Family Game Night and Other Catastrophes

by Mary E. Lambert

  Of course Leslie would turn to Grandma Nora. There’s not really anyone else, and Grandma Nora is one of those Women Who Fix Things. She even tries to fix things that aren’t broken. Like me.

  “There’s always room for improvement,” Grandma Nora will say. It’s practically her motto. She also likes to talk about Being an Independent Woman. When my mom and her sister were little kids, their dad (Grandma Nora’s first husband) died, and Grandma Nora raised them on her own until she married her second husband. I can remember him. We called him Grandpa George, even though we weren’t technically related. But then he died, too, and Grandma Nora was on her own again. So she’s her own favorite example of an Independent Woman.

  Her second-favorite example of an Independent Woman is my aunt Jill. Aunt Jill never got married and she doesn’t have any kids, but she does have Degrees and a Career. She’s a big-shot real estate agent. Or something like that. I don’t think she sells homes. I think she sells things like warehouses and office buildings.

  But whatever Aunt Jill does, she must get paid a ton of money, because every now and then my mom makes these really bitter comments about how rich her sister is. My family’s not poor, but we can’t afford to vacation on the Riviera or drive around in a Mercedes-Benz. Grandma Nora likes to remind us that Aunt Jill’s is a convertible.

  “Grandma Nora can’t come,” I tell Leslie. “We’ve got to stop her.”

  “Don’t you think she’ll help? She said she would take care of everything.” Leslie says this in such a small voice that it’s obvious even she knows it’s a ridiculous suggestion. It doesn’t matter how much you love sunshine and rainbows and unicorns, even an eternal optimist like Leslie can recognize Armageddon approaching.

  I can’t remember the last time Grandma Nora and Mom had a phone conversation without ending up in a fight, never mind that the last time Grandma Nora visited our house Grandpa George was with her. I’m not sure how many years it’s been since he died. It feels like forever. At least four or five.

  Everyone loved Grandpa George, especially Mom. He had all these silly nicknames for us, like he always called me Annabelle Lee, and then he would start reciting part of some old poem. Or sometimes he would call me Banana-belle. And Mom was always Polly or Pollywog or Paulina or Pauleeta. Anything but our real names.

  Grandpa George was super laid-back compared with Grandma Nora and Aunt Jill. He always talked about how great it was that Mom wanted to stay home to take care of her kids. He never dropped hints like Grandma Nora did about how Mom should get a “real job” once all her kids were in school. And he always asked about Mom’s art. She used to paint these really pretty watercolors, and sometimes the one coffee shop in Chatham would put them on display.

  She doesn’t do that anymore. I haven’t seen her paint anything in years. A couple of times a year Dad asks her when she’s going to start again, or he’ll bring home new brushes or special paper. It never makes any difference.

  Grandma Nora has no idea how bad it’s gotten around here. We do still see her occasionally. Once a year or so, Grandma Nora will have a fit of family togetherness, and she’ll keep threatening to visit until Mom puts her off by agreeing to meet her in some nowhere town halfway between our two states. Sometimes Grandma Nora hints that she’d like to bring Aunt Jill along, but Mom absolutely, positively refuses to go if her sister will be there. I can’t see how Aunt Jill would make things any worse. The family togetherness always follows the same miserable pattern. It starts with Grandma Nora giving me and Chad and Leslie hugs and kisses, but it ends in screaming matches and tears.

  I’m not exactly sure why Mom and Grandma Nora hate each other so much, I just know that it’s been that way ever since Grandpa George died. Dad always shoos the kids out as soon as they start fighting. I think Dad might be the only reason Mom and Grandma Nora haven’t murdered each other yet. And now Grandma Nora is coming. To our house. And Mom doesn’t know. And Dad is on his way out of the country.

  “Maybe I can talk Grandma Nora out of coming,” I tell Leslie.

  “Too late.”

  “What?”

  “Her plane already left.”

  I let out a massive groan. Only an Independent Woman Who Fixes Things would be flying halfway across the country already. It’s been less than a full day since Leslie called. I grab my sister’s arm. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks as I drag her with me.

  “To warn Mom.”

