8. Helen
The day after my horrible dinner with Oliver, I head straight home.
HOW’D IT GO? David texts while I’m en route.
But I can’t stop thinking about David’s face as he tells that little girl he wants a dozen children of his own, just like her. FINE, I finally respond.
WHAT’S WRONG?
Why does he assume there’s something wrong? I often text him with short, even sometimes one-word replies. I’m not someone who gushes. I don’t overdramatize things. I’m not effusive. I’m a baby hater who sends short texts. He should know that about me. I’ve been honest about who I am.
NOTHING, I finally reply.
See? Another very normal text from me. Only, I don’t feel normal. I’m agitated. Which is why it’s doubly important that I not see him right now.
MY PARENTS ARE STILL HERE.
I don’t groan, because I’m not upset about that. They can stay as long as they want. I’m sure he’s happy to see them. He must miss them a lot. SPEND ALL THE TIME YOU WANT WITH THEM. I’M BURIED WITH WORK RIGHT NOW.
Which is totally true. This morning I have an insurance physical. They make me do one every single year, because we carry a huge policy on me for the company. If I were to die, well. It would be bad for all the investors. I’ve taken all reasonable measures to mitigate the impact of my death, which is the best I can do, but with massive policies come lots of tests.
I MISS YOU.
Guilt claws at me when I read those three words. I miss him too, of course, but I also need some time to figure out how I feel about all this ‘he wants a kid’ stuff. If it’s a deal breaker for him, what will I do?
I love David.
Admitting that is huge for me—I’ve changed to even be able to say that to him after all my Oliver damage. But how much more will I have to change in order to keep him? According to the law of parsimony, the simplest answer is usually true. Thinking about that keeps bringing me back to the same conclusion.
David told me that he was simply managing his parents expeditiously. If he let them think as they wished, they’d leave us alone. By the time they realized that we weren’t doing what they wished, it would be too late for them to do anything about it.
But doesn’t it make more sense that he’s using the same plan with me? He did already compare me to a horse so stupid that it wouldn’t get on a trailer.
He thinks I’m spooky.
He may even be right about that in some ways, but he’s missing the point. There’s a big difference between being spooky and knowing what you want and not budging. What I want is not a dozen babies. In fact, it’s not even one baby. But I also don’t want to argue about it, and I don’t want to lose him.
So what happens when what you want and what the person you love wants aren’t the same? In my experience, that’s when you break up. Only, I don’t want to break up. I don’t think he does, either. I’m worried that because of that, he’s lying to me.
I find that this time, being at an impasse really bums me out.
SAME, I finally text back. MISS YOU TOO.
My phone dings again, but I ignore it, because the insurance people are finally here—one heavyset man and one very uptight woman who says ‘hmm’ in response to literally everything I ask and every test she runs.
They poke me repeatedly. They prod me with great energy. But finally, they gather up all their vials and swabs and start to pack things up. “We’re done?” I scratch my wrist again, clearly irritated by something on it.
“What’s that?” The woman peers at my wrist.
“Just a bug bite or something.” I tug my shirt down.
“Can I take a look at it?” she asks.
I want to tell her no. “Does this have anything to do with the testing protocols?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I’m a nurse, and from the inch of your wrist that I can see, it looks like more than a simple mosquito bite.” She doesn’t mention that there aren’t really any mosquitos in the fall in this area, but she doesn’t have to. I already thought of that.
I frown, but she doesn’t take the hint. “Fine.” I roll my sleeve up, and I’m a little surprised by all the tiny red dots running across the back of my hand and up my wrist to my forearm. “I didn’t really notice these before.”
She peers at them for a moment, and then she says, “Can I check your bedroom?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where do you sleep?” She lifts her eyebrows.
“How is that relevant?”
“I believe those to be bedbug bites. They often don’t cause a reaction until there are enough of them to bite you in some meaningful volume.”
My jaw dangles open. “This house may not be that nice, but it’s not dirty. I’m living here with my nephew because his mother just moved out, and I’m not here that often. It must be something else.”
“Your file indicates that you travel a lot. The most at-risk individuals for bedbugs are those who travel. Hotels have an awful time trying to keep?—”
“You must be kidding,” I say. “I stay at the Ritz-Carlton—you’re telling me they can’t keep bedbugs under control? It must be a reaction to a new laundry detergent or something.”
