This Was Not the Plan Read online

  Norman finally settles in the most awkward position possible: sitting on the seat like a human, with his chin resting on the dash. Now that we’ve hit traffic, he lifts his head and looks at me, then out the windshield, then back at me again as if to say, Are we really doing this? Norman’s never been a big fan of change.

  “I know this is tough. Just remember, we’re doing it for Zadie,” I say aloud, more to myself than to the dog.

  “Where’s Aunt Zadie?” Caleb yawns from the backseat. He seemed especially groggy this morning when we left, so I had hoped he’d sleep for most of the ride, but no such luck.

  “She’s in East Hampton, bud. We’re almost there.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I know. There’s some traffic up ahead.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the beaches out here are really nice. We’re going to have so much fun, you’ll see.”

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “I don’t know, but Zadie said the house is great.”

  “I want to sleep with Aunt Zadie.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s going to fly with Uncle Buck.”

  “Uncle Buck has his own room.”

  I stifle a laugh. “You know, Uncle Buck and Aunt Zadie are getting married soon. So they might be sharing a room.”

  Caleb pauses, considering this. “So Uncle Buck is coming to live with us?”

  Shit.

  Zadie and I had agreed to talk through the logistics of her inevitable move out this weekend. Then, once we had come up with a plan, we would sit Caleb down together and talk it through. But the kid is smart. Damn smart. I stumbled right into this one without even meaning to. One comment about sleeping arrangements and now I’m going to end up explaining marriage, cohabitation, and where babies come from all by myself in one conversation.

  Damn it, Zadie. Where are you when I need you?

  “Not sure, bud. Why don’t we talk about all that when we see them?”

  “Is Aunt Zadie going to have a baby?”

  Reflexively, my foot hits the brake and the car lurches to a halt. Norman yelps as he slides off the passenger seat. The Range Rover behind us honks angrily, stopping about an inch shy of our rear bumper.

  Norman slinks back onto the seat. He looks fine, if slightly betrayed.

  “Yikes! Sorry, Norman!” I reach over and pat him on the head. “You okay? Caleb, you okay back there?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Caleb insists from the backseat.

  “Uh, what question was that?”

  “Is Aunt Zadie having a baby?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Because that’s why people get married. To have babies.” He narrows his eyes at me. If there’s one thing Caleb hates, it’s not being given the full story. That, and being told he can’t wear purple.

  “Well . . .” I hesitate, trying to choose my words as carefully as possible. “People get married because they love each other. And sometimes, when you love someone else, you also want to have a baby with them.”

  “Like you and Mommy?”

  “Yes, like me and your mommy.”

  I watch Caleb closely in the rearview mirror, trying to gauge how he’s feeling. If he’s upset, he doesn’t show it. His face remains placid. He looks out the window, watches the cars roll by. His white-blond hair stands up from static, like dandelion fuzz. His lips are stained blue from a lollipop that he found in the backseat pocket of the car and popped in his mouth before I had a chance to intervene. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  “Tell me again what Mommy looked like.”

  My heart tightens like a fist. “She was beautiful,” I manage to say. “She looked just like you. She had the prettiest blond hair. One of her eyes was green and the other was blue. She had a picture of a little bird inside her wrist, and her skin glowed, and she was always smiling.”

  “I used to be able to see her but now I can’t anymore.” He says this matter-of-factly, like we’re talking about the weather.

  “She was the most incredible woman in the world,” I tell him. “I see her all the time in my dreams. I tell her about how you’re doing. She’s very proud of you.”

  “Does she see us from where she is?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Does she see that we’re going to Long Island right now?”

  My heart aches. He’s too young to think about these things, a voice inside me cries. He should be thinking about kickball and recess and Dora the Explorer.

  “I think she sees everything, Caleb.”

  He nods, chewing his lip, considering this idea. Then: “There’s hurricanes on Long Island. Every year.”

  And just like clockwork, we’re back to natural disasters.

