“Kiddo, come out.” Smacking the door, I shout, “At least turn off the water. Aren’t you always going on about conserving the environment?”
This time, too, there is nothing, but the water is turned off. Lucien is such a weirdo. I’ll never be able to understand him for as long as I live.
Henry blows out a sigh that’s regretful.
But he doesn’t give up. Slumping down against the door, he cups his hand over his mouth, and projects his voice.
“When I was in middle school, my parents didn’t take me to the Fourth of July fireworks, so I thought I’d make my own fireworks. I didn’t have any of the required chemicals at home. But the school chemistry lab had all of it. So one day, between periods, I snuck into the lab. My experiment ended up exploding. I almost got expelled.” He draws in a long breath, trying to gauge whether there’s any response from inside the bathroom. “So don’t worry. It won’t be as bad as you think.”
We take turns after that, telling embarrassing stories from our childhood to Lucien, hoping he’ll be moved by our stupidity and come out. In the process, I learn that Henry was expelled from school twice, both times for trying to carry out what he calls ‘an experiment’ that backfired. I tell Lucien about the time when my brother fed me laundry detergent by baking it into a chocolate chip cookie. Only after eating it did I realize what the ingredients were.
Somehow, that acts as the final straw. The bathroom door flies open with great force; Lucien crawls out, and shoots me a ‘you’re so dumb’ look straight away.
“At least your brother knew which bottle the detergent was in,” Lucien fires at me.
Now there is the haughty Lucien I know and love.
I’m so relieved to see him that I momentarily forget about the fire and just hug him. He clearly enjoys my hug, because he rubs his face all over my bosom. Or maybe that’s his way of wiping tears and snot on my T-shirt. When he takes his head away, I realize he was indeed using my T-shirt as a spare handkerchief. The front is all wet and gross, but I don’t mind; I’m glad he’s okay.
Lucien’s eyes are red and more than a little watery, but he isn’t crying anymore.
Henry shoves the lighter in front of Lucien’s face. “Why did you have your dad’s lighter, Lucien? Is he smoking again?”
Lucien nods, and his eyes darken. “Mom and he fought about it yesterday night, but he said he wouldn’t quit. That’s why I stole his lighter to stop him and Mom from arguing. I can’t sleep when they argue. I have bad dreams.”
“That’s…” I am getting a little teary-eyed here.
There’s so much raw pain in little Lucien’s voice. My parents were also argumentative, and I hated when they fought. But I never had the courage to stop them.
Caressing Lucien’s hair gently, Henry nudges him along to the sofa and makes him sit. “Do you mind if I keep the lighter? I won’t give it to your dad. I promise.”
He’d make a good father, I think, then immediately stop thinking. Because why would I even think that?
I hurry to the kitchen to fetch water. Lucien’s been crying so I figure he needs some hydration.
Sipping water slowly, Lucien observes Henry and me. “The fire was an accident…I was playing with the lighter in school…then suddenly the desk caught fire…I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. I didn’t want that to happen.”
“Oh, poor you.” I bundle him into my arms again. Kiss his head. “It’s okay.”
“Mom will be mad at me.” Hot tears cascade down my hand that’s cupping Lucien’s cheek.
I swallow the achy lump in my throat, surprised at how quickly I have turned emotional. A few moments ago, I was shouting and now I’m crying.
“Being stupid is part of being human. Don’t be embarrassed about it.” While patting Lucien’s head, Henry’s hand brushes mine.
“But I’m smart…how could I be stupid?” Lucien uses my T-shirt again, blowing his nose on it this time.
Oh, the joys of being a babysitter.
“All smart people start out stupid.” Spreading his hand outwards, Henry paints on an affected smile. “Look at me.”
Lucien chortles. Then rubs his eyes. “Thanks.”
Henry pops the top button off his chest. I see that his tie’s lying in a crumpled ball in front of the bathroom. He took it off and left it there. I’ll have to remember to pick it up later.
“It’s been a hard day for you. Rest a little. I’ll take you out for dinner when you get up,” he tells Lucien, who yawns in my ear.
