Dinner this evening is interesting. Charlie is eating with us, and by eating I mean running around behind our chairs and flicking mac and cheese at everyone around the table. Mary tries to put her foot down, to her credit, but so does everyone else around the table, each giving him different instructions. I watch in interest as Charlie continually refuses to put the food in his mouth, my eyebrows raised as Charles uses the old "There are children starving in Africa," always a last resort line in any situation.
Mr Musgrove leans over to me. "It's a good thing you're here, Anne." He doesn't elaborate. He's not one for talking in general, so I understand how bad things probably are between the two sets of the family. Mrs Musgrove and Mary have never gotten along, and since Mary tends to be ignorant at best when it comes to dealing with Charlie, it's not hard to imagine that they're even more at odds than before.
As the instructions become more rapid-fire from both ends of the table, I catch Charles's eyes. He looks exasperated, at a loss, and rolls his eyes a bit at me. Lou, down the table, makes a very pointed gesture with her hands. Apparently, this sort of thing is usual when they get together. I watch, almost wincing, as Mary stoops lower and lower to get Charlie to do what she wants, knowing she'll blame my presence here for this little public self-flagellation. At least, that's how she'd put it.
I identify that as my first project: work on Charlie. Once Mary equates me with familial harmony, she'll stop blaming the things that go wrong on me. The faster she learns how to take care of things on her own, the sooner I can leave.
Perfect plan.
Once Charlie's in bed, which takes a full forty-five minutes to accomplish, the adults take coffee and more alcoholic beverages in the kitchen. There is a rush of noise and clinking of glasses and mugs, and people chatting. Even a party this small gets hazy for me, and my eyelids start to droop, my head falling back against the cupboard from my perch on the counter. Mary would usually disapprove, but she's too busy flirting outrageously with Charles that she doesn't even bother with me. I close my eyes and let the sound go in one ear and out the other, but before I can doze off in earnest, I feel a hand on my arm.
I open my eyes to see Mrs Musgrove standing next to me, her usually jolly face a little more serious. I'm awake immediately.
"What is it?"
She steals a look at Mary, and then, when she's perfectly sure that Mary won't be butting in, she murmurs, "Honey, could you do me a favor?"
I nod, now even more serious than before. "What is it?"
"Well, you saw how Charlie was at dinner. Mary's doing nothing to help the situation. She's actually only made it worse, with all the nannies and the big toys and the other things. She sends him over to me, and he doesn't listen to anything. He's broken a lot of things George and I have had since we were married. He's ripped things down, and the more I ask him to stop, the more he keeps going. I eventually have to feed him to calm him down, and then Mary gets angry at me for spoiling his dinner. About the only thing that wasn't spoiled in the first place, if you ask me." She turns her eyes back to me, and sees I'm still waiting for her to ask me that favor. "If you could, I don't know, talk to Mary, influence her, show her how to deals with Charlie, it would be a huge feat. I love my grandson and I want to get along with my daughter-in-law, but they make it so hard."
I smile down at her and rub her arm with my hand. "I'll do my best, Mrs Musgrove, but I'm not really an expert on child-rearing myself, you know."
She smiles at me, and me at her. We're about to be locked in a deep Girl-Power bond when Mr Musgrove clears his throat. The room goes quiet immediately; when Mr Musgrove does speak, the world listens.
"I have an announcement to make." He pauses, and while it could be for dramatic effect, it's more likely to be because he hates speaking in front of people, and needs to clear his thoughts. "As most of you know, Mr and Mrs Croft are visiting us, and especially you and Mary, Anne, next week. What I didn't know is that they'll be bringing her brother, a certain soccer player we all know—" squeals from the fridge underscore his words, "—a young Ahmir Wentworth, who'll be staying with them in the off-season. They're coming for dinner tomorrow night, and everyone here's invited," he looks awkward for a moment, as the room continues to stare at him. "That is all."
Lou and Hen squeal again, this time more animatedly. Mary and Charles are talking excitedly, and Mrs Musgrove goes to Mr Musgrove to calm him down post-speech.