“Then you should be happy to show me your bedroom. With this many spots, one quick peel-back of the sheets should show some signs of them if they’re the cause.”
I want to refuse, but her logic is sound, so I find myself leading the woman back to my room. “I’ve barely been here two nights in the past week.”
“Which would explain all the bites. They were probably hungry while you were gone.”
I might be sick.
“Uh-oh.” The woman’s pointing at some kind of blotches on the sheets. “Yeah, you’ve got a problem with bedbugs.”
“Did you say you’re a nurse or that you work for Terminix?” The hair on my arms is all standing on end. I’m scratching my head, and then my arms, and then my entire body itches like mad. “This can’t be happening.”
But it is. Two hours later, I’ve bludgeoned the biggest bedbug company in Salt Lake into bringing everything they have down here. I’ve dumped all my clothing into a pile to be burned.
“You know, we don’t have to burn everything,” a man’s telling me.
“Are you kidding?”
“Some of this stuff looks pretty nice.” He’s bumping my designer shoes with the toe of his black work boot. “If you put it into bags and left it in the attic for a few months?—”
“I would rather die,” I say. “Burn it.”
He looks disappointed.
“Or take it home to your attic and sell it on Poshmark next year for all I care.” There’s a reason I never buy secondhand. I suppress my shudder.
He’s gathering up my infested stuff so fast I can barely get out of the way.
“Where are you going to live while this is being treated?” the other tech asks.
I shrug. “It’s not like there are great hotels here.” I think about going to Abby’s. I’m going to have to tell her—and Ethan—about the bedbugs, I guess. I hate the idea of telling more people, but Ethan can’t live here either. He’ll probably come home from Beth’s with that poorly trained border collie puppy of his and stare, dumbfounded, at the house. I’m doing the full court press, of course. Heat treatment—we’ll need new blinds—tenting with chemical treatment, and spraying around all the walls and furniture.
I want every single one of those bloody boogers and all their children and their children’s children all deader than dead. Which the bug guys keep telling me isn’t possible.
Actually, my preference would be to burn the house down, but the tech assured me repeatedly that it’s not necessary. My bed was apparently, horrifyingly, ground zero. The Ritz-Carlton is going to be hearing from me, because this is just. . .
I shudder again.
I don’t even have a bag packed, because I’m burning all my clothes. The obvious place for me to go is Abby’s, but she has so many kids. Beth’s place could be infested, with as much fraternization as she and Ethan have. I can’t risk it. I could try Amanda’s house, but Maren’s worse than a baby, and Emery never stops talking.
Mandy Saddler.
She’s a tough lady—she won’t faint when I say bedbugs. She’ll also let me take a hot shower and burn my current clothes. I can wear something of hers until my assistant gets my new stuff here. I told him it has to come quick. Quicker than quick.
I call Ethan on the way to her place, and I text David and tell him I’m in the middle of a nightmare, and I’ll explain what’s going on later. Ethan’s way less worried than I expect, but then again, maybe he’s just keen for any excuse to stay the night at Beth’s place. Hopefully he won’t be angry I had all his blankets and clothing burned along with mine.
Oh, well. By the time he figures it out, my assistant will have a whole new wardrobe of boring work boots and khaki overalls ready for him. He’ll get over it.
There are a bunch of cars here when I reach Mandy’s, and for a moment I worry that I’m interrupting a party or something, but then I realize that one of them is hers, one is Amanda’s, and one is Abby’s. Just the usual suspects.
Abby sent me a message earlier saying she had paperwork for me to sign—probably why she’s here. We can get it all done at the same time. Plus, with everyone here, she can’t really turn me away, right?
I march through the front door without knocking, and everyone turns toward me, their eyes wide, their breath almost bated.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did I toss the invite for a Mary Kay party or something?”
“You have horrible timing,” Abby says.
That’s rude, but before I can respond, I notice the biggest, ugliest carved wooden giraffe I’ve ever seen. It’s almost eclipsed by the tacky reproduction of a famous Eiffel tower that’s way too big for this room. But none of that is as bad as the embarrassing elephants sitting on the coffee table and the weird tiger rug in front of the sofa. “What on earth happened to your house? Did you lose a bet?”