  “Well, probably not every year.”

  “Every year. August until November is hurricane season.”

  “I don’t think we’ve had one in a while.”

  “Hurricane Alex in 2010. June, 2010.” How he knows this is beyond me. He wiggles his eyebrows when he says “June,” as if to say, See? Disaster can strike at any time.

  “Well, good thing it’s not June, then.”

  It seems to be the right response, because Caleb is quiet for a full minute. Until he says, “I don’t feel so good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My tummy hurts.”

  Frankly, my tummy hurts a little, too, from the stop-and-go traffic. I say a quick prayer that nothing else is wrong. Sometimes Caleb’s tummy hurts when he gets upset about Mira.

  “I’m sorry, bud. My tummy hurts, too. But look!” I point to our right. “There’s the turnoff for East Hampton. We’ll be there really soon.”

  Caleb clutches his stomach. “Let’s stop. I have to poop.” He groans dramatically.

  “Caleb, we’ll be there soon. Five minutes, okay?”

  “I HAVE TO POOP.”

  “Caleb, there’s nowhere to poop on the side of the road. Five minutes.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I know, but I mean it this time.”

  Caleb begins to thrash in his car seat, and then, when he realizes he’s trapped, dissolves into a fit of fake tears. I clench my molars and try my best to ignore him. I check the time on the dashboard: 3:32 p.m. We’ve been in the car for just over three hours, so we’re more or less on schedule for an epic meltdown.

  “I have runny poop now,” Caleb whines from the backseat.

  Silence.

  Then: “I hate you!”

  More silence.

  New tack: “I want my iPad!”

  “The iPad’s out of juice, Caleb. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop the car!”

  “I’m not stopping, Caleb! We’re literally five minutes from the house!”

  “I have runny poop! And Fiona does, too!” A fresh wave of hysteria rocks the backseat. Even Norman lifts his head and peers back there. Then he lets out an exhausted sigh and returns his chin to the dashboard, like all this drama is just too much to bear.

  “Caleb, look!” I say, channeling my inner Mary Poppins. “Look right there! A big pink house!”

  Indeed, to our left is an Italianate mansion painted in a jaunty Easter-egg pink. This stops Caleb dead in his tracks. He’s been begging for a pink room, but a whole house? He hadn’t dreamed such a thing was possible.

  “Daddy,” he says, gobsmacked.

  “I know,” I respond, and slow the car. We inch past, staring at the house in reverential silence.

  “Who lives there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a prince or a princess.”

  “I think so.”

  “And look at that one!” I point to another multimillion-dollar monstrosity: a gigantic castle, replete with turrets that seem to glitter in the summer sunlight.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Caleb says solemnly, his bathroom needs seemingly forgotten.

  “That it is.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Once
, bud. A long time ago.”

  The farther we drive, the larger the houses become. In fact, we’re in full-on mansion territory. More than once I slow the car to a crawl so that I can glance at the directions I hastily jotted down on an index card. According to them, we’re on the right street. My gut, however, tells me there’s been a mistake. There’s no way Buck and Zadie could afford to rent a house in this neighborhood. Of course, this car is way too old to have GPS. The decision not to spring for the NeverLost at the rental agency now seems like an epic error in judgment.

  I pull to a stop outside a metal gate. Just past it, sprinklers whir in the sunlight, watering a manicured lawn the size of a football field. Gardeners are everywhere. A man with a broom is sweeping the clay on the tennis court. There’s even a maid buffing what appears to be a giant bronze apostrophe on the lawn. In the distance a white elephant of a house sits atop a slight hill. It’s quite possibly the grandest house I’ve ever seen, the kind of thing one expects to see in Architectural Digest or on the E! True Hollywood Story about Martha Stewart.

