The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell

by Heather Balog

  “If they are going to take out anyone, it would be someone with evidence against them,” Jason explains, still not looking me in the eye. Oh yeah, the perps.

  “Well, then why are we in hiding?” I ask again, recalling the whole point of my concern.

  “Because they still may think you saw something or know something because you were at the house. They probably did not see you, but if they have someone watching the house, there’s still that minute chance and I don’t want to put you or your family in danger by letting you roam around your neighborhood,” Jason replies with a triumphant tone.

  “So, then they still may come up here looking for me and Allie and Sean because they think we know something,” I point out. Jason flushes. Apparently he hadn’t considered that.

  “Fine,” he stammers. “I’ll get an agent to stay here and babysit you. You can go shower; nobody’s in there right now.” He turns to storm out of the room with a huff.

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I call to his back, agitated that he first of all, didn’t think to get someone to protect me and secondly, that he referred to me needing to be babysat. Yes, I know. Conflicting thoughts, but all I seemed to be able to think around Jason were conflicting thoughts. The man infuriated me and delighted my senses at the same time. I simultaneously wanted to wring his neck and cover him with kisses. Poor Jason is a lonely guy with a broken heart. He needs a little TLC. Bet I know exactly what would make him feel-

  Stop it, Amy! You are married. You love Roger. Roger is your husband, my conscience is practically screaming at me while I ogle Jason retreating, his rear end looking oh so good in his nice butt hugging jeans.

  I shut down my impure thoughts immediately. I can swear that my loins are speaking to me instead of my rational 16 year old, er, 30 something year old brain.

  Get a grip, Amy, I command myself as I close the bedroom door. Between being confined to this cabin with no way to contact the outside world and the shocking events of the last 24 hours, my brain is fried. It isn’t even making sense anymore.

  Sighing, I step over to the ancient dresser in the corner that has a mirror perched atop it. I am immediately horrified by the face that is staring back at me.

  “Ugh, what a mess,” I growl at my reflection. I know that I am not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but most days I manage to keep it together enough to look presentable. I stare at myself in disgust. I can’t believe I just faced my heart palpitation inducing neighbor in my current state.

  Do I really look this bad when I woke up every day or is today particularly horrible? It makes me wonder what the heck Roger has been thinking all these years. My hair, which is in dire need of a dye job, is matted on one side of my head and sticking straight up on the other. It looks like I have a compass on my head pointing due North. My eyes are bloodshot with dark purple moons underneath. My skin on my face is pale and sallow. My lips are dry and cracked. I need make-up…I chuckle to myself as I wonder if Jason has any make-up he can share with me but my thoughts are interrupted by a nauseating odor. On a hunch, I sniff under my arm pits. I am pretty ripe.

  You really should take that shower, Amy. Jason could probably smell your stench from where he stood. Telling you to shower was a not so subtle hint that you stink, I consider as I reach down on the floor to retrieve my jeans from the place I tossed them. I sniff them; they do not have that “fresh from the dryer” scent. I wish I had clean clothes. I really want to take that shower but the only thing worse than not having a shower, is putting dirty clothes on after a hot, relaxing shower.

  Instead of bathing, I drop the sheet and pull my right leg into the jeans. I am hopping around the bedroom trying to get my left leg in when there is a soft knock at the door.

  My stomach tenses into a knot. I really don’t want to see Jason again looking the way I do. I would kill for a toothbrush right now. It bothers me as I realize that I would be the first person voted off the island in Survivor and that would make me very happy.

  “Amy?” It is Walter’s gravelly voice at the door, not Jason’s. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Just throwing my jeans on,” I call back as I continue to bounce around the room. It’s like my skinny jeans actually got skinnier overnight, but I have not had the same luck. I suck in my flappy gut as I zip up.

  Damn, how did I get into these yesterday? Had I known that I would be wearing them for a few days, I would have put my mommy jeans on. Or sweatpants. Ah, sweatpants. How I long for my favorite sweats and a cup of coffee, snuggling up on the couch with Evan, watching Live with Kelly and Michael.

