The Emergency Mom Handbook

The Emergency Mom Handbook

1.     Turn on the radio. Wipe down the kitchen counter. Get lost in the sultry tunes of slow jazz. Let the subtle rays of late afternoon sunshine warm you through the open window, while you shut your eyes and inhale, letting your sense of smell tell you if the chicken is ready for plating.

2.     Open your eyes. Pout.

3.     Remember: You never turned on the music because, let’s be real, who still listens to jazz? The chicken is on the stove, yeah, but it never started browning, because you can’t find the lighter, and can’t be bothered to go retro and use matchsticks.

4.     Hit your head against the overhead cabinet because you’re not Martha freaking Stewart.

5.     Believe the hyperactive little beast that is your brother has everything to do with the lighter’s disappearance.

I whip the freezer door open and stick my head inside. I imagine that my contented sigh, in an alternate reality, would leave me deflated. Tendrils of icy air weave through my damp hair, spreading a fleeting calm through my bones, no matter how unhealthy.

But it’s only a fleeting calm. A bout of anxiety kicks in when I smell the thick musk of sweet marinade. The chicken. Mother did her due, soaked it in sweet red sauce the night before. All I have to do is introduce it to some good fire. I shake my head – and wince, because a crick whose source I can’t identify has settled in my neck. ‘Babysit,’ Mom said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said. ‘Preparation for when you have your own little ones.’

My right hand clenches. My own little ones will be nothing like this monster. ‘Donald!’

‘Waaaaah!’ His squeal rings both loud and patchy, as if he runs out of air at random points in the middle.

My lips wrinkle in barely repressed anger. I make it to the kitchen doorway without breaking anything. ‘Where is the—’

I don’t recognize the living room.

It’s vaguely familiar, I’ll give it that. I can make out the three framed photographs on one wall, and the pastel herringbone curtains parted to let light in through the French windows. But that’s where it ends, the familiarity. The walls, normally white – only white – now boast a gathering of uncoordinated, scraggly lines of different colours, like the quickly rendered skeleton of an impressionist drawing. Throw pillows have been plucked from their cozy nooks in the couch and flung to odd spots on the floor in a badly done mosaic. The brown wooden knee-high cylinder that’s our centre table lies now on its side, swaying back and forth on its axis as if recovering from its fall. Its former occupants, books and a vase of artificial flowers, are strewn over the carpet. The carpet! My hand flies to my chest. A bottle lies on the floor, its red contents soaking steadily through the zebra-striped wool.

In the midst of this fine mess, my little brother runs, a hand stretched to either side of him, making whirring noises.

My hands dig into my hair. White hot rage babbles within my gut, threatening to spill over. With my remaining sanity I keep my hands balled. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Look at me, Melissa!’ The little devil doesn’t stop. ‘I’m an airplane!’ he cries, running over the throw pillows like he doesn’t have shoes on.

Of course he is.

‘Did I not just—’ I press my right knuckles to my mouth. My eyes flutter shut.

6.     Breathe. Think about it. It’s your fault, anyway. You let him have all that sugar from earlier.

What was I supposed to do, though? How was I to know Mother only let him have a couple of cookies at a time, instead of just placing the entire jar in front of him? Which, in hindsight, may have been a little irresponsible on my part. But the boy was wearing me out. I thought it would get him to shut up. I don’t know all the tricks in the book. I’ve only been babysitting him for the past five hours. Boy, Mother doesn’t get enough credit.

Like I won’t have enough stain remover to deal with that red splotch in the carpet if I don’t pick up the bottle immediately.

I bend to pick it up. A sharp pain shoots up my hamstring and slices through my lower back, and I almost topple over in shock. Where is this stuff even coming from?

The sound of the phone ringing from a few light years away is in that moment the persistent glow of a weak, defiant light that fights overwhelming darkness. I am not remotely philosophical, or so concerned about staying in touch with my fellow man that hearing the phone ring is salve to my dry, lonely heart. But right now anything that takes my mind off my brother is welcome. A Cthulhu could burst in through the front door and I would hug him.

‘You’re still coming?’ are the first words that spill out over the line when I answer the call in my room, because my friend Pat isn’t keen on the social convention called greeting.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘I can’t.’ Knots tighten in my chest. ‘I’m babysitting.’

‘For real?’ Her shock and disappointment carry so palpably over the connection that she may as well be in my room. ‘We’ve been talking about this party forever!’

‘I know!’ I groan, collapsing unto the bed. ‘But I’m the only one here with Donald. Mom had to go this conference out of town. She’ll be back in the morning.’

There’s a pause. I gather she is looking for a way to guilt-trip me, even when I’ve got a solid argument. It’s easy to imagine she would do it because we are two of the same kind.

I brace myself.

‘You know Mad Symmetry is going to be there right?’

‘Wow, Pat.’ Her words are a well-thrown jab at my midsection, and I feel the breath flit out of me. That little detail is not one I needed to hear.

