Chapter 17 Rachel
I’ll be damned if the Black Eyed Peas didn’t pull me out of my brewing panic attack. I can’t believe that worked. I also can’t believe TJ Doyle is that into ClikClak.
He can never ever find my work account.
I’ve already done some mortifying things in front of him, but that would take the cake. I cannot have this man find out what I do for a living. Nearly having a panic attack after having to talk about my family was bad enough.
Rather than spiral back into panic, I force myself to stay in the present. "So, is there somewhere we can stop so I can pick up a dessert or a bottle of wine or something?"
"I told you, you don’t need anything. Trust me."
Trust. Easy for him to say and probably do. "I’d like to, but if I called my grandmother right now, she’d be mortified by me walking in empty-handed."
"And if you show up and hand Maureen Doyle food, she’ll be offended that you didn’t think she’d have enough to go around."
We are at an impasse.
I feel my heart starting to race a little. I’ve got to let this go. "Okay, fine. But I’m going to tell her I wanted to bring something, and that you wouldn’t let me."
"Fine."
"Fine." I cross my arms over my chest in a huff.
The awkward silence returns to the car for a moment.
This is so weird. All because of Richie’s stupid list. I pull it out to study it again.
"What are you reading?"
I answer without looking up. "My sister’s list. Trying to figure out if there’s any way I can do at least one more thing."
"What’s on it again?"
I read the list to him, tripping over the one-night-stand part. Real smooth, Rachel. Even if I were propositioning him—which I’m totally not—there’s no way he’d go for it. Not someone like him with someone like me.
He doesn’t seem to notice. "This list is easy. You just need a travel agent. You book a trip to Alaska that requires you to have a layover in Vegas. There are slot machines in the airport, so you don’t even have to leave.
Then you head to Alaska, where you’ll definitely see moose.
You can even go to a firing range while you’re up there.
That’s like four things in one weekend trip. "
I’m impressed with his plan. I would never do any of it, but it’s a good effort. "I don’t think playing slots is the same as going to a casino. Nice try, though."
"Why moose?" he asks.
I know exactly why. "One year, Gram and Gramps took Richie and me up to Old Orchard Beach in Maine for a little vacation. It was one of the few we ever went on. We saw so many cars with the bumper sticker that said, ‘I brake for moose.’ We thought they’d be all over the place, but we didn’t see any.
One of many disappointments in our lives. "
"I hear they’re mean and nasty. You probably don’t want to run into one."
I shrug. "Maybe, but when you’re nine and eleven, you don’t think about those things." I think about the list. "She never got to see one," I say softly.
He’s quiet for a minute. "Maybe I’m not the best person to help you plan your list. It never occurred to me that Maine would be a lot easier to get to than Alaska." He shrugs. "No one has ever accused me of being the brains of the operation."
"Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve been so paralyzed by everything that I didn’t think of Maine either."
We’ve exited I-95 and are driving down Route 20, through Weston and then Wayland.
When TJ begins making turns off the main road, I know we’re getting close.
I can do this. I don’t need to panic. Of course, if telling yourself not to panic worked, no one would ever have panic attacks again.
It’s about as helpful as telling someone to calm down.
As if TJ can sense my increasing stress level, he says, "Everything will be fine. You don’t have to worry about my family."
I think back to the ice cream shop. "Your brothers sat on you."
His mouth pulls back into a tight line. "I said you didn’t have anything to worry about. They’ll still pick on me. They always do. Joey’s a comedian. He routinely uses me for material in his stand-up act. You might have seen it on Netflix."
I look down at my hands. "I haven’t been much in the mood for things like that lately, but I can check it out. Is it good?"
"Yeah, Joey’s wicked funny. People love him." I can hear the hero worship in his voice.
"And the other one?" I can’t remember his name. "What does he do?"
"Nicky’s a lawyer who works for the State Senate. He went to Harvard."
Wow. "So you’re all a bunch of underachievers and slackers then."
His mouth is in that tight line again. "I wouldn’t compare what I do with them. I just kick a ball around. Three-year-olds can play soccer."
My eyebrows shoot up. He can’t be serious. "Listen, I don’t know a lot about soccer. That’s an understatement. I don’t know anything about soccer, but I do know what I saw out on the field the other day is not something that a three-year-old could do."