  I squint at the gatepost. A small sign, which I can barely make out, reads 39 Further Lane. Our alleged destination. I must have switched the numbers, I think. Maybe it was supposed to be 93 Further? Three thirty-nine Further? Maybe it was Farther Lane? I wrote down the instructions with one hand while trying to wrestle a loafer out of Norman’s mouth, so it’s possible I got them wrong. I pick up my cell phone and dial Zadie’s number. When it goes to voicemail, I hang up without leaving a message. Fuck.

  “Who lives here, Daddy?”

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  “Is Aunt Zadie here?”

  “I doubt it. I think there’s been a mistake.”

  Caleb leans forward, as far as the straps of his car seat will allow, and shields his eyes with one hand, like an explorer pondering uncharted territory.

  “They have a tennis court!” Caleb crows. “Let’s go see.”

  “Caleb, stay in the car. I’ll go see what’s up.” I switch off the engine and, with a sigh, hop out onto the side of the road.

  Next to the gatepost, just as Zadie indicated there would be, is a keypad. Maybe she’s renting a guest cottage on the property? With a sigh, I enter the code that she gave me: 1-9-8-0.

  Nothing.

  A family on bikes pulls up beside our car. The kids are in tennis whites, their hair combed back into perfect blond braids. Their mom wears a visor, a short tennis skirt, and a worried expression. She eyes our ancient Corolla, clearly wondering if we are gypsies setting up camp on the side of the road. She shoots her husband a look.

  “Can we help you?” he calls out.

  “Uh, no, thank you,” I say as pleasantly as I’m able.

  “Daddy!” Caleb bangs on the window. “I really have to poop again!”

  “One minute, Caleb!”

  “Are you lost?” the man persists.

  “Nope, just can’t read my own handwriting.” I wave the index card with the gate code.

  “Daddy, I’m pooping! I’m pooping right now!”

  The two girls giggle in unison.

  “We’re really fine,” I say.

  “Okay,” the dad says, unsure. He backs his bike slowly into the road. “Come on, guys,” he says to his family. As they ride away, the mom turns to check us out over her shoulder. She narrows her eyes at me, like maybe she’s contemplating a citizen’s arrest.

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “People.”

  I punch the code in again. Still nothing.

  “DAAAADDDYYY!” Caleb howls.

  “I’m coming, Caleb!”

  I try again, adding “#” after “1-9-8-0.”

  Suddenly a figure emerges from the house. He stands on the front porch, gesturing frantically in our direction. He’s yelling something, too, but I can’t quite make out what.

  “I’m sorry!” I shout. “I was just trying to open the gate!”

  The figure trots down the driveway with what looks like a remote control in his hand. He appears to be pointing it at me, as though I’m a channel that he can simply turn off with a click of a button.

  “It’s okay, I’m leaving!” I raise my hands over my head, palms up.

  “Stop! Stay right there!” the man shouts. I freeze in place. His face has turned shiny and red from exertion, and with each step his gut bounces up, then down, then up again. It’s probably been a while since he had to chase someone off his property.

  When he reaches the gate, he bends over, hands on knees, panting. After a second he straightens up. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m a little out of breath.”

  “You okay, man?” I ask, not sure what to do. The guy looks like he might have a heart attack. “I have water in my car if you need it.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. So sorry about the gate. We’ve been having trouble with it all week.” He holds up the remote control. “This is supposed to open it in a pinch, but it doesn’t seem to be working, either.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m really sorry to have troubled you.” I glance back at the car and wonder how this guy would feel about us using his bathroom.

  “Nonsense. No trouble at all.”

  “Daddy!” Caleb screams from the car. “I wanna get out right now! I POOPED!”

  “Oh, goodness,” the man says. “Let’s get you all inside.” He disappears into a hydrangea bush, out of view. Suddenly, the gate springs to life.

  “There you are!” he calls from the shrubbery.

  “Oh, thank you, but—”

  “I need a bathroom NOW!”