Mandy flops back against the sofa and groans.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Seriously.”
“You are not going to believe us,” Abby says.
“Oh, try me,” I say. “I just found out that Ethan and I have bedbugs, and David apparently wants a dozen children.”
Abby and Amanda stare.
Mandy swears loudly. “We need some wine.”
“What about us?” Maren asks. “Can I have some too?”
“I think I have some of that sparkling cider,” Mandy says.
Maren grumps. “So unfair.”
“But you can’t just stop the story there,” Emery says. “Who did you pick?”
“What story?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“Did you just say you have bedbugs?” Abby asks. “Because?—”
“Can I use your shower?” I point. “While I’m in there, you can burn these clothes. Throw the rug and elephants in with them and save yourself some time.”
“Go ahead,” Mandy says. “I’m assuming you want to stay here and that you’ll need some of my clothes, since you don’t have a suitcase with you.”
“Just tell me who you picked,” Emery says. “Tell me before you go get her some ugly clothes.”
“Wait, you’re saying my clothes are ugly?” Mandy’s frowning.
“No, but it’ll be funnier if you find some for her to borrow.” Emery has a surprisingly mean streak tucked down in there.
Color me impressed.
“Wait,” I say. “Who she picked for what?” I can’t help narrowing my eyes. Mandy does strange things like this, and it would be just like her to invite Amanda and her kids, and have Abby draw it up, but not invite Ethan, Izzy, Whitney, and Gabe—not to mention Nathan—while she picks one of them for something big, like to inherit her estate or something. “What’s going on?”
“Mandy has a boyfriend coming to visit,” Emery says. “And she’s telling us their tragic past.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, and we don’t have a tragic past.” Mandy stands.
“Well, wait.” For the first time, something interesting enough to stop my itching has come along. “I want to hear about it, too.”
“It’s also why she has all the weird stuff in her place,” Emery says.
“Okay, now I really want to hear,” I say.
Mandy starts shooing me. “You’re dripping with pests, apparently. Bugs that I do not want in my house. So first, off to the shower with you.” She points at the doorway. “I’ll bring you a trash bag and you can put the clothes in there so I can toss them in the burn pile.”
“The pest control people wanted me to put everything in a bag in the attic for the winter.” I shake my head. “Can you imagine?”
Mandy shudders. “Not at all.” I can’t help noticing that she’s scratching her arms.
“Is there a chance you have bedbugs too?”
“I wasn’t scratching before you got here, girl. Now, get.”
“Okay, but.” I lean a little closer. “Don’t tell them the story until I’m back, alright?”
“They’re likely to string you up,” Mandy says. “I stopped at a bad spot.”
I can’t help my smile.
Mandy smiles back. “Yeah, we’ll wait for you.”
I’m laughing as I close the door, and I can hear her laughing, too. Part of the reason Mandy makes me so nuts is that she’s a little bit like me, at least, deep down she is. If she’d been born to my parents and I’d been born to hers, who knows if we’d have made the same decisions or done the same things.
But maybe.
I take my time showering, intent on making sure there’s no part of the disgusting nightmares that infested my house on my body or in my hair, but also because I love the idea of torturing everyone out there by making them wait. I can’t help thinking about what kind of person would fall in love with Amanda Saddler. Someone like David, probably. Some sap who thinks he can fix her or change her or repair her.
Idiot.
I wonder whether he moved on, or whether, in his heart of hearts, he’s still pining.
Is it bad I hope he’s still pining?
Not because I want him to be miserable, but because it seems like maybe Mandy has been. When I heard about Jed, it really bummed me out. Two people living next door their entire lives and being in love and never doing a thing about it?
It’s a depressing tragedy.
But a knight in a shining Lincoln Town Car, pulling into town now and sweeping her off her feet? Or, you know, up against his walker? That could be kind of. . .exciting.
It’s still depressing it happened so late for her, but also inspirational—it’s never too late to find the love of your life. Although, I don’t really have some kind of tragic flame from the past who would show up and profess his love for me. No, that’s not how my life goes. My ex was just supposed to apologize, but instead he basically took me to a nice place, told me how my current boyfriend wants kids, and ruined my present life.
Hopefully things don’t go like that for Mandy.