‘Yup.’ Her picture is clear in my mind now, and I know her teeth are raking her upper lip, while she wears a tiny, victorious smile. ‘And you got that dress.’

‘Don’t remind me Pat.’ But there it is, her words tearing at my defenses. The sweet memory of watching myself in the mirror while I stood there, in that dress, swirls before my eyes and doesn’t go away.

‘Oh, you’re reminded. You better come.’

‘You don’t understand.’ I knead my forehead. It doesn’t do anything to halve the headache I suddenly realize I have. ‘Donald is five!’ And there are no neighbours I know who I can dump him on at such short notice. ‘How can I—’

‘He’s your little brother,’ Pat says. ‘Figure it out.’

Figure it out.

It will be wise to ignore Pat. It’s one party, right? Another one will come, with better conditions. Mom will be home, and I can go, no problems. What’s to say it’s going to be the best party of the fall anyway?

Mad Symmetry, that’s what. The only indie rock band that worked its way into my heart and won’t leave. They own the larger chunk of my phone memory, from their newest releases right down to when they were newbies practicing covers for YouTube. I can’t miss it. It’s too important.

I plod down the stairs, pinching my lips. Figure it out. I head into the kitchen, flip open one of the cabinets and take a bottle each of vinegar and rubbing alcohol. Figure it out. I take a bowl and fill it with some liquid from each bottle, and yank a white cloth from an open drawer. Figure it out. Bowl in one hand, cloth in the other, I walk back into the living room, where Donald has converted the pillows into a trampoline, and screams ‘Wee!’, his arms high above his head, every time his feet leave the cushions. Figure it out. I get on my knees beside the carpet. I soak the cloth in the solution, then begin to sponge the stain. The sharp reek of vinegar and alcohol pricks my novice nostrils, and my eyes begin to water—

7.     Figure it out.

I gasp, jerking backward. That’s it. The kid is a menace. It may not be the most legal thing—or the at all legal thing—but if it gets me to the party, if it gets me to see Mad Symmetry performing live, then it won’t be such a bad thing. Will it?

Yes. I exhale, forcing myself to think like the responsible twenty-year-old I am not. Mother will not approve. Mother will yell my ears off and take away all my privileges if she finds out. No, I decide, picking up the cloth again. I won’t do it. There’ll be another opportunity to see them perform. In the end, Donald is a menace, but he’s a menace I can’t sacrifice for a night of crazy dancing.

A paper plane whizzes through the air and pokes me in the eye. ‘Hey!’

Donald giggles. ‘Mayday!’

I have no idea what he’s getting at. Then again, I didn’t realize he quit jumping long enough to start building airplanes, so maybe I’ve been a little absentminded. It’s not his fault. I brush aside the plane. It unfolds.

And then I see it. It’s a full length page, covered in the front and the back, with magazine and newspaper cutouts, each with a little handwritten note to one side of it. The cutouts are pictures and fragments of stories about Mad Symmetry. The handwritten notes are in my handwriting.

My hands shake as I lower the paper. I look around. On the ground are similar paper aircrafts. A few drift sadly in the air before plopping to the ground. Their mad architect, instead of just resurrecting them, is ripping more sheets out of a scrapbook.

My fangirl scrapbook.

8.     Let the dude have some juice.

I tip a carton of orange juice over a red cup. I rescued the scrapbook, or what remained of it, along with the pieces that littered the living room floor. Donald, impermeable to guilt, decided he was no longer interested in aviation, and brought out his bucket of trucks. Which would be no problem, except his concept of trucks is not to roll them on the ground, but to throw them and clap as they hurtle through the air.

I pull the bottle of brandy from where it hides in the kitchen cabinet. Before I am attacked by a cycle of good thoughts, I twist the cap off and pour it into the cup, stopping just before it reaches the rim. I pat my cheeks, pumping myself with courage. Let’s do this.

I walk out of the kitchen. ‘Donald?’ He doesn’t look up from where he’s slamming a red and yellow truck on the ground, not stopping till the rear bumper snaps off. ‘Thirsty?’

Five minutes. That’s all it takes before I’m carrying Donald up the stairs – really, how this light thing over my shoulder causes so much ruckus is beyond me – and into his bedroom. When I shut his door, it’s my turn to jump for joy. Finally! A moment of peace. I relish it. 

9.     Clean up. No, you’re not supposed to throw his toys in the garbage. Yes, that includes the broken ones. Yeah, they’re broken, but he’s a five-year-old. He can work out a way to play with them.

10. Scrub up. Get that sickly smell of perspiration out of your hair, girl! Use your mother’s shampoo. And oils. You’ve been mom for a day. You deserve it. Now go wear that dress. Admire yourself. Mm-hmm! Who is this breathtaking daughter of Eve? Douse yourself in more perfume. And wear your good shoes too. There’s lots of dancing on the way!