  It might be too late to stop the apocalypse, but maybe we can contain it.

  I drag Leslie down the stairs, past the Beanie Babies and past the locked doors of the Forbidden Room. I really do wonder what she’s keeping in there. All our old pencils and dried-up pens?

  I pull Leslie toward the sound of cans being restacked. When we reach the den, I drop her arm and we pause to watch Mom. She’s so involved with her can-tacular disaster that she doesn’t notice us.

  She looks terrible. She looks worse than Leslie, the puffy, purple-eyed monster. Did Mom even bother to shower this morning? Somehow I doubt it. I shower at least once a day, sometimes two or three times. Mom doesn’t bathe that often, and today she’s looking especially ripe.

  Her wispy hair is pulled back with a clip. I can never decide what color her hair is. Leslie’s hair is a really pretty chestnut-brown color. Mine is just a little lighter. But what do you call something that’s not blond or brown or gray? Mom’s hair is some depressing combination of all three. I almost talked her into dyeing it once last summer, but she wimped out. Mom can’t handle change.

  A few limp strands of her colorless hair are plastered to her forehead, and there are sweat stains as big as my face soaking through the armpits of her pink muumuu. Her pastel-pink muumuu.

  “Do you want help?” Leslie asks, and Mom gives a little start. She pauses from restacking her cans to look over at us.

  I literally grab my right hand with my left to stop myself from walloping Leslie upside the head. What is she thinking? Hasn’t she noticed Mom’s outfit? Doesn’t she know what pastels mean? If nothing else, Leslie should know that offering to help Mom put things back is like asking a kid if he wants candy for dinner. It’s not good for him, but he’s not going to care.

  “You look like you could use a hand,” Leslie says when Mom doesn’t answer right away. “We’ll help you, won’t we, Annabelle?” Leslie’s eyes are doing the Bambi Thing again. I really hate that stupid deer.

  I don’t want to spend the rest of the morning babysitting Mom. I want to do my duty by warning her about Grandma Nora, and then I want—no, I need—a nap. I break eye contact with my sister the fawn, only to accidentally meet Mom’s eyes. They’re red.

  I’m tough. I can be as heartless as I need to be. That’s what it takes to survive life in this house. Only, this morning I’m not quite tough enough.

  “Sure, we’ll help.” I say it with all the enthusiasm of a martyr.

  “Thanks, girls,” Mom says.

  It’s quiet while we work, just the clinking of the cans and the swish-swish sound when I rub the grit off my hands and onto my shorts. From time to time, Mom interrupts with directions: Sort cans of the same fruit or vegetable by brand, larger cans on the bottom, labels facing out, cans with unusual contents go in their own special section, which is alphabetized and includes things like canned bread and pork brains in milk gravy. Gross. It’s also where we keep the dog and cat food, which wouldn’t be unusual at all … if we owned a cat or a dog.

  We don’t.

  As we work, I try to think of a good way to mention Grandma Nora’s visit. Something clever or witty or suave. I’ve got nothing. Especially not now that Mom thinks we came down here just to help her.

  Thankfully, most of the cans are still lined up in their rows along the wall. Just enough have fallen that I know Dad was knocking them over on purpose. Not violently. That’s really not his style. But if Dad was, say, digging out his suitcase from the closet or looking for a book from the shelves behind the
cans, he could have easily—and passive-aggressively—knocked down this many.

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Leslie says cheerfully as she restacks a section of soup cans. “In art class, Mrs. Garcia told us about a really famous painter who liked to paint cans.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, grouchy and tired.

  “No, it’s true,” says Leslie. “I can’t remember his name, but he painted all these pictures of cans like this one.” She holds up a Campbell’s chicken noodle can.

  I snort. “That doesn’t look much like art to me.”

  Mom’s head pokes up from the other side of a wall of canned fruit. “Andy Warhol is one of the most recognized artists in the world. He was part of the pop art movement in the sixties.”

  “Yeah! That was his name,” Leslie says. “Hey, Mom, did you ever paint any soup cans?”

  Ever since I told Leslie that Mom used to paint, she likes to ask Mom about it. Leslie was too little to remember Mom’s easel, and she hasn’t caught on that Mom doesn’t like to talk about it.