He doesn’t say anything as he pulls into the driveway of an oversized gray Cape Cod. There are several other cars parked on the cobblestone driveway already.
TJ hops out and walks around to my side where he proceeds to open the door.
"Are we late?" I ask as I attempt to slide out of the SUV. It’s not nearly as warm as it’s been the last few days, but my nervous sweating has made the back of my thighs stick to the leather seats.
Finally managing to disengage without leaving a layer of skin behind, I get out and brush my dress down.
TJ stands there. "Of course we’re late. It’s me. I’d probably give Ma a coronary if I ever showed up anywhere on time. You gonna be okay?"
We’re standing about six inches apart.
"As okay as I’ll ever be," I offer.
"I promise, my family won’t bite. You’ll be okay. You’ll be safe." He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "I’ll look out for you."
His touch sends shivers down my spine. Despite the fact that he’s so tall and built of solid muscle, his fingers are delicate, feeling more like a whisper. "Is this because I had a panic attack on the way down?"
He nods, pulling his hand back. "It was scary, but not as scary as thinking you might boot all over my car."
I can’t help but smile. The stupid, ridiculous type of smile that this man makes me do. If I were a cartoon character, I’d have stars in my eyes.
"C’mon, let’s go face the firing squad. I promise they’ll be nice to you. I can absolutely guarantee they won’t be nice to me."
I half expect—or just want—him to take my hand to lead me, but he doesn’t. I rush to catch up to his long legs, my flip-flops making thwacking noises on the walkway.
"It’s easiest to get to the backyard through the house," he says.
I can hear a cacophony of voices already. I wonder how many people are here. What am I getting myself into? Despite the fact that TJ’s assured me they’ll be nice, my old friend anxiety is back to make sure I don’t have a comfortable moment ever.
As I follow him through the house, I try to take in the details to ground myself.
It’s an older home—the whitewashed brick fireplace, blonde oak floors, and wood trim give it away.
There have been several renovations, including a cool black-and-white geometric tile floor that spans from the entryway into a modern kitchen that is most certainly not original to the house.
There are pictures of the three boys everywhere at all different ages and stages. It feels like a home.
The noise from the back of the house is getting louder.
It’s not just a jovial party. It’s yelling.
A lot of yelling. I glance at TJ to see if this is normal for his family.
They seem to be typical Boston-Irish, if the last name is any indication, and they are not known for being passive wallflowers.
The look on his face confirms that this might be more than the usual boisterous crowd.
His pace quickens through the house, and I follow, not wanting to be separated from him.
We exit through the sliding glass door onto a screened-in porch that overlooks the yard.
Due to the hill the house was built into, we are on the second level, looking down on a kidney-shaped pool and an expanse of flat, green grass.
In the middle of the lawn is a patch of grass that’s brighter and denser than the rest.
Oh no.
If that weren’t enough of a tell-tale giveaway of an overflowing septic tank, the smell reveals it all. I’d know that smell anywhere.
"Jesus, Cami, get out of there! You smell like shit!" Joey is yelling at a little towheaded girl, who’s having the time of her life running and sliding through the lush section of grass. She looks fresh out of the pool, but that’s about the only thing fresh on her.
Her swimsuit is streaked in brown. Peals of squeals and laughter carry on the wind.
She pays no attention to her father. Or to the woman with a neat, pale blonde bob that must be her mother. Or to Maureen or Tom.
"What’s going on?" TJ yells, his voice joining in the chaos.
My hand holds my phone, fingers twitching with the impulse to start recording. This would be ClikClak gold.
"Get her in the bath!" Nicky yells.
Joey marches over and picks her up. Though he’s more than double her size, Joey is no match for the bundle of energy.
That and she’s slick with goo that makes her impossible to hold.
She slides out of his arms. He reaches down to grab her again but misses and lands face first with a squelchy thud. It splashes everywhere.
Another little girl, even smaller, wriggles out of her mother’s grasp and makes a beeline for her father and sister.
"ELLA, STOP!" Tom yells. It’s too late. She’s jumping in the puddles.
Oh dear Lord.
