Carried Away

by P. Dangelico

  There’s no other option, and I’ve contemplated all of them. Unemployment barely covers my rent, and most of my friends are either married or in long term relationships. Asking them to let me stay for a week is one thing, but I can’t be sure how long my situation is going to last. And let’s be real, if one is to abuse someone’s hospitality it ought to be family.

  This is going to take a lot of swallowed pride––thus the apprehension.

  Jackie is one of those people that does everything right. She’s overachieved at everything she’s ever set her mind to. Life for her is a straight line at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. No wobble in her trajectory. Not even a slight pause, let alone a stumble. She’s the perfect daughter, a blue-ribbon show pony. While I’m…not.

  That’s not a bad thing though. Because I’ve essentially been left alone to screw up with impunity. And I have…case in point.

  “What are you doing?”

  The familiar male voice startles me into an audible screech. “Jesus…Charlie!”

  My brother-in-law bends down to peer into the open driver’s side window of my jalopy. He’s dressed in sweats and a faded UCLA Bruins t-shirt, hair mussed, his pale blue eyes laughing at me from behind thick-rimmed black eyeglasses. His lips curl into an insidious smirk as he takes a sip of what is, without a doubt, ethically sourced coffee.

  “You scared the crap out of me, you creep.”

  “Says the woman sitting in my driveway, talking to herself for the past twenty minutes.” Turning, Charlie walks back toward the house. “Are you coming?”

  I either get in there or pop a tent on the corner of San Vincente and Bundy. Grabbing the bag of fresh bagels I bought for the occasion, I dutifully follow after him.

  Inside, Jackie is at the kitchen table, stuffing her face with yogurt and granola. Her dark brown eyes peer up at me and do a quick and brutal assessment of my short denim overalls/white tank top/Princess Leia hair buns combo. My sister has strong opinions of what a professional woman should dress like and my preferred style, the Princess Leia hair buns and eclectic clothes ain’t it.

  “I come bearing gifts,” I say flashing the goody bag and take a seat at the table opposite the two of them. “And the overalls are Helmut Lang FYI.”

  “So inappropriate and expensive,” she says right out of the starting gate, nodding, “cool.” Another spoonful of food gets shoveled into her mouth. “I said to Charlie ‘Look, babe, a bum has appropriated our driveway,’ and then I said ‘Oh, never mind, it’s just my baby sister.’ Do you ever wash your car?”

  She’s one to talk. The show pony is wearing a coffee stained USC Law sweatshirt, pajama bottoms, and her black hair is haphazardly piled on top of her head which, frankly, looks unwashed.

  “I’m conserving water,” I say, shrugging her off. That’s only half true. In my heart, I do try to conserve water. In reality, I don’t have a nickel to spare for luxuries such as car washes.

  Jackie rolls her eyes, her cheeks stuffed with food. And yet dirty hair and all, she still looks gorgeous. My sister is one of those people that looks beautiful under any circumstance. Like her beauty takes adversity as a personal challenge and rises to the occasion every time. Tears only make her eyes look bigger. The flu turns her into a willowy heroine from a 19th century novel.

  Me? I get so much as a sniffle and end up looking like Kermit the frog. It’s fucking annoying.

  We’re pretty much polar opposites. I love fashion, and travel, and the thrill of the chase. Jackie loves order and routine. By 10 am on any given Sunday, my older sister––older by five years––typically has done an hour of hot yoga, showered, blown out her hair, applied her makeup flawlessly, and grocery shopped for the week. This hot mess that is my sister nowadays is out of the norm because she’s four and half months pregnant, and she’s already had two miscarriages.

  “Zelda called,” Jackie casually announces to the table even though there’s nothing casual about the subject.

  The abbreviated version of our sad family tale is that our mother walked out on our family when I was ten and Jackie was fifteen. She left our father for a woman and moved to New York City to “actualize herself.” That’s the bullshit she left in a letter on the kitchen counter while Jackie and I were at school and Dad was at the hardware store. More on that later. So, yeah, the subject of our mother is a touchy one.