And I am dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Having the Crofts come is bad enough, they'd only remind me of him. But having him come, him, would be horror. And he is living pretty close to us, he can really come whenever he wants. Will we have to speak to each other? God, what will I say? What can I say? He hates me, that's obvious. I don't blame him, I deserve it, I know. But it was different having him hate me out there somewhere. How am I supposed to look at his face, his real live face, every day and not crack? Not when I'm still in love with him. Not when I want to tell him…tell him…
This would happen. Karma. This kind of shit would happen to me just when everything is going downhill anyway. What the hell? I mean, I know I haven't exactly been Mother Theresa, but it's not like I'm another Elizabeth. And bad stuff doesn't really happen to her. So why me?
But beneath all the self-pity and mindless, absolute panic, I feel a flash of excitement. I'll get to see him again. Maybe I can change things, maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe—
But no, it will be bad. It will be hard, and upsetting, and painful. But I'll have to get through it. Because if I can survive this, then I can do anything.
At least that's what I tell myself as I excuse myself from the kitchen and go to lay down on my hard bed in the characterless guestroom and try to sleep.
The next day, Mary is all over the place. She's pouring on the invalid guilt real thick, alternately calling at me from her couch to keep her company, then snapping at me in the kitchen to play with Charlie. I'm chafing under her commands, but I grin and bear it. I don't have anywhere else to go, really, and I'll be damned if I'm going back to my dad and my sister right now.
Plus, all the work helps me keep my mind off how terrified I am. And I am. If I stop and think about it for too long, my pulse races and my breathing quickens and I can't stop thinking about him, and seeing him, and being in the same room with him. It's terrifying, and frustrating, and agonizing, because it's all done for me, and I know it. I'll have to just sit there and take whatever comes, because it's too late for me now.
It's almost time to go now. I'm standing in front of the full length mirror in the bathroom, a pile of clothes around me. Nothing fits me right, and in most of what used to be my pretty party clothes it's so easy to see how thin I am that I'm embarrassed to even imagine their reactions. I throw things down in frustration, leaning against the sink. It's too soon, but I've got no choice.
A scream interrupts my reverie. I throw a bathrobe over my bra and underwear and rush outside to Mary's voice crying "Charlie! Charlie!" over and over again.
My blood freezes. He was supposed to be in bed at six thirty, and since I put him to bed myself, I knew that he must have escaped. I ran down the stairs to the foyer in time to see Mr Musgrove carrying a small, limp form in his arms up past me to Charlie's room. Mary is still screaming hysterically, and for once, I can't blame her. Charles barrels down the hall, too, stopping just short of the bedroom door, as if terrified of what's inside. Mr Musgrove is kneeling down next to the bed, and I join him.
"What happened?" I asked.
"He was climbing that magnolia tree outside, and he fell. I found him at the bottom," I run to get my small flashlight from my room, and pry up his eyelids to check for concussion. Satisfied that he didn't hit his head hard, I check the rest of him, running my hands over each part of him out of habit. When I touch his shoulder, he squirms and cries, and I feel the awkwardness of his shoulder blade.
"Dislocated," I say to Mr Musgrove, and I brace my nephew as I pop it back into place loudly. He cries louder, fully conscious now, and I stroke his head softly, making small "shushing" noises until he calms down.
All in all, the count isn't huge. A dislocated shoulder blade, a twisted ankle, and couple of bruises, that was all. When Charlie is finally asleep, and we have retreated from the room, Mr Musgrove turns to Charles and Mary, and says, "I'll explain to everyone else. They won't mind your not being there when—"
Charles interrupts him. "Wait, wait. If Charlie's really okay, then I'll go back with you. Mary and Anne can make sure Charlie's okay, and—"
"I can't believe you!" hisses Mary, "you're going to leave me here, when I could come with you! Obviously you don't want to spend time with me if you—"
"—Mary, that's not what I'm saying—"
"—Pig! You just want a night without me, is that it?"
"—Come on, I was just thinking—"
"—Oh, that's new!"