While I’m drying off, my phone bings. I’ve apparently missed a flurry of text messages from David.
MY PARENTS ARE MAKING ME CRAZY. I’M COMING OVER.
WHOA. WHAT’S GOING ON WITH YOUR HOUSE??? THERE’S LIKE A TENT OVER IT AND PEOPLE IN WHITE JUMPSUITS MILLING AROUND OUTSIDE.
HOLD THE PHONE. YOU HAVE BEDBUGS?
I TRIED ABBY’S. YOU’RE NOT THERE. I CALLED ABBY, AMANDA, DONNA, AND BETH. ONLY BETH ANSWERED, AND SHE HAD NO IDEA WHERE YOU WERE, SO I’M HEADED TO AMANDA’S.
I hate that this town is so stinking small that everyone knows everyone’s business. This is ridiculous.
I’m typing him a text to tell him that I’m staying with Mandy when another one comes through.
YOU’RE NOT AT AMANDA’S, SO I’M GUESSING YOU’RE AT MANDY’S. I’M HEADED OVER.
For the love—I erase my obsolete text and tell him to come over. I WAS SHOWERING, I explain. I JUST GOT OUT. NIGHTMARE.
YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME.
DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE. Then I get dressed.
I’m just walking out of the bathroom when the doorbell rings. He got here fast. “It’s David,” I say. “Sorry. I had to tell him where I was—he’s been driving all over looking for me.”
But it’s not David. It’s Donna, her belly as big as a beachball, and a crying baby over her shoulder. “David came by. He said—” Her eyes widen. “What’s going on in here?”
“Yes, by all means, invite the whole town.” Mandy’s fuming. I’m not sure why she’s so mad, but it must have something to do with this guy who’s coming.
“I didn’t even invite Donna.” I spin around, but then I hear the sound of a car pulling up the drive behind me.
That car’s not David’s, either. It’s Ethan. When the truck doors start opening, Beth, Izzy, Whitney, and Gabe all pour out of his old truck with him.
I can’t help laughing. “But apparently everyone’s here, with or without an invite.”
“No.” Mandy hops to her feet and pelts toward the door. “No. You all have to go.” She’s making a shooing motion, but Donna ignores her, shoving past her and into the room. “I have got to feed the baby, and when anyone else is around watching her, she can’t focus enough to eat. When David came by, she was already starving, but then I couldn’t think until I knew where you were and what’s going on, and on the way here, I saw some kind of insanity going on at Ethan’s house. I need all the details, but I’ll just be back to hear them in just a moment.” Then she ducks into the first guest room on the left, where I’m planning to stay, and more people start plowing through the door like a herd of wildebeests.
Ethan and the other kids don’t even pause before they just run through, as if Mandy’s not even trying to stop them.
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” I whisper, “but I think you’re going to have to tell your story again, starting from the beginning. Maybe try and come up with a short version of it. Or.” I smile. “I know. You could write it all down and pass it out on fliers. That might be faster.” Needling her is so fun. I’m not sure why, but it is.
“Why is that huge, ugly giraffe scowling at me?” Izzy asks.
“Whoa,” Gabe says. “When you get tired of them, I want the elephants.”
“Forget the elephants,” Izzy says. “I want the Eiffel tower.”
Ethan’s stupid puppy came too, apparently, and he shoots right through the door, chasing Jed the pig through Emery’s legs and toward the back door.
When David pulls up outside, I can’t help laughing. I’m wearing Mandy’s jumpsuit, which is much, much too short. She gave me slippers that had no shot of fitting my feet, so I’m standing on her wooden floor, barefoot. My sopping wet hair’s dripping on the jumpsuit, turning it bright purple instead of blue on the shoulders, and no one has even said a word about any of that.
They’re all too busy trying to figure out why a circus threw up inside Mandy’s house.
Where we’ve all shown up uninvited.
Only in Birch Creek would something like this happen, where all these people I’m not related to in any way act like we’re family. As David walks up the steps of the porch, his eyes take in my ensemble slowly. “What on earth are you wearing?”
“I should have asked you to bring me some clothes from your place,” I say. “And I would have, if I knew you were coming.”
“I’ve already sent my parents to the resort and called pest control to tell them to check out my place.” David pauses. “I figured you’d want to stay there—at the resort. But you came here? Mandy’s house?”