A very "muddy" Joey finally wrangles Cami and Ella and marches across the yard with them under his arm, straight toward the house.
I can’t believe I didn’t record that. It would go viral almost instantaneously. I mean, I couldn’t whip out my phone because I barely know these people, and that would be taking advantage of their generosity. It would have been an invasion of their privacy.
These people have been kind to me. It’s time to return the favor. I send an S.O.S. text to Uncle Robert.
"What’s the address here?" I ask, typing as quickly as I can.
"270 Old Lancaster Road," TJ answers absentmindedly, watching the chaos. Then it registers. "Why?"
"I’m getting your parents some help. They haven’t called a septic service yet, have they?"
"MA!" TJ bellows so loudly that I want to cover my ears. "Did you call a septic service?"
"What are you talking about? Our yard is flooded. It’s probably from the creek from the rain yesterday," she yells back.
"It’s not flooding. The septic is overflowing," I say. "When was the last time they had it pumped?"
TJ turns and looks at me, his eyes wide in bewilderment.
My gaze drops to my feet. I talk fast so I don’t have time to think about what I’m saying. "I’ve gotta guy. He’ll be here in about an hour. In the meantime, don’t use the toilets unless you have to. You should probably shut off the water to the house." I raise my gaze. I have to fess up now.
"DO NOT GO IN THE HOUSE!" Maureen yells to Joey.
"I gotta put them in the tub!" Joey yells back. Cami is still thrashing and screaming. Ella is giggling.
These people seem to yell an awful lot. There’s so much to see. I put my hand on TJ’s arm to get his attention. "They can’t shower in here. It’ll be too much on the system. The septic’s already full. Trust me, it’ll get much, much worse if they start running the water in the house."
"What are they supposed to do? They’re covered in …"
"Yeah, I know what they’re covered in." Everyone with a working olfactory sense knows what they’ve been rolling around in. "How close are you with the neighbors? Can they go over there and hose off?"
Because it was my idea, TJ and I get tasked with escorting the girls to the next-door neighbor’s house and borrowing their hose. I carry a load of towels, soap, and a change of clothes.
For a five- and three-year-old, getting sprayed down, soaped up, and rinsed off in the driveway next door is super fun.
The girls are laughing and squealing with delight, prancing around with so much soap on their hair that it looks like they’re wearing wigs.
We lather the soap right on top of their bathing suits, but these’ll definitely need a good washing. Probably with bleach.
Finally, the girls are clean enough to be returned to their mother, who’s waiting with the dry set of clothes. Now it’s Joey’s turn, but he can soap himself up. TJ and I head back across the front lawn to his parents’ house.
As we get to the front door, TJ turns and looks at me, his eyes narrowing. "How do you know so much about this?"
I look at my feet.
"Rachel? Oh, wait—I know! You watch all those ClikClaks too! The ones from Oh Crap!"
He knows my ClikClak handle. He’s watched my videos.
Maybe the earth will spontaneously open up and swallow me whole. I wait. There’s not even a tremble from underneath my feet that indicates my salvation is coming. What there is, though, is the tell-tale woosh of the air brakes of the vacuum truck pulling up outside the front of the house.
Time to go to work.
I open up my phone and start recording. Uncle Robert slides out, hiking up his dungarees, and gives me a curt nod. "He the homeowner?"
"I’m Tyler. This is my parents’ house. You’re …" I see the moment he recognizes the logo on the side of the truck. He looks from me to Uncle Robert and back again. He sees the phone in my hand. "You’re the one who does the videos?"
"Yeah, Rach here has put us on the map. We can’t keep up with the business," Uncle Robert answers. "We’re opening a second location because of her videos. I don’t know what morons find watching this entertaining, but who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
TJ’s face fills with color.
"Okay, Uncle Robert, let’s get going," I say, pulling his elbow and walking him back toward the truck.
Ninety minutes later, the Doyles’ septic tank is empty and their yard is torn up by deep tire tracks. Joey and his kids are clean and almost dry.
"Rachel, darling, we can’t thank you enough for getting us help." Maureen pulls me into a big hug. This is what I always imagined a mother’s hug to feel like. "Promise me you’ll come back again."
I glance at TJ. He’s never going to want to see me after this.