as soon as we return. Do not let him refuse the glaucoma test this time. It’s a little puff of air...suck it up buttercup.

  Roger shakes his head. “No, not that one. The other one.”

  I roll my eyes as I pull Evan’s shirt over his head. He must have gotten into Colt’s Doritos because the shirt already has orange hand prints all over it. “You have at least a dozen blue shirts, Roger. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

  “I meant my favorite blue shirt.” He sinks down on the bed, dejected. “I guess I’ll have to wear this one.” He picks up the blue shirt, sounding like a child who didn’t get what he wanted from Santa.

  I close my eyes and actually see red on the inside of my eyelids. That pulsating feeling is banging around on my temples again. I might have to take an actual pain med for real this time.

  This shirt conversation is a bone of contention between Roger and me. Whenever we go on vacation, I literally spend days laying out everyone’s clothes, packing them, and then unpacking them when things don’t fit in the suitcase and I need to make adjustments. I make lists on sticky notes reminding myself of every item that needs to be brought, everything from flip flops to eyeglass cases, color coded by family member. I hang them all over the house, much to my family’s chagrin, checking off items as I pack them, retrieving beloved items (like the damn blue shirt I had no idea about) from the washer and dryer at the last minute, making sure they make it on our excursion. It's seriously exhausting to be the one ensuring that your six member family has every blessed thing they need to enjoy a week away from home. I undoubtedly forget something every single time and ironically it’s usually something of mine. Last time we went camping, I forgot to pack myself sweatshirts and I ended up huddling with a sleeping bag wrapped around me while we went hiking. When we went to Jamaica a few years back I forgot underwear. I came back pregnant with Evan. I had been cringing inside as I waited to find out what I forgot this time. Turns out, I didn’t have too long to wait. Apparently it was Roger’s shirt.

  “As I’ve told you repeatedly in the past, if you want things packed to your liking, you need to lay it all out for me. Or better yet, pack it yourself.” I spin on my heel and stomp over to the door.

  “We never got me a bathing suit,” Lexie calls out. I feel my heart sink into my toes. We never did, did we? Agggggggrrrrrrr! A bathing suit...of course. Only one of the most essential items for an enjoyable beach vacation. Although, we can probably scratch the words enjoyable anywhere near this vacation.

  “And my shoes!” Colt reminds me. I whirl around and remember that my son is barefoot. Yup. Forgot about the shoes we lost at security.

  “Don’t you have other shoes?” Roger asks our son with annoyance.

  “No!” Colt wails, suddenly distressed by the whole situation. Oh sure, now he cares. He didn’t seem to mind his shoeless state when he was wandering around the hotel barefoot in search of junk food, did he?

  “Why doesn’t he have other shoes, Amy?” Roger stares at me, his eyes accusing. I open up my mouth to explain that Colt has been going through a growth spurt and is also so hard on his footwear, that I cannot possibly keep more than one or two pairs of shoes in the house for him at a time. But Colt answers his father before I can.

  “Mommy won’t buy me any new shoes,” he replies, lip sticking out and quivering like a hungry orphan off the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

  I glare at him and snap, “Colt, you’ve had four pairs of sneakers this school year alone, and you’ve ruined three pairs already.”

  “But I didn’t like any of them!”

  I open my mouth and close it quickly. Do not get caught up in eight-year-old boy logic. There is nothing more ridiculous than eight-year-old boy logic.

  “Well we’re at the beach. Why can’t he go barefoot to dinner?” Lexie asks. Except twelve-year-old girl logic.

  “The restaurant is not on the beach. It is inside and it is nice and classy. He can’t go barefoot to dinner!” Roger stammers.

  I offer him a smile of genuine appreciation. At last, some logic that I can appreciate.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lexie’s suitcase open, flip flops spilling out everywhere. A light bulb goes off in my head. “Hey Lexie! Grab a pair of your flip flops for Colt.”

  “What?” Both Lexie and Colt stare at me like I just told them they need to swap kidneys or something.

  “I’m not wearing girl flip flops!” My son nearly spits out the words.

  “Ewww! I don’t want his disgusting smelly boy feet in my flip flops!”

  “I’m not disgusting! You’re disgusting!” Colt spits at his sister. She screeches.

  “I have spit in my hair! Mom! He spit in my hair!”

  “It’s an improvement,” Allie adds while applying more mascara on her already heavily made-up eyes. Not sure who she thinks she going to meet in the Caribbean with this lovely family circus is tow.

  “That’s not necessary, Allie,” Roger admonishes halfheartedly.

  My stomach growls and at the same time, my head feels like a Mariachi band is playing inside it. I need food and a soft bed. And not necessarily in that order—I’ll take dinner on a tray in a bed right now.

  I lean up against the door jam and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of my family arguing in the background. I don’t even hear the actual words—just the incessant babbling of nonsense.

  “All right everybody!” I scream after the Mariachi band leader begins to do the tango on my sinuses. There is sudden silence and they all gawk at me. That’s better. “We are going to stay in and order room service. That way, we don’t need Colt to have shoes, and we can probably eat quicker.”

