Deus ex Machina

"I can't sleep."

John lay awake in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing, while his wife Breana slept soundly beside him. His hands were clasped behind his neck. Every time he closed his eyes, dreadful thoughts reopened them. He hadn't slept well since Breana told him what she had done.

I can't go on like this, he thought. He climbed out of bed and took his phone into the living room. He keyed in the number he'd seen written on a city bus advertisement. 

"Need a miracle? Call anytime."

John called now. 

"I need help," he whispered into the phone.

~*~

"People make plans to make God laugh" was displayed on a sign over the door. "Miracles made your way" was written on a stand-up plaque near the check-in window. Other words of inspiration were placed on framed scenic photos or written on the walls in calligraphy. The chairs were lush. People spoke in whispers. The lighting was meant to put everyone at ease, and it helped some.  

"John, what are we doing here?" asked Breana. "We don't need this place. Everything is going to work out. We'll be fine."

"It won't be fine. Oh, baby, please! Just listen to what they have to say. I'm losing sleep over this."

"They must be expensive," said Breana, looking over the room. "Are you sure we can afford it?"

"The initial consult is free."

A woman in a white uniform holding a clipboard called them in.

She smiled and made small talk while leading them down a hallway wallpapered with clouds of heralding angels.

"My name is Barbara," she introduced herself as they walked.

Breanna and John exchanged their own formalities, though Barbara had already called them by name. She smiled bigger.

"Any plans for the upcoming holidays?"

"That's why we're here," answered John. He had an urge to bite his nails. He hadn't done that since he was ten.  

Barbara opened the door to a lavish office and had them sit in front of a grand desk. "We have tea, coffee, and Perrier. Can I bring you anything?"

They both asked for the Perrier. The drinks arrived in crystal glasses with lemon garnishes.

"Mr. McKay will be right in."

Barbara left them alone, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

John bit into the nail on his index finger. Breanna crossed her arms and legs and made circles with her ankle.

When the door opened again, a tall man with a waxed mustache smiled from the doorway.

"Welcome to Deus ex Machina, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper!" he exclaimed. "You can call me Mac!"

He shook each of their hands, and just like that, they were all on a first-name basis.

Mac made small talk as he logged into his computer.

"Any plans for the upcoming holidays?"

"That's why we're here," answered John, once more.

Mac nodded while gleaning information from their file now up on the screen.

"So, you've been married for three years," he said. "And you're going to have twins! Congratulations!"

He smiled, looking from Breana's face to John's.

"You understand, of course, that we do not provide any type of sitter service, nor do we change diapers in the middle of the night."

"Oh, if only our problems were so minor," John bemoaned. He brought his finger toward his mouth and stopped as soon as he became aware of doing so. "We are here because my darling wife, and she is darling to me, I'm not mad at her exactly, but she made plans concerning me and my family without my consent. I'm very upset about it. I wake up at night covered in sweat."

"And I don't understand what he's so upset about," Breana chimed in. "I've got everything under control. All I've done is what any normal newly expecting woman would do. I've invited both sets of our parents to the holiday dinner. I want to tell them they are about to become grandparents, and it's important that they find out at the same time. Otherwise, no matter what I do, one of the mothers or fathers will accuse me of telling the other first, and they'll make my life a living hell; you can count on it."

"A living hell is right—you have no idea," John added. "What my sweetheart, whom I love with all my heart and soul, has failed to account for is that our parents are four people who should not be within striking distance of each other, much less attend the same dinner in a small, confined space."

John stopped speaking to attack a second nail.

"I have it all worked out. Just listen," Breana said more to John than Mac. "We'll serve dinner exactly thirty minutes after everyone arrives, no matter how outrageous things become."

"Hold on," said Mac. "Let me enter the information into the program, so we have some statistics to look at when you're through."

After a pause and some quick keystrokes, Mac motioned Breana to continue.  

"Like I said, thirty minutes after everyone arrives, I'll call them to dinner. As we eat, we'll go around the table and ask everyone to name something they're thankful for, and then when it's our turn, we'll make our announcement—together. Our parents will react or overreact as they always do, and whatever they say will be okay.

"After the meal, the men will move into the living room to watch football with the hope that they won't argue over the teams. A little shouting at the television is acceptable, of course.