  “Did you speak to her?”

  Jackie shakes her head, lost in thought. “I didn’t pick up.”

  I have zero doubt that I do not want Zelda anywhere near me or my life whereas Jackie is more conflicted. “Are you going to?”

  “Are you?” she answers back, leveling me with a pointed stare. She knows the answer to that. I haven’t spoken to her in four years, since my college graduation when she showed up uninvited, and I don’t plan to start now.

  “How’s my niece?” I ask while I grab a fresh raisin bagel and slap a blob of cream cheese on it. Time to get off this topic.

  “Nephew,” Charlie chimes in.

  “Fine,” Jackie replies tightly, casting a faraway gaze out the glass patio door. She’s become increasingly superstitious about this pregnancy. I’m convinced she thinks that if she makes a big deal out of it, she’ll lose the baby again. “What’s going on with Ben?”

  She’s purposely changing the subject, but I let it slide. I’m about to hit her up for a substantial favor and need her to stay in a good mood for that purpose. For a moment, I toy with the idea of coming clean about getting fired and toss that aside quickly. I’m not ready to make my pitch yet and I get only one chance at this. My sister is an excellent trial lawyer. I am no match for her silver tongue and battle-ready wit.

  “Nothing…I think he’s dating an on-camera chick from KTLA.”

  It’s only half true. I’m pretty sure he dumped her right before he dumped me.

  “Told you not to wait.” She shrugs. “It’s 2020. In case you haven’t noticed. Women can ask men out. Imagine if I’d waited for Charlie to get a clue.” She scoffs as she reaches into the paper bag on the table for a bagel.

  “It would’ve never happened,” I say around a mouthful of mine.

  Jackie glances lovingly at Charlie whose rapt attention is on his phone. Even with unwashed hair, by LA metrics, which is saying a lot, Jackie is a ten. Charlie…eh, he’s a five on a good day.

  And yet my sister swears she saw him in the campus library, staring at his computer and tugging on his hair, and knew he was the one.

  “It would’ve never happened,” my sister echoes back. “Right, babe? Remember when I threw myself at you?”

  “All part of my master plan to make you fall in love with me,” he deadpans, not once glancing up from whatever has captivated his attention on the phone.

  “Well it worked,” Jackie replies smugly, her cheeks puffed out with food, full lips the perfect shade of pink.

  Looking up, my brother-in-law gives his wife a soft smile and leans closer for a brief kiss. Five years of marriage, two miscarriages, and they’re still disgustingly in love. Personally, I’ve never experienced that elusive emotion, but one minute in their presence and it makes anyone a true believer.

  “I got fired,” hurls out of me while they’re still basking in the glow of their good fortune. I’m terrible at keeping secrets. Probably one of the reasons I love reporting the news.

  Two heads swivel to face me. Charlie’s expression is carefully neutral, save for his blondish brownish eyebrows creeping up his forehead, while Jackie’s is blank but emitting a decidedly unfriendly vibe.

  “No,” she says, her full lips forming the word slowly.

  “All I need is a few weeks to get back on my f––”

  “No.”

  This is the part where I explain that all those other times I needed a helping hand Jackie was the one to offer.

  “Just hear me out––”

  “No.” She stuffs another piece of bagel in her mouth, head shaking rapidly. “What happened to your severance pay?”r />
  “Bills…”

  Jackie’s eyes narrow to slits. “Who did you give it to this time?”

  “Mrs. Nowicki’s cat has feline leukemia and I couldn’t not help.”

  Everyone has a bad habit, right? I sublet in a rent-controlled building and many of the other tenants have been there forever, most of which are north of seventy. Can I help it if I have a soft spot for old people? No, I can’t.

  “You don’t even like cats,” my sister barks back.

  That’s true. “But I do like Mrs. Nowicki.” My attention moves to her right and I assume my most pitiful expression. “Charlie…”

  “No,” Jackie cuts in.

  “Your meat puppet can speak for itself, Jacqueline.”

  “Hey…” Charlie responds with literally no emotional reaction. It’s impossible to get Charlie to be anything less than absolutely chill.