  “No, I stuck with nature,” says Mom. “Flowers and trees and things like that.” As she says this, her head slowly disappears behind the canned fruit.

  “Well, this is even better than a painting,” says Leslie, flicking her hand at the stacks. “All that Andy guy did was paint cans. You have a whole sculpture.”

  “I forgot you had an art class last quarter.” Mom’s voice drifts from behind her wall of cans. “Did you like it?”

  “I liked it so, so much. I wish we could just cancel P.E. or math forever, so I could do art with Mrs. Garcia all the time.” Leslie chatters on about her art class, while I wonder how she has the energy to stay cheerful, even in the face of Grandma Nora and the coming apocalypse. I can’t do it. So instead I give myself over to the task, and focus on the job in front of me. It’s mindless work, repetitive and comforting. I take deep breaths.

  I like the way Dad’s den smells.

  If I said that out loud, Rae and Melanie would probably tell me that I’m disgusting. There’s a lot that I don’t say out loud. There’s probably a lot that they don’t say out loud, too. Whatever the case, I think the best way to keep a friend is to keep most things to yourself.

  Dad’s books make the den smell musty, like old paper and mildew. On top of that, there’s this nice metallic tang from the cans and, best of all, there’s the smoky pipe smell. Dad doesn’t smoke often, but in certain moods—usually when he’s retreated most deeply into the land of denial—he jams the deerstalker on his head and brings out his pipe.

  I think Dad likes the deerstalker because not only is it the hat Sherlock Holmes wears, but also it has earflaps. Built-in soundproofing. Dad will plop down in his chair, puffing away on his pipe with the earflaps tied so tightly that I worry he’ll cut off his circulation. At these times, I’m positive Dad is pretending to be the brilliant Mr. Holmes, a man who can solve any problem. And you know what else? Sherlock was a bachelor.

  I don’t tell Dad that I love the pipe smell. I tell him it’s the Scent of Death, because, let’s face it, I cannot afford to lose my slightly more balanced parent to lung cancer or emphysema or some other equally horrendous disease that WebMD says is caused by smoking.

  But right now it kind of feels like we’ve already lost Dad, and since he’s probably boarding his plane, I take another guilt-free breath, enjoying the smoky scent. The pipe smell is stronger than usual. I bet he was smoking like a chimney last night when he decided to ditch us almost two weeks early. I hope Dad gets wedged in a middle seat on the plane. Between an obese old man and a lady with a screaming baby.

  Don’t think about Dad, I tell myself. Don’t think about anything. Deep breath. Deep breath. Inhale. Grab a can. Exhale. Stack a can. Wipe the grit off my hands. Inhale—

  I’m reaching for a can of creamed corn when Mom, who has left her spot behind the fruit barricade, walks by on the inhale. She reeks.

  Well, that answers the Great Shower Question. No shower for Mom today. Or yesterday. And possibly not even the day before. She smells stale, like dirty laundry and sweat.

  “You need a shower,” I say, interrupting Leslie mid-description of her melted-wax “stained glass” project. The words pop out all on their own, and even I can hear how mean my tone sounds. Leslie, Mom, and I freeze.

  Mayday. Mayday.

  I’m not sure who is most horrified.

  Leslie is still as a statue. She’s clutching cream of mushroom soup in one hand and minestrone soup in the other. The minestrone slips from her hand and rolls across the floor.

  This seems like the wrong time to mention Grandma Nora’s visit.

  Mom blinks furiously. I recognize the signs. We’re in for it now. Her chest starts heaving. There will be tears and yelling. Then Mom will feel bad that she yelled, and she’ll cry some more. This is what comes of slumber parties and Bambi eyes and getting sucked into the family drama. I’d rather be watching from the sidelines. Chad might have the right idea. I should ask him to show me how to change the oil in our cars, so I can start spending more time in the garage.

  “A shower is a great idea,” Leslie says.

  Is she trying to make things worse?

  “I wish I’d thought of it first,” she continues. “You do need a nice hot shower. You should take a break, and when you come down again, the den will be done. We’re almost finished anyway.”