“That’s because the people told me that hotels were the problem.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to stay anywhere like a hotel until it’s been checked.”
“Wait,” Amanda says. “Are you saying the resort might?—”
“Already on it,” I say. “They’ll be by to check the rooms later tonight.”
David looks around. “What on earth is going on in here? Why are so many people here, and who shot a tiger?”
There’s a totem pole in the corner, a six-foot-tall wooden giraffe, a giant Eiffel Tower painting that’s far too big for the room and also not well done, a giant blue and white vase that looks like a terrible Dutch knock-off, strange origami animals where there used to be glasses on a shelf, and David asks about the rug. Of course he does. “Mandy was about to explain all that, I think. But before we get sidetracked, is there any chance my overnight bag from our trip to New York is still in your trunk?”
David frowns. “Probably.”
“Excellent.”
He tosses me his keys, but before I can rush out to grab a change of clothes, I realize that the conversation has carried on around us.
“Oh, man,” Emery’s saying. “You’re going to have to tell them all the reason why you redecorated your family room.”
“And kitchen,” Maren says. “This is going to be great.”
“Get out,” Mandy says. “All of you.”
“Stop,” Amanda says. “You know you’re going to tell them—it’s Donna and Beth and the kids.”
Mandy’s face flushes red, and she looks like she’s about to cry. If I’ve ever seen someone who looks like they’re dangling by a fraying rope, it’s her. “Alright,” I say. “We’re all here right now because of me.”
“What?” Beth asks. “Why?”
“I brought bedbugs back from New York, and now we have to treat the house and burn all our stuff. Just look at what I’m wearing. Why do you think I need that change of clothes?”
“But what about all the weird stuff?” Beth asks.
“None of it is weirder than me wearing this jumper.” I laugh. “But the decor is all stuff I brought back with me,” I say. “I picked it up in Los Angeles on this last trip, and I didn’t want to leave it back at the house of pestilence, so I brought it here.”
“You bought all this weird stuff?” David asks.
I widen my eyes and drop my hands to my hips. “Are you saying it’s tacky?” I can’t help it. Right as I ask, I notice a Ross Dress For Less tag on the top of the totem pole, and I cringe. “This stuff cost me an arm and a leg, and my interior designer has been collecting it for weeks.”
No one’s going to believe it. Mandy’s still going to have to spill whatever secret is making her apoplectic, and they’re all going to ask me why I’m making up stories.
Only, for some reason, they do appear to buy my far-fetched claim that all this kitschy, cheap crap is mine. Obviously Abigail, Amanda, Emery, and Maren know what’s going on, but at least everyone else may not need to find out.
Mandy mouths, “Thank you,” when no one else is looking, but then I grab my overnight bag and duck into the bathroom to change. I’ll be stuck wearing a business suit, but anything is better than this far-too-small jumper.
I’ve barely emerged from the bathroom, feeling a little less insane, when my phone starts ringing with a call from an unknown number. Very few people even have this phone number, and I consider not answering, but I did share it with a handful of major stakeholders, so I can’t ignore it entirely.
“I better take this,” I say as I walk out the front door. The porch swing here is my favorite part of Mandy’s house. When I sit down, that weird cardinal flies over and lands on the arm of the swing. I try to shoo it away as I answer. “Hello?”
It tilts its head at me, like it knows something, though what of value a little red bird could know, I haven’t the foggiest.
“Helen Fisher?”
“That’s me.” I really hope this is one of the shareholders, ready to meet. A few more on my side, and my work’s basically done.
“I’m calling because of your insurance physical this morning,” the woman says.
“Oh, no,” I say. “Please tell me they don’t need to redo anything. I’m pretty busy right now, and?—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the woman says. “But your test results showed that you were pregnant, and on the questionnaire you filled out not pregnant, so as a courtesy, we always call and notify people of the discrepancy.”
A discrepancy.
Like the height I wrote down being off by half an inch or my weight being low by a few pounds. Or like, maybe my blood sugar’s high. An anomaly. An inconsistency. That’s what she’s saying she’s calling about. She’s just calling to let me know there’s a small discrepancy—nothing major.
I’m just growing a human inside my stomach. Carry on.