"—Hey! That's unfair!"
"Mary," I say, loud enough to cut through their ridiculous bickering, "you go. I'll stay here with Charlie. Go ahead."
Mary shoots a triumphant look at Charles, and in two minutes they are out of the door.
I go back to the guest room, shed my bathrobe, and throw on my pjs and an oversized sweatshirt. I should feel relieved, I know, and I do. I won't have to see him tonight, at a painfully awkward dinner party with Mary and Charles bickering in the background. I won't have to sit for hours in the same room with him and still come up with something productive to say.
But I'm disappointed too, and upset at myself for feeling so. I've spent the entire day gearing up for this, until I am almost ready to face him, and now I won't.
It's probably for the best, anyway. He won't want to see me, and I don't know him anymore. It's been five years. Both of us are different.
I step carefully down the stairs, and go to the fridge to find myself my own dinner. Thoughtfully poking my ribcage, I pull out eggs, cheese, ham, veggies, everything I can think of to make the World'd Biggest Omelette, and prepare for a night on my own.
Somebody pokes me awake. I struggle through the layers of sleep I've been floating under to see Lou's bright yellow hair in my face. I pick my head up from where it lay against the back of one of Charles's big armchairs and force myself to sit up.
"What? What time is it?"
"About two-thirty." I become aware of more people in the room, and I sit up a little straighter. Lou has already turned off the TV, which I had drifted asleep watching, and I rub sleep out of my eyes as I take in the party.
Hen and Lou are pseudo-casual, captured in that stage of wanting to look exceptional without making it look like they think they look exceptional. Mary and Charles are a little more formally dressed, and Mr and Mrs Musgrove a little less. But why are the Musgroves here?
"You missed a really fun time, Anne," Lou puts in, beaming.
"By which she means it was horrible and you didn't miss a thing," says Hen stoutly, shooting a look at Lou. I roll my eyes and half-smile at them, and am about to say something when a movement at the back of the group catches my eye.
It's him. He hadn't been there before. I know it. But here's here now, and he's looking at me. Oh my God. I can barely think, and I know I'm staring at him, and I can't look away. Someone sees where I'm looking and makes an introduction of some kind. What should I say? That we've already met? That would sound crass to him, wouldn't it, to just say we've met and nothing more. But he nods at me politely, the hall light illuminating his dark skin, and I find it in me to nod back, and say, "Hello," More than that, I don't know what to do.
He looks so good. Not just good in that kind of "I love you, so of course you're beautiful to me," but in the actual sense of "looking good." He was always well dressed, always fit, but he's aged well. He looks even better than he did five years ago. And I, most decidedly, do not. I look miserable, and pathetic, and what must that seem to him? I can't even imagine what he's thinking. It must be terrible to see me. It's terrible to see him, because for all that I thought I could stand it, to see him and to know he hates me is worse than anything.
Mary saves me, in her way, from making a total idiot of myself. She leans over the couch back and says to me, "Now that you're up, would you mind making us some coffee? We were just going to sit around and talk. The coffee maker's in the kitchen."
My blood suddenly boils. First of all, only a complete idiot would need directions on finding the coffee maker. Secondly, she hasn't even mentioned her son yet, or asked how he's doing. Thirdly, she's treating me like a maid in front of everyone! Unbe-freaking-lievable.
"Do it yourself." I shrug the blanket off me to Lou smile of approval and Mary's incredulous laugh.
"I just asked for a favor, Anne, I didn't expect you to—"
"If that's why you woke me up, then you can shove it. I'm going back to bed, goodnight everyone." I try not to look at him as I walk out the door, but it's hard, and I don't quite manage it. I catch his eye for a second, and for a second, I'm going to turn around and say something to him. But then I look away. There's no point, not anymore. I failed, I fucked up. It's too late for me.
I'm about to climb up the stairs two at a time when I turn around and call to Mary, who is now looking extremely self-righteous in the doorway. "Charlie's fine, by the way. Thought you might want to know." Then I turn my back on her and take the stairs two at a time, eager to be as far away from them as possible.