“My only sister. I’m not sure. When I spoke to my mom about it, she mentioned that the treatment wasn’t working the way they anticipated it would. I’m not sure how she is after that setback.”
“Should we find out?”
“Find out? You want me to text for an update?”
“No, silly. Haven’t you noticed the address on the GPS?” Of course I didn’t notice the address on the GPS. The interior of this car looks like a cockpit. I don't want to touch, or evenlook at anything I’m not supposed to in case the car careens off the icy roads. Wait, that’s… my parent’s house!
“You’re not, we’re not?—”
“I am. We are. You didn’t think we’d stop with nutrient-dense poached turkey and fucking low-calorie leaves, did you?” My stomach still protests the bland food.
“Mason, you warned me about your family; I feel it’s only right that I do the same.”
“Your family all despise each other, and only act as a front for the delusional train wreck they are, so the public is none the wiser?”
“Not quite.”
“Well, what could be worse than poached turkey with a side of Malice?”
We pull up to the bungalow with older pickups in the front yard and the smell of home-cooked food wafting down the street when we park. There isn’t space for the Bugatti and two Escalades, so the guys double-park: one out front and the other in the back. Half a dozen relatives, all with blown eyes and open mouths, loiter on the porch as we arrive, alerted by the Bugatti’s naturally aspirated V16 engine.
“Holy fuck, Bubble, whose car is that?” Who the fuck is Bubble?
Bubble, I realized approximately three point six seconds later, is my EPA. Sabrina Broe, rhymes with snow, is known affectionately as Bubble, rhymes with trouble. She’s greeted warmly by every person in the yard and inside the house, no exceptions. A baby materializes from nowhere and is thrust into her arms, but not before a hairy horse comes galloping toward us, minus the saddle and rider.
“Oh, Jesus, sorry. Wait. Hey, can somebody grab the dog?” Bri yells before making tentative steps inside the house while holding the screen door open with her hip and toting a baby on the other. She flicks the ends of her hair out of the grabby child’s fists while adjusting the fall décor on the door. I’ve always known the woman can multitask. Now I understand why. It’s a circus.
“And who is this exquisite specimen then?” A woman steps forward, wiping her hands on faded jeans. She has the same dark hair as Bri, with a mix of softer browns and the beginning of some temple grays.
“Mom, this is Mason. Mason, this is my mom, Molly.” Molly reaches for me, but instead of holding out her hand in greeting, pulls me into her for an embrace so fierce it could double as a vice. She’s shorter than Bri by a couple of inches, but just as robust.
“Oooohhhh, Mason is magnificent,” croons another voice, an almost clone of Molly Broe.
“Fuck, Aunt Maeve. Don’t go scaring Bubble’s date.”
People descend on us like farm animals to a feed trough. This horse-dog keeps sniffing my crotch and the baby, having given up on Bri’s/Bubble’s hair, now reaches for my jacket.
“Fuck, don’t let the dog out. Chippy! Where is Chippy? Bubble, have you seen Chippy? He was just here.” She might as well be speaking a foreign language. If Bubble is Sabrina, and we will be getting to the bottom of that later, is Chippy the guy at the door, the one who yelled at Aunt Maeve? Chippy must be the brother, okay, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Bubble?” My brow arches as the smirk breaks free.
“Ugh, I’ll explain later.” A hint of blush coats the apples of her cheeks.
“Oh, yes, you will.”
“Oh my God, look at that bracelet; it almost looks real! Glyndon come see this.”
We are smooshed down a hall to the side of a sitting room overflowing with beanbags and cushions, toy cars and spilled chips the dog hasn’t noticed yet because it’s attached to my groin. Shoo! The walls heave under a collage of framed photographs. There must be over fifty. Family pictures of sevenof them standing in front of a beat-up old truck in a paddock somewhere. There’s a cluster of five photographs displayed in a frame with seashells, depicting tiny Broe children with plastic toys and sandcastles. Another is a shot of all boys in hockey gear on a frozen pond with a goal fashioned from pipe and some kind of orange netting. These are snapshots of joy. Camping, snow days, and beach castles. Three kids, four kids, and shots of all six. The younger daughter is the spitting image of Sabrina, with shorter hair and a shy smile. She has terrible hairstyles in the earlier photos, or is that Sabrina? I don’t want to move from this time capsule of made memories and a family that enjoyed spending time with each other. These walls are as foreign as their language.
“Bri, we need to call Trys and get him over here. He would love this!” I take in the chaotic scene, the dog hair sticking to everything but the horse dog with its nose still hovering near my crotch.
“Um, sure.” Her hesitation is surprising.
“Tell him to ditch his contacts and wear those glasses.” She nods.
Is she trying to keep her worlds so separate that she’s uncomfortable with even me being present? Trystan’s remaining family would vie with mine for the biggest assholes in existence, hence his refusal of the earlier invitation to Greenwich. But this scene, this spontaneous sitcom would warm the cockles of his cavernous, rusty heart.
“I’ll pay for the extra food. I… I just think that he needs something like this.”