Lucien’s hold around my waist tightens. “Can Max come, too?”
“Sure she can.” Tapping my wrist, Henry gestures with a downward slant of his chin. “Also, it’s best to keep the lighter incident from Emilia, if you catch my drift. Make something up.”
Lucien votes in agreement. “Yeah.”
“But she is his mother. She’ll find out anyway.”
Also, it doesn’t feel right to be dishonest with her. Lucien is her son. She has the right to know about his life. I understand she’s in a tough place with her marriage, and maybe knowing that she was indirectly the cause of all this would hurt her even more, but still…
“If you tell her, she’ll overreact and put him in counseling for troubled kids or something,” Henry says.
I poke Lucien in the chest. “Doesn’t he see a therapist every Sunday already?”
“My point exactly. He doesn’t need more counseling.”
Well, that’s true.
“Fine. I won’t tell her.”
“Yeah!” Lucien jumps up on the sofa, pumped up. “Uncle Henry, can we go to McDonalds?”
“If you want.”
I clear my throat loudly. “Burgers are not very healthy.” I feel it’s my duty to remind him.
“I want to eat a burger.” Stiffly Lucien links his hands together in front. “And fries.”
“It’s okay once in a while.” Henry signals to me to let it go.
I don’t argue.
As long as I am eating with Henry and Lucien, I don’t care what it is.
In such a short time, they’ve both become precious to me. Although I hated this job and hated Lucien when I started out, I find myself wishing for this time to never end.
Chapter 10
I walk to the top step and turn the keys in the keyhole. The door to Coop’s house yawns open, and I scurry in, away from the humid heat of late August.
I was out running an errand for Ji-ae again. This time, she wanted me to buy her cosmetics from Koreatown. I wonder why she can’t do that herself, but, well, at least I got to eat some Asian food on the way.
“I’m home!” I scream, wiping sweat off my arms.
Five pairs of eyes lock in on me. Three of them are a disturbing shade of blue.
Wait…what are Henry, Lucien, and Emilia doing in my house? I’m sure today’s a Sunday, which means I’m off work, and they never called me about visiting. Don’t tell me…Emilia wants me to babysit Lucien on a weekend?
“Hi.” I wave weakly.
Ji-ae and Coop smile at me, which makes me wonder what all this is really about. Can’t be bad news.
Henry clicks his fingers to beckon me forward. “Hey, Max is here.”
“Hi. It’s a surprise to see you all here.”
I drop my shopping near the door. Emilia gives me a hard stare.
She looks terribly out of place in her printed designer dress, although to be frank, from a distance, her five-hundred-dollar Bergdorf Goodman-bought dress and Ji-ae’s twenty-five-dollar Chinatown-sale impulse-buy look strikingly similar. Go, Ji-ae!
The animosity between Emilia and me still hasn’t faded; maybe I shouldn’t have called Lucien a sociopath. She gives me the cold shoulder as I perch between Coop and Henry.
“Emilia is the first client for my catering service,” Ji-ae announces proudly.
“You have a catering service?” I ask. This is the first I’ve heard of such an enterprise.
Letting out a squeal of excitement, my s
ister-in-law clasps her hands together. “Starting today, I do. I’ve been thinking about it for some time…I even got the required licenses. Now’s the chance. I can’t possibly refuse the chance to cater for Lucien’s birthday.”
“Thank you.” Lucien gives her a toothy grin, the kind he rarely gives me. “If only Max sang at my birthday, it would be perfect…” Tugging at the hem of Emilia’s dress, he melts her with a pleading look. “Mom, can Max sing? For entertainment.”
This suggestion clearly doesn’t sit well with her. A muscle jumps in her jaw and she dives for a cookie from the tin Ji-ae’s left on the coffee table—she who thinks sugar is concentrated poison.
With her voice somewhere between a strangled gasp and a choking whisper, she says, “But sweetie, what about the quartet from the New York Philharmonic? It was a coup to secure them for your birthday. Daddy had to use his Columbia connections.” She’s beset with worry at this point. “No offense, but I doubt Max has any understanding of what real music is.”