11. Now go out and party!

The phone rings again as I’m zipping up my black patent ankle boots. ‘Hey Mom,’ I say, getting up to spritz on more perfume. ‘What’s up? How’s town?’

‘A disappointment.’ She snorts. ‘I’m coming home.’

‘What?’ My voice is thinner than I remember it.

‘Yeah. I’ve been driving now for about an hour, in fact.’

My knees buckle. I fall bum first on the bed. ‘But you’re due tomorrow!’

‘They called off the rest of the meeting, Melissa,’ she says. I hear honking horns in the background. Goodness, she really is coming home. ‘Shouldn’t you be happy? Last time we spoke you were complaining about what a pain your brother is.’

‘That I was, but um—’

‘Gotta go,’ she says. ‘Cops ahead. See you soon!’

The phone falls out my hand and soundlessly unto the bed.

12. Top off the remaining brandy with Coke. Then check to see if your brother is still alive.

My brother lies on the large bed. He doesn’t stir. This is the most peaceful I have seen him. And the scariest. ‘Hey.’ My fingers circle his wrist, and I shake him. He doesn’t move.

I sigh. I’ve taken off the boots, but I wear the sequined dress still, as if expecting a miracle of sorts. Maybe Mother will come and allow me to go. I have cleaned up the living room as best as I can. The drawings on the wall have faded, the stain in the carpet isn’t conspicuous. The pillows are back on the sofa.

Donald just has to show signs of life.

‘Don.’ I nudge him. He doesn’t move. I sweep freshly curled hair behind one ear and place my head on his chest.

There is no heartbeat.

A strangled squeal escapes me. I wrench my head up, my eyes wide with horror. There is no heartbeat. ‘Donald!’ With both hands I grab him by the shoulders and shake, till I can almost hear the rattle of teeth in both our mouths. When I leave him, he falls limply back unto the bed.

13. Do damage control.

‘Hello?’ I swipe at a tear that falls on my cheek, and press my trembling hand to my equally trembling lips.

‘191. What is your emergency?’

‘Um.’ Hot tears sting the corners of my eyes. ‘I, um—’

‘Yes, ma’am? Go ahead ma’am.’

‘I just—’ I lick my lips, searching for courage. ‘My friend.’ That’s the route I choose to take. I’m shameless. ‘She accidentally… she gave her little brother alcohol. By mistake. And now he’s not moving.’

For what seems like lifetimes there isn’t a sound on the other end. And then, ‘Ma’am? Did you give a toddler—’

I cut it before I can hear the judgement in her voice. I crumble unto Donald’s bedroom floor, not even feeling it when my skin strikes concrete. Unseen frosty fingers claw at my skin. My throat feels like it’s closing in on itself. I’m a murderer. I killed my brother. And all for what? One show.

The sound of a car pulling into our driveway downstairs is the final nail my coffin needs.

When I appear at the door my face is wiped clean of makeup and tears. I swapped my dress for pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. ‘Mother, welcome,’ I say, with as much cheer as I can muster, and hug her before she can see my bloodshot eyes. ‘You were missed!’ Too much.

‘Ah, feels good,’ she says into my hair. ‘The house looks nice.’ I giggle, pulling back, and swiveling so my face is still hidden. ‘Where’s Donald?’

‘Asleep.’ I walk back up the stairs. ‘And, uh, sorry Mother. Couldn’t do the chicken. But if you want I can microwave you some dinner.’

‘He was that much trouble, huh?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well don’t worry about it.’ I hear her coming up the stairs behind me. Unmanned rockets go off within my chest. ‘I’m not really hungry. I’ll just kiss my baby goodnight—’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ I say, stopping in front of Donald’s door. ‘I mean, he’ll be fine. Plus I’ll stay with him tonight anyway.’

One of her penciled eyebrows does a slow rise. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Melissa?’

I laugh, staring at my toes. ‘Maybe being his mom for a day changed me.’

14. Hug him and hope for the best.

‘Melissa? Why are you in my room?’

My eyes snap open. Donald stares up at me from our embrace, his big eyes confused. ‘Oh my God you’re alive!’ I squeeze him against me, chuckling into his mop of curls, careful not to snuff out the air in his lungs. Thank you God! ‘Mother’s back,’ I say, when we pull apart.  

‘Mom’s here? Moooooom!’ In the next instant he’s up and flying off the bed, and tearing out the door. I swing my leg over the bed, shaking my head. I pick my phone off from the bedside table. 10:53 P.M. Six thousand missed calls from Pat.

When I walk out, Mother’s sitting on the couch, eating a microwave dinner, while her son stands in front of her, talking. ‘And I made airplanes. And then Melissa gave me funny juice—’

I freeze while descending the stairs.

‘Funny juice?’ Mother asks.

‘Yes! It was really nice. And then I slept! And now you’re heeeeeere!’

Mother looks over her shoulder. But I am quicker. I disappear into my bedroom.

The Emergency Mom Handbook, Revised

1.     Leave the Mom duties to your mother.