  The shoulders in the pink-pastel muumuu relax, and Mom’s chest stops heaving. Her eyes quit blinking. She slowly nods. “That sounds … perfect. I do need to unwind.”

  I take back any mean thought I’ve ever had about my sweet, darling Leslie. Bambi is a diabolical genius.

  Mom, or at least the woman who’s supposed to be the parent around here, stops to pick up the soup, even though it’s difficult for her with her bad knees. She gives the can to Leslie, patting her once on the head as she leaves the room. I notice that I don’t get a pat on the head, but I’m too relieved that we’ve avoided a pink pastel meltdown to care.

  Leslie and I go back to work. We can hear the stairs creak as Mom walks up to her room. When the creaking is distant enough, I turn to Leslie. “Thanks for the save.”

  Leslie shrugs. “I don’t know if it really helped. We didn’t tell Mom about Grandma Nora yet.”

  “You know what?” I say. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to tell Mom anything.”

  Why should I? What will it change? We’re all just sitting on the brink of a catastrophe, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sometimes I think the whole world is like that.

  But I don’t want to explain that to Leslie. She’ll just want to swoop in and save the unsavable. So I say, “Grandma Nora and Mom are both adults. They’ll figure it out.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Leslie bites her lip so hard that I wonder if she’s going to cut herself.

  “Right now, I have exactly one good idea,” I tell her. “And it’s called a nap.”

  Leslie studies my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but she must find it, because she turns her abused lower lip loose. “Okay, I’ll do whatever you want. I trust you.”

  We go back to work.

  When Mom finishes her shower, she’ll probably rearrange everything Leslie and I are doing down here, but at least I won’t trip over any more Bush’s baked beans today. To pass the time, Leslie challenges me to see who can find the oldest can. It’s a good distraction from worrying about Grandma Nora, and it makes the job a little more fun. Leslie wins. Her can of Del Monte sliced carrots is older than she is, and it’s a full three years older than my can of French-cut green beans.

  But by the time we’re done, I feel like we’ve both won, because I’ve made a secret stash of cans—ones with bulging sides or missing labels. I couldn’t risk doing it while Mom was working with us. She would have noticed. Leslie, on the other hand, is pretty much oblivious. So I hide the damaged cans under Dad’s desk whenever Leslie’s back is turned and, after she goes up
stairs, I sneak them out to Chad’s truck.

  Chad and I keep a big black trash bag under his bench seat. We take turns filling it with stuff from around the house, and Chad dumps it whenever he’s in town. We can’t use the garbage can at our house, because Mom will dig stuff out of there. She’s done it before.

  But when we dump things in town, I don’t think she notices. We’re smart about how we do it. We only take little things, and only a few at a time. And we don’t tell Leslie. She would confess everything the first time Mom looked at her funny. It’s a good system, but it doesn’t make much difference. It’s like trying to save the Titanic by bailing water with a teaspoon.

  Once the cans are in the truck, I stagger upstairs. I pause outside Chad’s room. I never heard him come in from the garage, but he wasn’t out there when I was hiding the cans. So I’m guessing he’s in his room. I try to decide if I should warn him about Grandma Nora, but I don’t hear any music or video games, so that means he’s probably sleeping. Exactly what I want to be doing.

  I decide not to bother knocking on his door. Instead I go to my room, where I throw myself on my bed. And in spite of everything—in spite of Dad leaving and Grandma Nora coming, in spite of Mom’s red-rimmed eyes and Leslie’s big, hopeful ones—I am dead to the world.

  When I wake up, the sun is much lower in the sky, and the commotion I hear can only mean one thing: Grandma’s here.

  Dad likes his Shakespeare almost as much as he likes his Sherlock. Sometimes after he and Mom have had one of their battles and he has to face her again while he’s still deep in his kingly persona, he’ll say: “Unto the breach once more, dear friends, once more.” Or something like that.

  Anyway, when I hear the loud, semi-hysterical voices, I leap from my bed and charge into the breach. It’s instinct. I don’t think. I don’t give myself time to wake up all the way. I just react. So the world feels like it’s spinning and everything is a little fuzzy around the edges when I hit the bottom step.