  The thought of Evan and what I am now considering to be “my former life”, causes me to choke back a sob.

  I wonder what Evan’s doing right now. Did Roger have to take the day off of work? Did my mother come over to watch him? Did Colt cry when I wasn’t there to take him to school? How many times did Lexie visit the nurse today? Did anyone even tell the kids what happened? Did Roger even notice that I haven’t come back yet????

  Suddenly, I’m angry at Jason all over again for some bizarre reason that only makes sense in my head. I throw open the door to see Walter standing there, an apologetic expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, but Jason and I are leaving in a moment,” he explains, staring down at his shuffling feet.

  God, how awful do I look that this 60 something year old man can’t even look me in the eye?

  I don’t even thank him for the information. Instead, I abruptly ask, “Where is Jason?”

  Walter points in the direction of the kitchen and I promptly storm off towards it, my feet bare. Jason is securing the lid to his travel mug as I round the corner in a fury.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Sean and Allie are lounging on the couch, listening to a radio that is somewhere in the room. Both of the teenagers now wear vacant expressions on their faces as the static of the radio station completely obliterates the peppy pop music. They’re probably miserable being trapped here in the pouring rain, no cell phone or TV. I actually feel sorry for them.

  But I don’t have time to think about it now. “What did you tell Roger?” I demand from Jason. He obviously did not know I was in the room because his hand shakes as he glances up, startled. A stream of brown coffee pours down the side of the mug and over his hand.

  “Shit,” he exclaims, practically dropping the mug back down on the counter. He glares at me accusingly. “Thanks a lot, Amy.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, not meaning it. And then I immediately proceed to hound him again. “What did you tell Roger? I assume somebody told Roger something, right? He’s not sitting there looking out the window, waiting for me to come home, is he?”

  Jason looks at Walter who offers him a half-hearted shrug.

  “Oh for God’s sakes, nobody explained anything to Roger? Are you kidding me?” This is exactly why women need to be in charge of everything. Men completely forget to take care of the “details”.

  “Actually, he called in a missing person’s report last night,” calls out a new voice from the doorway. I spin on my heel and see a middle aged man with a very broad neck and a military style haircut in a beige dress shirt, mint green tie and dark brown khakis standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his formidable chest. There are puddles forming underneath his size 14 feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” I ask. Okay, rude. But I am done with being the polite one here. Let’s recap, shall we? In the past twenty four hours I have been dragged through the ringer at my son’s school, been puked on by my ten year old, thought I discovered my daughter was doing drugs by snooping through her phone, stumbled upon the corpse of my elderly neighbor who was in fact an undercover agent, taken to a remote and desolate area of the woods by my other neighbor for “my safety” and discovered no one on my block seems to be who they say they are. Oh and I slept in my clothes and my drool worthy hottie neighbor saw me in my underwear. And I smell. Am I forgetting anything? So please, forgive me if I’ve be
en rude to this stranger who is invading my so called “safe place”.

  “This is Agent Harding,” Jason replies drily. “Your babysitter for the day.” He reaches for the coffee pot and pours more coffee into his mug to make up for the bit he had spilled at my expense.

  Agent Harding balks at Jason’s description. “What? No. I didn’t know I was babysitting. I’m just supposed to be-”

  I cut the agent off and continue to grill Jason. “Okay well that’s fine, but you didn’t answer my question. Don’t think I forgot about my question.” I shake my finger at him before I whip my head back towards the new agent. “What do you mean he filed a missing person’s report? Jason told me the police would tell him what happened.” I turn to glare at Jason accusingly.

  “Ha,” Agent Harding scoffs. “The police couldn’t tell him that because the police don’t know anything.” His lips are hardened into a hair-raising grin.

  My hands suddenly feel cold and clammy. Is Jason lying to us? Did he make the whole agent thing up to lure us to this cabin? In the back of my mind, I recall the whole meat cleaver dream. I glance around frantically, wondering how I can catch Allie’s attention and get us both to safety. I tremble as I realize I am no match for these goons.

  Jason glowers at Agent Harding. “The police know there is an undercover operation, but they don’t know why we took you. They may be under the impression that you are, um, a suspect. Your fingerprints are in the house.”