  Roger looks startled as I settle down on the edge of the bed. “But I want to go to the nice restaurant!”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him firmly. “We are all tired and hungry and we will say and do things we regret if we go out to eat at a real restaurant.”

  “But I still need shoes!” Colt whines.

  “And I need a bathing suit!” Lexie chimes in.

  “Tomorrow we can find the nearest Target or Walmart and get both of those things. But as for tonight,” I wave my finger in the air at all of them. “I’ve had enough of you all. And I don’t care to take this shit show on the road.” I ignore the voice in my head that is explaining that there probably is not a Target or Walmart on the island considering its poverty stricken state and all.

  I grab the menu from the cramped corner table and flop down on the bed that is the least rumpled and imitation cheese stained. When I flip it open, I hear quiet sobbing coming from behind me. Whipping my head around, I see that Evan is crying.

  Instantly alarmed that perhaps he has gotten his arm stuck under the mattress or some other freak of nature feat, I leap to his aid. “Evan, honey, what’s wrong?”

  As I reach his side, I see that he is not injured in any manner, yet he has his lower lip stuck out and it is trembling. �
��Are you sick? Does your belly hurt? Does your head hurt? Your throat?”

  I frantically feel his forehead for a temperature. I sigh with relief when I find that he has none. Trying to find urgent care and waiting in those little plastic chairs for hours would be a nightmare. Once, Roger thought he broke a rib from coughing while we were on a vacation with my sister, her husband, and the kids. He was seriously coughing so hard he thought he had whooping cough. Honestly, I think he just faked it because he didn’t want to go horseback riding with the rest of the family, and was looking for anyway out that he could get. I on the other hand had really wanted to go horseback riding, and was really pissed when the urgent care doctor announced Roger had nothing worse than a cold. Men are such babies.

  Evan shakes his head to all of my questions. “No, no, and no.”

  “Did you get hurt?” I check again for injuries and still see none.

  Evan shakes his head once more.

  “Well then, what’s the matter?” I ask impatiently. My stomach also inserts its impatience by growling loudly. I can’t remember the last thing I ate. Peanuts on the plane? No, I don’t think they serve those anymore. Now that I’m thinking back on it, I don’t recall eating anything since yesterday. Probably all the more reason you got Dramamine drunk, Amy.

  “I want to go out to eat!” Evan wails, burying his cheesy face in my shirt.

  What? That’s why he’s crying?

  “Good going, Mom. You made the baby cry!” Allie admonishes as she drops the mascara wand and scoops in to pick up a now hysterical Evan.

  Lexie follows suit and runs over to pat her brother on the back. “All he wanted was to go out to eat.”

  Colt, not to be outdone, crones, “Yeah poor Evan never gets to go out to eat.”

  I stare at my children with my mouth wide open. What in fresh hell just happened here?

  “But none of you were co-operating and…” I stammer. I can’t even form a coherent sentence. I may pass out from hunger. And shock.

  “You can borrow my flip flops, Colt,” Lexie says generously. She reaches into her suitcase and pulls out a pair of black slides. “These are kind of boyish actually. I think Mom bought them in the boy’s section. And they’re a little small on me, too.” She scowls at me. Ouch.

  Colt takes the shoes from her outstretched hand. “Thanks,” he mumbles as he slides them on over his socks.

  “Well, then,” Roger says, clapping his hands together victoriously. “I guess we are set to go out to eat!”

  With a broad grin, he sweeps his hand toward the door. The kids file out happily, each chattering about what they’re going to get to eat. I stare at Roger. Have I just entered the Twilight Zone?

  I follow him out the door, completely oblivious to just how much weirder things are about to get.

  ~Eight~

  “Mommy, do I have to order off the kid menu? There’s something on the adult menu I’d like,” Colt says, eyes wide as he reads the description of the twenty-eight ounce Porterhouse. I swear there is actually drool dripping down his chin.

  “Yeah, you have to order from the kid menu,” Lexie tells him. “If I have to order off of it, you have to order of it, too.”

  Ah, good to see my usual family is back. Just in time to make a major scene in the five-star restaurant that Roger has chosen despite my protests.

  “Of course you don’t!” Roger replies with a hearty laugh. I glare at him. He has obviously been replaced by an alien life form. There aren’t even prices on the menu! I know what that means...market price...which is French for insane.

  Roger catches my eye and I widen them.

  “It’s all-inclusive, remember, Amy?” he whispers, glancing around at the other patrons as if they can’t know that their meals are already paid for.

  Oh, yes, that’s right. I forgot about the all-inclusive.

  I nod my head like we are sharing a little secret.

  If that’s the case, I’m going to be getting...I scan the menu for what would be the priciest item at home...surf and turf. Ten ounce fillet with twin lobster tails, drawn butter, asparagus in Hollandaise sauce. Mmmm. Sounds good. I think I’ll get a bottle of wine to go with it, too. This could be a dream vacation after all.

  Then I remember my “drug overdose” a few hours prior and decide that wine probably isn’t a wise idea. I’ll just make up for it with a decadent dessert instead. I begin to peruse the dessert menu and soon I am salivating over descriptions that include the words chocolate, rich, and creamy, when Lexie says something that causes me to jerk to attention.