"The women will stay in the kitchen to help me clean. Here, I'll fill my heart with gladness and agree with whatever well-meaning advice they offer. I'll also say I'm sorry when they criticize me, and they will because they can't help it. When my mother-in-law accuses me of forgetting to salt the potatoes, I'll slap my forehead and say she's right. When my mother tells me I shouldn't wear whatever color I'm wearing because it washes me out, I'll thank her and tell her I didn't know. I'll clamp down my tongue and sing Put on a Happy Face inside my head for however long it takes. Once the cleanup is finished, I'll serve the coffee and pumpkin pie. After that, John will tell everyone I need my rest, and we'll kiss them goodbye. Four hours tops from start to finish, and the worst will be behind us."

Mac clicked to the next screen.

"The program has picked up a few keywords and phrases that need clarification—the first item being, no matter how outrageous things become." 

One by one, John and Breana clarified, and Mac keyed in the information. At the end, he clicked something with his mouse, and a paper crept out of the printer into his hand. He scanned it over through a pair of reading glasses.

"In short," Mac put forth. "Both couples are divorced and single. Breana, your father is a heavy drinker and licensed to carry. John, your father will likely bring a date younger than your mother by twenty or more years. No one likes the same football team. There have been two hair-pulling scuffles between the mothers, with one occurring at your wedding and a rematch at someone's neighborhood barbecue that the two of you did not even attend."

"That pretty much sums it up," said John. "Though there was one other time…"

"Shh!" Breana cautioned. John clamped his lips together.

While the computer tallied the results, Breana and John stepped out for a break. They clasped hands, and their looks said, "We stand united." 

When they returned, Mac dimmed the lights, and a pie chart appeared on the wall.

"According to the chart, the chance of having the family dinner you've envisioned, Breana, is 1%," Mac explained. "That's a 99% probability that some aspect of the holiday dinner will fail, and it could be something as minor as a spilled drink. However, what's alarming is this whopping 50% prediction that the event will spiral into anarchy."

Mac paused to enlarge the chart to highlight the starred definition at the bottom of the page.

"Our definition of anarchy means police involvement with someone going to jail, someone injured, or someone dying."

"I was right," John blurted out. A victory fist shot into the air emphasizing the word right. He gave a sheepish grin when Breana turned his way.

"The good news is that you came to the right place. We can help." Mac fist-bumped each of them before continuing. "We'll start with the costliest, most extravagant solution and work our way down until we find an option and price range for which you both feel comfortable."

John and Breana exchanged a look that said hope had come.

"We're ready to listen," Breana agreed.

"You won't be sorry," Mac smiled. "Before we proceed, is there any way you could call your families and cancel?"

"Don't you think we've already tried? Broken stove, a rat problem, quarantined with Ebola for thirty days. They want to come over and help. Don't waste your money, they say. I can fix your stove; I'll bring some rat traps; Ebola doesn't scare me. I'll bring a pot of chicken soup."

The pie chart was replaced with a photo of the local power company.

"Power outages work. No one wants to come over when the power is out. No chargers, no microwave, no TV, no wi-fi. Of course, this will affect all of your neighbors and ruin the holiday dinners of the workers who get called in. Inevitably, it will cost the power company money when they pay out triple-time. That's why this particular resolution is so pricey."

Despite the cost, they both considered the option, working the scenario this way and that.

"The problem is that all this will do is put things off for a bit," Breana said. "We would still need some way to tell the news all at once so no one feels they were second or third or last to know. Our parents have powerful feelings and don't know how to let go of things. It's what they all have in common."

"Also, texting is not an option," John said. "They never read them, even if we call and ask them to read a text we just sent."

Mac moved on.

John grew discouraged as the slides clicked by. The main problem was that none of the solutions fit their situation exactly. If the objective was merely to prevent their parents from doing bodily harm, then yes, several fixes were available. He looked at Breana. She wanted a day filled with fond memories, and he wanted to give that to her. Twins. Life wasn't going to be easy for some time to come. Unfortunately, getting different parents was not an option.

Barbara knocked on the door and entered with fresh drinks and a tray of cheerful holiday cookies.

The slide show continued.

Just as John was ready to pass on all the possibilities and go with the 1% chance that Breana's plan would actually work, something appeared on the screen that seemed so perfect, he couldn't help but smile. As Mac explained the pros, cons, and price, Breana reached for his hand. This was it, her smile said. This, is the one I want.

~*~

Smells of turkey and pumpkin spices filled the air. John dusted the living room and peeled potatoes at the sink while Breana basted the turkey and readied the cranberry relish. The radio played There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays.