“I want Max. She’s funny.” Lucien fists his chubby fingers, a pout sketching over his mouth, crumbs of Ji-ae’s cookies on his pink lips.
I don’t understand this kid—when I sing to the radio on weekdays, he’s persnickety, and now he wants his mother to pay me money to sing at his birthday party? Makes zero sense.
Emilia’s chest puffs forward, and she looks on the verge of exploding.
“My friends will love Max,” he asserts; the look in his eye makes me uneasy.
I have a gut feeling all his friends are as precocious as him.
“But your grandma will have a fit.” Distress hugs Emilia’s slim, makeup-laden face. For a snob like her, having me perform at her son’s birthday party will really make her stock drop amongst her friends, I suppose.
Lucien gives zero fucks, though.
“It’s my birthday,” he asserts, every inch the spoilt brat. “You promised me that I can have whatever I wanted.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Anything you want,” she concedes, looking profoundly unhappy.
Well, this is new—Emilia listening to somebody for a change. Must be the family therapist’s doing, I reckon. I heard from Lucien that after the Coney Island incident, they visited a therapist together.
“We should ask Max first. She might have other commitments,” Henry interrupts.
Thank you very much, Henry, for giving me a voice in this madness.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. She has nothing to do on weekends. She just bums around at home all weekend, complaining how dull it is,” says my idiot brother.
Trust Coop to feed me to the sharks. Without a lifeboat.
“Sing the song you were singing the day you dropped bleach in the washer,” Lucien says, all innocence wiped clean from his countenance.
A wave of discomfort sweeps across my face. Emilia’s glaring at me, but since Henry already knows the truth, he doesn’t react. Every time I start feeling like I’ve misjudged Lucien, he throws another axe at my heart.
“This is the first I’m hearing of bleach in the washer,” Emilia says, clicking her nails together like a villain plotting the hero’s downfall.
“Um…it was a game,” I cover quickly, deciding not to elaborate any further, lest I get myself entangled in the details and blurt out the truth.
My professional image is dangling by a thread here. Emilia already distrusts me after the Coney Island incident.
Thankfully Henry cooperates, trapping Ji-ae with small-talk, so we can all return to discussing the menu for Lucien’s birthday party.
Gauging from the way Emilia describes this thing, it sounds more like a charity gala than a birthday party. The guest list includes the likes of the governor of New York and the CEO of a big software company. The scale of this thing is not normal. Plus, they’re going to host the party at Emilia’s parents’ house in Greenwich. Technically, they’re also Henry’s parents. And by logical extension (ain’t my vocabulary improving?), that means I’m going to meet his parents.
Not an appealing prospect.
Uncrossing her legs, Emilia taps her towering heels together in a manner that’s both elegant and curt. “That’s settled then. I’ll leave the menu to you, Ji-ae.”
“Of course. You won’t regret choosing me.” Ji-ae’s face is bursting with energy, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes gleaming.
“I look forward to it,” I mutter to myself.
*
“Holy hell, is this a house?” My jaw drops as I take in the splendor that is the Stones’ home while digesting the fact that I walked through a front gate framed by stone pillars and fountains.
Does life get more unreal than this?
An imposing Georgian mansion looms ahead of me, intimidating me with its glamor and sheer size. Overgrown ivy pads the walls in places, adding a natural rustic feel. The lawns are the kind of manicured that can only be bought and maintained with thousands of dollars. Fairy lights weave around the hedges and creep up the trees, releasing colorful light.
Henry’s apartment is neat, too, but it’s still accessible; it looks like humans could live there. But this? It’s made for royalty. It dazzles like a too-fine set of diamonds, reminding everybody who passes through its doors of the wealth and rank of its owner. I never turned my thoughts to how rich Henry’s parents were, but now I recall that they put him through Harvard without a scholarship, so I have been seriously oblivious to his family background.
“Stop gaping at the walls and come help me,” Ji-ae yells, struggling to move a carton. I rush to help her move some more to the kitchen.