  “What?” I screech much louder than I have intended to. Allie and Sean’s heads snap up, trance broken and they stare at me, mouths hanging open. I clench my fists angrily at my sides, seething at Jason.

  Oh man, how I want to pummel his gorgeous face right now. Break his straight and perfectly proportioned nose. Give his crystal blue eyes a nice round shiner. Split his soft lips that are probably so delightful to kiss…

  Jason screws the cap on his travel mug again. He picks it up and strides over to where I am standing, hands indignantly parked on my hips. “It’s fine. It’s only temporary. We know you didn’t do it. It’s just to throw the real perp off.” His pats my elbow patronizingly, sending shivers up my arm and throughout my body.

  Stunned by his apathetic attitude, I ignore the sexual chill and call after him, “You’re sullying my good name!”

  Jason snorts as he raises his eyebrows at Agent Harding. “Good luck with this one. She’s feisty,” he remarks as he heads out the door, Walter trailing behind him.

  “Hey!” I call after him as he and Walter retreat down the steps. “I resent that!” I rush to the door to follow them, but Agent Harding steps in front of me and closes it before I can finish screaming obscenities at Jason’s back.

  I frown at his hulking form before flopping down on the chair like a petulant child. I cross my arms over my chest, fully intending to sulk until Jason returned.

  “I brought toothbrushes and shampoo and stuff,” Agent Harding reports as he holds out his arms, hands full of Target bags.

  Allie’s head snaps up again. She leaps to her feet and races over to Agent Harding who is now explaining to me that he didn’t know our sizes exactly but he had to estimate based on Jason’s description. After riffling through the bags, Allie loops a bag over her wrist, apparently full of clothes for her. She then throws one of the remaining bags at me and gathers up shampoo and body wash into her arms.

  “Dibs on the shower,” she calls while speed walking towards the bathroom.

  Well, I’ve gone more than twenty four hours without a shower now. What’s a few more hours? Allie is notorious for spending hours in the shower. Literally, hours. Roger took the door off the bathroom once when she was in there for an hour and a half, after flushing the downstairs toilet and banging on the door had not gotten her out. She screamed like an absolute crazed maniac about calling DFYS but it cut down her shower time considerably. I am hoping that this cabin has a decent sized hot water heater, otherwise I’m certain that I will be a Popsicle after my shower. When I finally get one, that is.

  Agent Harding settles down on the uncomfortable looking wooden chair positioned near the door. I didn’t notice it the last night so Jason or Walter must have put it there for him when they found out he was coming to babysit. Hardly seemed fair that he needed to sit in such an uncomfortable way for heaven knows how long. I guess he is used to it because he clasps his meaty hands together, tucks them behind his head and leans back slightly, staring straight ahead on full alert.

  Dumping the bag that Allie has tossed to me on the breakfast nook, I peek inside and inspect its contents. The first thing I pull out is a college sweatshirt, size XXL. As I hold the ridiculously oversized sweatshirt up against my relatively small frame, I glower at Agent Harding who is now an interesting shade of eggplant.

  “I told you I only had Agent Collins’ description to go on!” he stammers.

  “Who the hell is Agent Collins?” I ask, infuriated now. My ego has been bruised. I know I’m not skinny, but hell, an XXL? Roger would be swimming in this thing and he is a professional couch potato with a penchant for deep fried Oreos. And deep fried Twinkies. In fact, deep fried anything.

  “Agent Collins? Jason Collins?” Agent Harding stammers.

  Oh. Jason. I didn’t know his real last name. I clamp shut my open mouth. I can’t be mad at Agent Harding then. Obviously Jason gave him a glowing description of me that incited him to think I was 400 pounds and a fan of…I turn the sweatshirt over in my hand…Bootylicious U??? Ugh. I can’t wait to see the underwear he bought. I am envisioning a thong that could double as a parachute.

  Throwing the sweatshirt back into the bag with disgust, I lean my elbows on the countertop and rub my temples. I have a throbbing headache and I feel nauseated. Maybe I will feel better after a nice, hot shower. And a meal. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for a nice filet mignon with a side of garlic dill potatoes right now. And a nice fat glass of Shiraz.

