Fifteen—Bo
A
s soon as the police left with my brother-in-law, I had to lock myself in the bathroom and hyperventilate for twenty minutes. It was a combination of things: my sister’s awful marriage—her letting herself be in that awful marriage, and my parents worry over her awful marriage, the way that piece of human garbage talked to them, to us, to me—calling me Benji, his finger in my chest, Ivy Talbot seeing his finger in my chest. That was probably the worst. All of these factors were colliding, fomenting, and effervescing inside me with no outlet but to explode into anxiety. That’s what was happening. All because of my sister.
Thank goodness Mom had slid a paper bag under the door. And right after that Mia slid an envelope with a single Xanax under there, too. But I didn’t need it; I didn’t want to need it. Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub and hung my head between my knees and kept a washcloth of questionable cleanliness on the back of my neck while I breathed into the bag and waited for the tingling in my hands to go away.
As I hung there, I thought of Ivy, and how I’d promised her there would be no fireworks today. And then it had turned into the freaking Fourth of July. But she was… amazing . As long as I lived, I didn’t think I would forget the way she’d rescued my nieces from their parents’ unholy tantrum. And she probably had no idea that it was her nervous smile from across the table that emboldened me to confront Peter Diamond—a definite first for me.
I stood up from the tub and took some deep, slow breaths as I paced the small bathroom. I should have been exhausted—that was the usual curtain call to something like this. But, instead, I felt slightly exhilarated. I’d done something I hadn’t known I could do. I’d acted with raw, unthinking instinct that had pole-vaulted me past my usual crippled self. It was primal and innate and dare I say manly. But that monster was hurting my sister, and I couldn’t let that happen sitting down and silent. And I didn’t even know that I couldn’t let that happen until today.
The rub was that before the night was over, Camille would bail him out of jail. I knew she would. She’d changed drastically since she’d married Peter. Once a lot like Mia, Camille had become small and timid and unsure of herself. It had been like watching her die. And it was killing my parents.
“Bo? You okay, son?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I said through the door. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Twenty minutes was the grace period, and I’d reached it. But I really was fine. If I knew how fresh Mom’s towels were, I would have taken a shower. I really needed a shower. I settled for washing my hands and face. Twice.
“Uncle Bo! Uncle Bo!” my youngest niece shrilled through the locked door. “I needa go potty. Now!”
“Go in Grandma’s bathroom, Livvy,” I said, needing a couple more minutes.
“Mommy’s in there crying. Let me in. Hurreee!”
I opened the door and found my almost-three-year-old niece with her pants down around her ankles and already leaking. I swept her up and plopped her onto the toilet. I may have been screaming a little. Or maybe that came after I realized my shoe had been doused with her pee.
Shaking again ensued. As did a pounding heart and light-headedness.
I don’t do well with urine.
***
It was a while later when I finally came out of the bathroom in my stocking feet and Xanax coursing through my bloodstream. If I’d been home, I simply would have trashed the shoes and socks and probably the jeans I was wearing—who knew how much of my niece’s biological material might have splashed upward? Then I would have showered, of course, and scoured my feet and followed up with a good soak in rubbing alcohol. No Xanax. But away from my own world, I had to make do with a foot-slosh in Mom’s tub and a pair of dad’s socks. I was coping but barely. And of course, the little pill was helping.
Dad had finally been able to coax Camille out of the other bathroom, and now they were all sitting around the dining room table. Camille looked like hell. She’d taken off her sunglasses so her bruised cheekbone and puffy eye were clearly visible. Mia was taking her picture, and Camille was being very belligerent about it, insisting we all just mind our own business. Mom was crying because, big surprise, Camille was planning to bail Peter out of jail. I couldn’t stand it, so I didn’t sit down. I hated my sister at the moment for what she was doing to herself, her kids, and my parents. And of course, she was blaming me.
“What were you thinking, Bo? Why on earth did you bring up the other night? This whole thing is your fault!”
I glared at her as I walked by. “Go to hell, Camille,” I said. Then I went to find Ivy.
I found her in the kitchen washing the dishes. “What are you doing?” I said.
“Just trying my best to be invisible. What are you doing?”
“The same, I guess.”
Ivy smiled timidly.