  “Hey, that guy looks familiar!”

  I knock over my water glass, spilling it unintentionally onto Roger’s lap. “Jesus, Amy! Watch it!” Roger grabs his cloth napkin and starts dabbing at his moist crotch. I crane my neck in the direction that Lexie is pointing.

  My eyes follow Lexie’s finger and I see a man in a camel colored suit jacket (with those elbow patches circa 1972) and thinning hair. He is leading a plump woman with a shoulder-length black bob and a cranberry colored dress, out of the restaurant by the crook of her arm. The woman doesn’t seem to want to leave and is arguing with the man.

  I chuckle to myself, wondering if the woman had one too many cocktails, and was embarrassing herself, causing her husband to have to forcibly remove her.

  “That was Grandpa!” Lexie announces as she struggles to her feet. Roger’s head whips up.

  “What? That’s impossible.” His eyes are wide with concern.

  “Don’t be a dolt, Lexie,” Allie pipes in. “Grandma and Grandpa aren’t here. They’re at home.”

  Lexie shakes her head. “That was Grandpa! I’m sure of it. But it wasn’t Grandma.” Her eyes are as wide as saucers. I leap to my feet and manage to knock over the water glass again.

  Wait a minute! Not my mother? What is my father doing out with a woman who is not my mother? Hell, what is he doing 3,000 miles from home with a woman who is not my mother?

  Pushing my chair back, I toss my napkin on the table. Roger, who has settled back down with the menu, glances up. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to go catch my cheating bastard of a father!” I announce, causing the heads of several other diners to swivel in my direction. This is not the type of restaurant where people shout things. Especially not statements that are better suited on a two o’clock soap opera, or an episode of Maury.

  Lexie pushes back her own chair. “I’m coming with you!”

  I shake my head. “No way. This does not involve children.” Lexie’s face turns bright red.

  “Ha ha, she called you a child,” Allie laughs.

  “I am not a child!” Lexie practically screeches, fists clenched at her sides. “Besides, I’m the one that pointed out it was Grandpa.”

  “You’re still not coming with me,” I say, brushing the crumbs off my lap. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I kind of made love to the bread basket when it arrived at our table. There is evidence all over my lap.

  “I want to see Grandpa,” Evan announces, standing on his chair and attempting to climb over the back.

  “Me too!” Colt tosses his own hunk of bread down on the plate.

  “No one is going anywhere,” Roger hisses through clenched teeth. He reaches over and pulls Evan down in his chair.

  “Owww, Daddy, you hurt me!” Evan yells. “You always hurt me,” he adds while rubbing his arm.

  Roger’s face colors as he realizes that the people sitting nearby will automatically think that he is abusing his child.

  At this point, the entire restaurant is staring at us, some patrons with their heads together, speaking in hushed tones. They’re too polite to point, but I know they’re entertained and concerned by our family show. The distressed maître d’ is now rushing over to our table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” He pastes a smile in his otherwise impassive face. “I must implore you to keep it down.” He leans into our table and presses his finger against his lips, the universal shush sign. “This is
not Bob’s Beef Barn.”

  Before I can wonder if that is actually a place (that we should have gone to) or if he is being a total facetious jerk head, Roger replies, “Of course, sir. My kids just thought they saw somebody they know. They were excited because we’re on vacation.” He offers the maître d’ a wan smile, sweat beading on his receding hairline.

  The maître d’ bobs his pretentious head before gliding back to his post at the front door.

  Roger turns to me and dabs his flushed skin with the cloth napkin. “Can you please sit down, Amy? You’re causing quite the scene.”

  Realizing that I have lost my “father” by this point, I slump back down in my chair. “Fine.” I mutter, picking up the butter knife and adding fifteen pounds of delicious golden lard to the only remaining slice of bread in the basket. “So sorry to have embarrassed you, your highness.”

  Roger grimaces while he angrily butters his own bread. “No need to be nasty. It’s bad enough the kids don’t behave in public; I don’t need you running off to chase people that look like your father.”

  “It really was Grandpa!” Lexie insists.

  Roger shakes his head. “It wasn’t Grandpa. I saw him. He looked nothing like Grandpa.”

  At that moment a girl, who can only be described as “Tinkerbell”, sashays past our table and stops dead in her tracks when she sees Roger.

  “Mr. Maxwell?” Her voice is unnaturally high and squeaky. Roger glances up and nearly chokes on the bread that he was stuffing in his mouth. He coughs and sputters, nearly blinding me with the soggy bread crumbs that shoot out of his mouth.

  I watch him choke for a few seconds, wondering if I should perform the Heimlich. I think better of it as he rises to his feet to greet her—he seems all right.

  “Hi!” Roger exclaims. His cheeks puff and brighten as he stammers, “Um, wow! It’s great to see you. What are you doing here?” His tone is high pitched and nervous.

  “I work here, silly!” She giggles as she grabs Roger and pulls him close to her pixie-like body for a hug. His eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head. She pulls away after what seems like an eternity, but still holds him at arm’s length distance. “You know that!”