  The leaves rustle as the man emerges. “The name’s Sam Ives. Just call me Ives; everyone else does,” he says. He sounds disheartened by this admission, as though he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to call him by his proper name but has long since given up hope. “Just follow the drive up to the house. You can park right by the front door. I’ll meet you up there. That little boy needs a bathroom!”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding gratefully. Caleb’s screaming has reached a crescendo and I’m in no position to argue. We’ll just use their facilities and leave. “Thank you so much. We’ll be right up!”

  “You’d better hurry! Looks like this is a bit of a family emergency.” And with that, Ives takes off again, lumbering towards the house.

  The Stranger’s House

  “Caleb, you’re really going to have to just chill out.”

  This dictum comes out harsher than intended. Caleb falls into a guilt-inducing silence.

  “I’m sorry, bud,” I say, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “I feel bad,” Caleb whimpers. “Really bad.” I take a longer look, then try not to freak out. Caleb does, in fact, look bad. The color has drained from his face. His hair, once filled with static, now sticks damply to his forehead. It occurs to me for the first time that Caleb isn’t whining. He’s sick.

  “Do you feel hot?” I say, my foot pressing down on the gas.

  “No,” he whispers. “Yes. I feel cold and hot.”

  I accelerate more than I should, given that I’m on a stranger’s property. I catch a reproachful stare from a gardener pruning a gigantic poodle-shaped topiary.

  “Daddy, slow down!”

  “I’m sorry, bud, I’m just trying to get you to a bath—”

  “HUWHUP.” The car fills with a noxious smell, and the sound of Caleb hurling his guts out.

  “Oh, shit. Caleb, you okay?”

  Caleb doesn’t answer. He’s doubled over in his car seat.

  I gun the engine and pull up in front of the house. As I step out onto the gravel drive, the front door of the house swings open. Ives strides through it, pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.

  “Hello again!” he calls out to me.

  “My son just threw up,” I announce as I race to open the passenger-side door. Norman hops out behind me, his tail wagging in the fresh air.

  Caleb squawks and flails as I attempt to release him from his car sea
t. To my horror, not only is vomit everywhere, but poop is smeared across his thighs and, inexplicably, across his left cheek. A small streak has made it as far as the door handle. It looks as though he’s been quietly finger-painting in the stuff for the last three hours.

  “Daddy!” Caleb says gratefully. As I unsnap the car seat buckle, he reaches for me.

  My heart melts a little.

  It’s not until I lift him up that I see the full extent of the problem. How a thirty-eight-pound child could produce that much poop defies imagination.

  Trying not to breathe through my nose, I scoop Caleb out of the seat. He wraps his body around me like a baby koala. He smells horrible and his skin is clammy and hot. I can feel the squelch of bodily fluid on my neck as he nuzzles his face against it. If the kid is sick, there’s no way I won’t catch whatever’s ailing him. I don’t care. All I can think about right now is getting him washed, dried, and tucked into a warm, fluffy bed.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” he murmurs, then rests his head on my shoulder.

  An almost superhuman burst of energy courses through my body as I run towards the house. I’ve got this, I think. I am going to fix this problem.

  Then Zadie and Buck walk through the front door of the house and time grinds to a screeching halt.

  “Zadie?” I say, stupefied. Caleb lifts his head off my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  Zadie’s hand falls onto the shoulder of the man in the wheelchair. Oh my God, I think, everything clicking into place. It’s finally happened. Zadie’s gone back to her job as an in-home health aide for the elderly, and she’s going to leave Caleb and me in the lurch. Inviting us to her new client’s multimillion-dollar Hamptons house is certainly one way to tell me.

  Zadie is employed and getting married. I know I should be happy for her, but instead I’m consumed with rage. In fact, if Caleb wasn’t potentially dying in my arms, I’d get back into my car and just drive home. How could she not give me some advanced warning? The engagement itself is bad enough, but now this? How am I going to explain this to Caleb? And how can she just stand there behind that man—her new charge—instead of rushing to help us?