“What a nightmare,” I sighed. “I’m so sorry, Ivy. And I’m embarrassed for my family, and I’m sorry you had to see us all acting so unhinged. Especially when I promised that you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this—I’m so sorry. If I say it ten more times, will you believe me?”
Ivy shook her head, dismissing my words. “Oh, stop. Camille doesn’t know how lucky she is to have ya’ll in her corner. She’s in a bad situation.” She looked at me and nodded. “You have a nice family, Bo, don’t apologize for them. Your parents are wonderful. And, despite everything that happened today, it was nice to be in the middle of a real family. Even one in crisis. I never really had that, so I didn’t mind at all.” She handed me a wet plate, and I was a bit appalled. “There’s a dishtowel in the drawer over there,” she said, jutting her chin. “That’s what your mom said.”
I stared at her.
“You do know how to dry a dish don’t you, Bo?”
“Well…I do. But I’m more of a dishwasher guy. You know, heat boost on the double rinse setting.”
“That’s nice, but as you can see, we’re doing these by hand. So, suck it up, buttercup, and get to work.”
My mouth fell open, and she grinned. And when I couldn’t come up with an adequate objection, I found a presumably clean dishtowel in the drawer by the sink and set to the task of drying the presumably clean plate—all against my better judgment, and rather surprised at myself. It must have been the Xanax.
Ivy Talbot watched me with a bemused expression. “What?” I said. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No. It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody be so thorough in their dish-drying before. In fact, you are so thorough you just might rub a hole in that plate.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, putting the dish in the cupboard. “Like I said, I’m a dishwasher guy.”
She laughed and went back to her washing.
“Ivy, can I ask you a question?”
“As long as it’s not the size of my underwear.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “You worry too much about that stuff.”
“Says you and my grandmother.” She grinned without looking at me.
“Well, that’s kind of my question. Mia told me your parents were never married, and you just said you never really had a family…so…Ivy, who raised you? Was it your grandmother? ”
She handed me another plate. “She would say the Universe did, but yes, Geneva raised me. Geneva Talbot, that’s my grandmother. But my mom helped some too, of course, so I guess you could say I was raised by committee.”
“Right…” I noised.
“I know that probably sounds strange, but my mama was kind of busy growing herself up when I came along. She loved me, don’t get me wrong, but all my deep raising, my intentional raising, was done by Geneva. She took care of me—and my mom.”
“What about your dad?”
“He paid the bills. But he’s always lived here in Monterey. With his wife and family.” Ivy glanced over at me then back to the sink.
“Oh…so…”
She grimaced. “It’s a tiny bit complicated. I’m a secret that was supposed to stay put in Savannah,” she said. “My dad’s none too happy that I’m here.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shrugged a shoulder and sighed. “My parents had a little fling twenty-two years ago…and I am the product of that fling,” she said, finally meeting my eyes.
“What?”
She nodded. “My dad was a 32-year-old lawyer in town for a conference. Mama was a 19-year-old waitress going to art school. They fell into raptures that weekend. I came along right around the time Mama found out he was married.”
I stopped drying to stare at her, and I’m not sure, but my mouth may have been hanging open again.
“My parents have been carrying on my whole life, and someday, someday , Daniel will leave his wife and marry my mama—she swears to it.” Ivy smiled wearily. “She swears to it the way some people swear the earth is flat—which of course doesn’t make it one bit true.”
I stared at her, a bit stunned .
“Not the fanciest pedigree,” Ivy chuckled. “But it makes for a good story, right?”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“I know…it’s kind of a crap story, so maybe just say, ‘Ivy, that must explain why you are such a complex and fascinating bundle of issues,’ and we’ll call it a day. How ’bout that, Bo Sutton?” she said resuming her task in the sink.
“You are…” I pushed out.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are a pretty fascinating bundle of issues.”
Ivy met my eyes. “Oh, you have no idea,” she smiled, teasingly.
Her smile was insanely calming given the insanely un-calm story she’d just told me.
“Anyway,” she said. “I’m sure that’s why today—despite the drama—has actually been so nice for me. You’re a real family. Flawed. Problematic. Wildly interesting.” She winked at me. “Like I said, I like the whole idea of family, Bo. Even the messy ones.” Then with a wry chuckle, she added, “And yours is pretty darn messy.”