There’s an intruder in the beach house.
This is the first thought that enters my mind as soon as my eyes fly open.
I can hear the intruder clanging around downstairs.
I’m in bed, Otto beside me—all of his limbs flailing in every direction. For such a short kid, he somehow manages to take up three-quarters of a queen-size bed.
My jet lag has me feeling like I drank a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. But the fear that grips my heart at the knowledge that someone is in our house wakes me up pretty fucking fast.
I ease out of bed and, gently, put my feet on the ground. Our luggage is stuffed in the corner of the room—both of us too tired to unpack last night. The floor is carpeted, at least, so my feet don’t make a sound as I shuffle to the bedroom door and crack it open.
A definite clang from downstairs. Sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen?
“Mum?” Otto groans. “Is it time to get up already?”
“Go back to bed,” I tell him.
I strain to listen. It sounds like two voices downstairs—a man and a woman. A chill runs through me.
“Otto, go to the bathroom and lock the door. Don’t come out until I tell you.”
His blue eyes flash. “Is something wrong?”
“Now, Otto.”
Fun mom is over. Stern mom has arrived.
He gets up and goes into the bathroom. I wait until I hear the door lock. Then, I unplug the bedside lamp, hold it by the neck, and wind the cord around my opposite fist.
I’m going to handle this my own damn self.
Quietly, I creep down the stairs, brandishing my lamp. I see the man first. He’s a young guy—in his twenties, maybe—standing in the foyer. And he’s struggling with…a tree?
“Hey!” I snap at him, the way you might yell loudly at a bear to seem bigger than you are.
The guy swerves, sees me, and shouts, tumbling backward, the fir nearly falling on top of him. I find myself matching his scream, jumping away.
“What is this, an episode of Cops?” My mother steps in from the kitchen. She’s wearing a ruby-red fur-lined coat and holding a mug of coffee, casually stirring creamer into it as if her being here is the most natural thing in the world. She narrows her eyes at my lamp. “For the love of God, Aileen Wuornos, put that down.”
I lower the lamp, reluctantly, too stunned to speak.
“Where’s my Otto?” Pearl asks, glancing around.
“Grandma!”
Otto—like his mom—shares the same inability to follow the rules. He’s at the top of the stairs, peeking, but now he comes barreling down. I want to chastise him (I told you to stay in the bathroom!), but my energy reserves are depleted, and my weak heart melts when he runs into his grandma’s arms for a big hug.
“Oh, my snug-a-bug—I’ve missed you, darling.” She puts her mug on the ground and crouches to hug him tightly. As she pets the back of his head, she half whispers to me (as though he can’t hear her), “I thought we talked about the grandma title? What’s wrong with G-ma Pearl?”
“G-ma makes you sound like you’re in a gang.”
Her eyes flicker over me, mouth curled downward disapprovingly. “Apparently, not far from the truth.”
I throw up my hands. “I’m making coffee.”
After the initial shock of nearly beating my mother to death with a lamp, we settle down and catch up.
Pearl has been living on the Upper West Side in Manhattan, in an apartment she got divorced-into. That’s how we say it these days—divorced-into, instead of married-into. It’s how I’m staying on Hannsett, after all; after her divorce to Four, aka Terry, she claimed as part of her settlement his beach house. She’s been renting it for years, but winters are rough, and I needed a place to stay, so—voilà.
The guy with the Christmas tree, by the way? Totally lived. Plus, made off with a large tip. Apparently, Pearl hired him to help her lug the tree across the ferry and into our house. It’s a four-foot fir, and we tucked it into the living room by the television. The top is a bit bent from crashing down, but hey. That’s Christmas.
Pearl picked up an assortment of baked goods on the way over, and Otto chomps down on half a cinnamon roll in front of the television as Pearl and I sit at the coffee table, warming our hands on the coffee mugs.
She’s as glamorous as ever—underneath the coat, she’s wearing a Christmas-green dress with fringe around the hem and thick, black stockings and gloves. Meanwhile, I still haven’t brushed my hair or my teeth, and I’m in an oversized sleep shirt and boys boxers. How I came out of her womb, I’ll never understand.
“What did you think of the deliveryman?” Pearl asks conspiratorially and then wiggles her eyebrows. “I gave him my number.”
I blow on my coffee. “A little young for you, isn’t he? Does he own a yacht?”
“At my age, I’m not looking for yachts. I’m looking for biceps. Someone who can carry my groceries and rub my feet.”
I’m not going to lie, access to foot rubs is actually the best argument I’ve heard for marriage in a long time. I can’t remember the last time my little piggies did anything other than scream at me.
“Question number two,” I add, “how did you know I was here?”
She shrugs. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to know everything about you.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay.”
“For example.” She taps my phone and slides it across the table. “I know that you’re avoiding dinner with two men who would like very much to see you.”
I snatch my phone. “Do. Not. Read my texts.”
She lets out a labored sigh. “It was an accident! Your phone has been off the hook—you’re very popular. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t any sort of emergency, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t buy it, but what can I do? I’m not about to babysit my mother—not when I have an actual child who needs my attention.
My attention drifts. Otto laughs at something on the television and sucks icing from his fingers.
“You should go have dinner with them,” she presses. “You used to be such good friends, the three of you.”
“Yeah. When we were teenagers.”
“So you’ll have a lot to catch up on! When was the last time you had a little fun? Just you?”
Forever ago.
“Can’t,” I say. “We have too much to do. I have to stock the fridge. Unpack. Make dinner. And, apparently, now I have to find something to decorate the tree with.”
“What are you making?”
“Salmon and broccoli.”
“Otto, darling,” my mother calls out, “what would you like for dinner tonight? Salmon and broccoli or pizza?”
Otto jumps up and down like an excited squirrel. “Pizza, pizza, pizza!”
Pearl shrugs. “The boy has spoken. Go have fun. We’re having a pizza night.”
GROUP TEXT: Donovan, Jason, Kenzi
Kenzi: Okay. I’m in. Where?
Jason: Our place. I’ll drop a pin.