  “Two weeks. That’s all I need.”

  Jackie chuckles sarcastically. “That’s a lie and we both know it.”

  “Charlie…”

  “Can’t,” he says while his eyes dart sideways to get a read on my sister.

  “Why not? You have an entire she-shed”––I wave behind me to the backyard––“not serving any purpose.”

  “Because I like having sex with your sister––and we call it a pool house.”

  “Gross, dude. TMI.” My attention shifts back to Jackie; Charlie seems to be a lost cause. “I could help around the house. I could help with…the cat.” That sounds totally bogus to my own ears but what other choice do I have? She knows I’m a lousy cook and an even worse housekeeper.

  “Like you helped when we went to Napa?” she responds without missing a beat. She’s referring to an incident with Jackie’s precious black Main Coon cat. My grandmother used to breeds these monsters and Elmo was the pick of the last litter she bred.

  For the record, there’s something seriously diabolical about that cat. The damn thing has the ability to steal your soul by simply looking at you. I’m fairly certain he screws with my head for kicks.

  Bottom line, the freaking cat somehow snuck out, and I spent a day and a half making up a story of how a door-to-door salesman broke in and stole him. Elmo showed up a few hours after Jackie and Charlie got home, basically giving me the finger, and my sister didn’t murder me. See? Happy ending.

  “Elmo hates me. He was planning to kill me in my sleep.”

  “Elmo is a cat. He doesn’t have the ability to plan––”

  “Says you. I found him standing over me in the middle of the night, ready to smother me with a pillow.”

  “If he wanted to smother you, he would’ve sat on your face.”

  Elmo is as big as my car. She’s not exaggerating. “Please. I’m begging you. This is the last time.”

  “That’s what you said last time and the time before that.”

  “What are big sisters for, right?”

  “For knowing when to say no. You need to go home and get your shit together. Dad needs someone to help out––Maggie is retiring. Did he tell you?” Maggie is the assistant manager of Comfort Cottages, my Dad’s hotel in the Adirondack Mountains in New York.

  He might have, and I missed it.

  Jackie shrugs, expression completely void of any sympathy. “It’s perfect timing.”

  Yeah, no. No, it isn’t perfect at all. I hate the cold. I hate it with the burning heat of a thousand erupting volcanoes, one of the many reasons I’m happy to call Los Angeles home. My head is shaking before she utters the last vowel. “Lake Placid? Hell no.”

  “Yes.”

  She can’t mean it. “No, Jackie, please. I can’t go back there.” For so, so, so many reasons. My childhood was not a happy time in my life. Let’s just leave it at that.

  Steely resolve shoots out of her big brown eyes and my stomach drops. Crap. That’s her courtroom look. I’d have a better chance of moving a mountain than change her mind.

  “It’s too cold. You know I can’t handle the cold.”

  “Dad needs help. Nan can’t move around like she used to. It’ll be good for you and them.”

  She means it. I am quietly devastated. The food I just consumed sits like a ball of lead in my gut, making me queasy.

  “You’re really not going to let me stay here?” It never even crossed my mind that she would refuse to help. Jackie is the one I’ve always been able to count on to come through for me.

  “I’m going to do something even better for you––I’m going to let you figure it out for yourself.”

  An eerie silence takes over the room. I haven’t been home since I left for college eight years ago. Dad and Nan come out to LA every other year, so it hasn’t been an issue.

  I’ve been dreading this day, even though I knew it was coming. Except I wanted to return the hero, hoisting trophies above my head. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Instead, I have to drag my sorry ass home unemployed and broke. This is not how I saw my life going.

  “Fine. But I get to borrow your cold weather wardrobe,” I mutter, resigned to the abject humiliation I’m bound to face. Jackie has a killer wardrobe. If I’m going to get dragged in real life, I’d like to do it in style.

  “One coat,” my sister, the master negotiator, counters.

  “The Ralph Lauren Navajo coat.”