We’re at the site of Lucien’s birthday party—that day finally came. As has been convention in the past, Emilia and her husband are holding the party at Lucien’s grandfather’s mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut.
I’m terrified of singing here. Will these people really be able to appreciate my type of music? I mean, most of my repertoire consists of Top 40 hits.
Peeling my entranced gaze from the house, I focus it on the door and go through. The scene inside is one of gaiety—also, there are hardly any kids. Instead, there are parades of men and women clothed in the most fashionable attire, their wealth and status displayed for all to see. Most of the ‘kids’ who are present look much older than Lucien, and are busy making eyes at each other and trying to find excuses to sneak a kiss.
Out of pure concern, I start searching for Lucien among the crowd. It’s hard to cover much distance with the tight, figure-hugging gown I’m wearing. Somewhere along the way, I bump into Emilia, who ushers me away from her friends to a corner.
“By the way, you’ll only be performing one song tonight.” Spotting an elegantly dressed old woman (who I assume is her mother-in-law), she chugs down champagne from her flute. “Or I’ll be hearing from her for the rest of my life.”
“But I prepared an hour-and-a-half set—”
“One song to make Lucien happy, that’s all. I can’t let you embarrass me any more than five minutes.”
I harrumph, but honestly, I am not keen to be judged by all these elitist people, either. They wouldn’t know true art if it clubbed them on the head.
After Emilia frees me, I rush over to Lucien’s side. He’s planted on a chair surrounded by a mountain of wrapped gifts, wearing really nice clothes. I expected to find him tickled pink on his birthday, but he’s decidedly blue. I dangle the canapés I amassed on my way in front of his nose.
“Happy birthday, Lucien.”
His face flickers back to life at the sight of me, and I almost change my opinion of him again. He rushes to embrace me, knocking the plate from my hand. The ground rushes up to my butt, and I meet it, with Lucien landing on top of me.
“Max!” He buries his face in the crook of my shoulder.
“This is so unlike you,” I mutter. “You’re usually distant.”
“I’m bored.” His gaze drops to my legs, which are covered by the yellow satin of my fishtail dress.
It’s one of the dresses I impul
se-purchased during last month’s online shopping spree, but it’s turned out to be surprisingly useful.
“Uncle Henry’s not here yet, and Mom and Dad are schmoozing with important people as usual. I hate birthday parties.”
“It’s too early to judge. You haven’t heard me sing yet.”
“When will you sing?” he asks, gripping my hand, unwilling to let go.
I’ve never seen Lucien so clingy.
“Soon.” Rotating my head, I find more sophisticated people entering. Some of them are old enough to be Lucien’s grandparents. “Is it always like this?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are your friends?”
“I don’t have friends.”
“But at Coop’s house…you said your friends would like to hear me sing.”
“That was to convince Mom.”
Figures. But it makes me sad that Lucien doesn’t have any friends. He doesn’t seem like a loner, and he talks a lot, so why?
Something tickles my neck. Something satiny.
“Uncle Henry!” Lucien leaps over me, stomping over my thigh.
“Ouch!” I cry, and then catch Henry behind me.
He’s wearing a suit. So much for a kid’s birthday, huh? Worst part is, he doesn’t look out of place at all, because most people here are dressed formally. He’s carrying a huge present wrapped in shiny gold gift paper. Red ribbons folded into the shape of roses are stuck on it. Fancy wrapping.
“For you.” He hands it to Lucien, who shakes it near his ears.
“What is it?”
“You’ll find out when you unwrap it.”
“Later.” Adding it to his mountain of presents, Lucien surveys the huge pile, guessing what’s inside each of them under his breath.
I use this time to climb back to my feet.
“Max, what are you…” Henry starts.
I wave my hand. “Nothing. He knocked me down.”
I glare at Lucien, whose back is to me, so he doesn’t see my expression. Henry, in the meantime, takes stock of my appearance.
“You…look amazing.” He blushes as says this. I want to tell him the same, but for some reason, the air’s vanished from my lungs.
Henry & Me Page 12