  My stomach growls in agreement and my eyes fly open, glancing at Agent Harding with embarrassment. It isn’t necessary though, because in the brief thirty seconds I had my eyes closed, he has managed to drift off to sleep, head lolling to the side, drool drip out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Some babysitter,” I scoff as I straighten up. My stomach feels like it is starting to eat itself. We never ate dinner last night and although the stress of the evening had disguised my hunger, it is catching up with me now. Hopefully someone brought some food. I putter off in the direction of the cabinets, annoyed at Agents Harding and Collins. And whatever Walter’s real last name was, just for associating with them. I yank the cabinets open with unnecessary brute force and stare glumly into them. Boxes upon boxes of cereal stare back at me, grinning rabbits and dancing leprechauns adorning their sides. “Just peachy,” I growl as I select the box with the least offensive amount of sugar. Then, I open the other cabinets, searching for a bowl or something to put the cereal in. Groaning, I discover that the bowls are on the top shelf of the cabinet. I am about to hoist myself up on the countertop to retrieve one when I hear a voice behind me.

  “I can get that for you.”

  I turn sharply to see Sean standing behind me. He is a good three inches taller than I am and easily reaches the top shelf to bring down two bowls. He hands me one and then reaches up to retrieve an additional bowl. “In case Allie wants cereal,” he remarks shyly. As an afterthought, he grabs another one and jerks his thumb towards the agent who is now nearly falling off his chair. “And that guy, too.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile, opening the fridge to look for the milk. Obviously a man has shopped for us because there is nary a fruit or veggie in the fridge. It is stocked with lunch meat, pudding cups, string cheese and soda. And whole milk. Gross. I shudder to think what must be in the freezer. Probably stacks of frozen waffles and TV dinners. Men knew nothing about nutrition. Especially DEA agents who probably lived on coffee and diner food.

  As I rummage through the drawer for spoons, Sean hands me a box of cereal. “Can
you open this?” he asks pleadingly. “I have a hard time getting the plastic apart without destroying it.”

  Nodding, I take the box from his outstretched hand. This is the most I have ever heard Sean speak since that first day when I dragged him away from Colt’s fort. After I open the box for him, we both pour our cereal and sit at the nook in silence, crunching away on the puffs mixed with color infused marshmallow hearts and stars floating in the milk. I am thoroughly grossed out by the time I’m done eating and dying to brush my teeth.

  Allie comes bounding down the hallway, happier than I have seen her in ages, hair wet and hanging limply on her shoulders. She is wearing an off the shoulder sweatshirt (her favorite), skinny jeans (wayyyy too skinny jeans) slung low on her hips and her Uggs that she had on yesterday.

  I frown at her outfit, but am thrilled that she isn’t in a cranky mood for once. Ahhh, the power of a hot shower. Which, judging on the steam pouring out of the bathroom behind her, I undoubtedly will not get.

  “There’s cereal?” she asks as waltzes into the kitchen.

  I nod and point to the cabinet. “Yes. And Sean got you a bowl,” I remark between bites.

  Allie offers Sean a slight smile of gratitude as she inspects her cereal choices. She isn’t a fan of sugary cereals, either. I’m certain that she’s going to put up a stink.

  Instead, she pulls down the same cereal we’re eating and pours it into her bowl. The milk is still sitting on the table so she grabs it and drizzles it over the cereal. Pulling out a stool, she sits down and begins to spoon the marshmallows and puffs into her mouth feverishly. I guess she’s as hungry as I was after missing dinner last night.

  I place my bowl in the sink, resisting the urge to pour another, not because it was good, but because my stomach is still growling from hunger. “I’m going to shower,” I announce to the two teenagers who are rapidly shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into their hungry mouths, milk dripping off their chins. They wave me away as they both stare at the back of the cereal box for entertainment and I wonder how long they are going to be able function without cell phones and other electronics. I’m certain that Allie is going to start developing a twitch from not being able to text Victoria or update her Instagram account very soon.