  “Get real. No, absolutely not that one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 3

  “Did I get you with my elbow?” says the guy seated to my right in the aisle seat. Yes, he did as a matter of fact, for the third time as he adjusted his noise canceling headphones.

  “That’s okay,” I answer, shrinking even more into my middle seat.

  Let me tell you what hell looks like. In fact, let me tell you what hell looks, smells, and sounds like. Hell is the second to last row on a late flight from O’Hare to Albany sitting next to an oversized overweight giant who smells like a combination of sautéed onions, feet, and low rent booze, who breathes so loudly it almost drowns out the engines roaring next to my head, and not being able to recline and read because an angry six-year-old keeps kicking the back of my seat while he screams, “I want grilled cheese!”

  The flight from hell lasts six and half hours due to two connecting stops. Six and a half hours of my life that I would like to permanently scrub from my memory. In general, I’m a good sport about stuff like this. As a journalist, roughing it is part of the job description. No, I haven’t exactly skipped through the war-torn streets of Idlib yet, but I’ve slept in my junker in pursuit of a story on more than a few occasions. And I’ve ventured into places that most people with a modicum of self-preservation would never step foot into.

  That said, heading back to Lake Placid for an undetermined amount of time has me raw to the bone and feeling not at all forgiving of my liberties being infringed.

  It’s not like my loathing of my hometown is baseless. I have my reasons. Lake Placid is trapped in a time warp for me. Everything about it triggers all the awful feelings that I’ve worked hard to leave behind. Which is why I don’t allow myself to think about it for more than a nanosecond. When I left for college, that part of my life died, and I’d like for it to stay that way.

  Almost on cue, the number one reason for all my problems appears on the small TV screen embedded in the seat before me. God has a sick sense of humor.

  CNN is on and the volume is off, but Dr. Zelda Anderson is flapping her lips and smiling at Chris Cuomo like she’s planning to eat him alive. And that’s not hyperbole; the woman is a super-predator. My mother is one of those celebrity therapist that writes books and makes TV appearances. I’m pretty sure she’s never had any legit patients that she’s cared for because that would require the ability to empathize. No, Zelda is content with spouting words of wisdom she doesn’t live by and getting her hair and makeup done.

  I can’t press the button fast enough, and heave a sigh of relief when the screen goes dark.

  The plane ride from hell ends around 10 pm w
ith a bumpy landing and a kick to the back of my seat hard enough to displace the last vertebra of my spine. This happens second from me standing and screaming, “Will somebody get this child a fucking grilled cheese!”

  The bone-jarring landing is followed up by a foot race to the car rental counters when we’re informed by loudspeaker that all connecting flights are canceled due to the mother-of-all-storms gathering along the East coast. With two large and overstuffed suitcases dragging behind me, running fast is a relative term.

  When I finally get there, I’m the umpteenth person in line. I pull out my phone while I wait and check my Twitter feed. 1,038 new alerts to my tweet, which I refuse to delete out of principal.

  Most of them are suggesting I do things to the orifices of my body that would end my life. One threatens to doxx me. For those of you unfamiliar with this practice, it means to post personal information like an address of where you live and work online for public consumption, quite possibly putting someone in harm’s way.

  For the first time since I was fired, I’m grateful that I’m homeless and unemployed.

  Turning off my phone, I shove it in the back pocket of my jeans. An excruciating half an hour later, it’s finally my turn. The woman working the car rental desk looks ready to quit. Late sixties, judging by the frizzy cloud of gray hair and slight hang of her jowls. The name tag on her red long sleeve polo shirt reads, Delores.

  Delores is not a happy camper. Her thin lips are pinched, accenting the smoker’s lines around them, and she has the vacant stare of a person who has dealt with way too much BS for one day. Whoever came before me has obviously given this poor woman a hard time so I decide to kill Delores with kindness and slap a smile on my face. It always pays to be kind.

  “Hi. Hello, Delores. I need a car, the cheapest you’ve got please.”

  No surprise, Delores is not charmed by my forced cheerfulness. She sighs tiredly and looks down at her computer screen. “Don’t have much left. And I should warn ya, storm’s coming. You won’t get far.”