An hour before the parents were set to arrive, the doorbell rang. A van lettered with Deus Ex Machina had pulled into the driveway, and two delivery men stood outside the door.

"Unless you want trouble with your neighbors, we should pull up to your back door."

Once "Divina" was in place, John signed the clipboard.

"We'll be back for her at six," smiled the man. "Happy holidays."

John nodded. They'd rented the unit for six hours. It came pre-coded with Breana's agenda. As soon as he turned the unit on, it began exploring its surroundings. The ready indicator turned green fifteen minutes before everyone was expected to arrive. After that, it settled into a spot between the living and dining room and seemingly went to sleep.

John's mother arrived first, dressed to the nines, carrying her pet Yorkie, Princess.

"I thought you were going to leave her at home," John said while taking his mother's faux fur jacket and kissing her on the cheek. Princess began yapping at once, and his mother froze.

"Is that a tiger?" she asked.

"Yup," said John. "We're babysitting. Don't worry. She's tame, and we've already fed her."

Divina raised her head and gave a low growl at Princess, sending the Yorkie's ears back, and she stopped yapping at once. Usually, Princess found a place to pee on the floor as soon as his mother set her down, but not this time. Grace Cooper kept the dog in her lap as John brought her a glass of red wine.

 "Is that a tiger?" Breana's father asked when he arrived. He carried a bottle of vodka and handed it to John.

"Yup," said John. "We're babysitting. Don't worry. She's tame. Her name is Divina."

John free-poured vodka into a glass of ice for his father-in-law, Phil. Phil took a seat, keeping a wary eye on the tiger.

John's father, Ike, arrived next with a young date on his arm. She was dressed skin-tight. When Grace harrumphed, the tiger raised its head and looked her way.

"Is that a tiger?" John's father asked.

"Yup," said John. "We're babysitting."

"I'm Vickie," smiled the date. She held a green bean casserole between potholders. John carried it into the kitchen.

"Does she look old enough to drink?" he asked Breana before pouring two more glasses of wine.

 Breana's mother, Dee, arrived last. She wore a holiday top with sparkly yoga pants.

"It looks like Thanksgiving threw up all over your sweater," Grace commented, but then paled when Divina growled with a wide mouth.

Phil swallowed what would have been a derisive laugh.

"Is that a tiger?"

""We're babysitting," said John. He twisted the cap from a beer bottle and passed it to her. She took a long swallow and sat down.

Phil pulled out a cigar, thought better of it with a glance at the tiger, and put it back.

Breana breezed in with a smile, a tray of tidbits, and warm embraces for all.

"I'm Vickie. Do you need any help in the kitchen?" Ike’s young date offered.

"That would be nice, thank you."

~*~

 "Dinner is ready," Vickie announced.

Divina snored softly as the parents tiptoed past. John carved the turkey and said a prayer of thanks for the feast. The rolls and side dishes were passed about, and then, without incident, everyone was settled.

When Breana stood to explain the thankfulness go-round, John wondered if they were pushing it. They'd never made it this far through a meal, without tears or someone's temper going off. Not even with only one parent present. By now, everyone should be too upset to eat.

"Mom, you'll go first," Breana explained to her mother.

Dee put down her fork and stood. "I'm thankful I'm no longer married to your good-for-nothing father."

At least, that's what John assumed she was going to say. Instead, Dee stopped dead with her lips still pressed together at the m sound in married when Divina let out a mighty roar.

"I mean, I'm thankful I'm no longer out of shape because of my yoga classes." She sat with a nervous laugh.

"I'm thankful for my new family," Vickie smiled to everyone at the same time. She had a perky way about her.

Nice things were said from all around the table. It didn't matter that the sentiments did not quite match the expressions on their faces. Didn't matter at all.

When it was their turn, John and Breana stood together and looked into each other's eyes. They'd practiced the words the night before.

"WERE THANKFUL WE'RE PREGNANT WITH TWINS!" they shouted as they showered everyone with the pink and blue confetti hidden in their pockets. It didn't matter that it landed in the gravy and the mashed potatoes.

Divina never stirred because those excited words had been entered as part of the program, and the uproar that followed was an expected response. Shouts of congratulations and hearty slaps on the back intermingled with genuine smiles. Vickie snapped photos from every angle and then air-dropped them into everyone's phones.

John liked to think the men helped clean the kitchen because they wanted to and not because they couldn't wait to leave. No one asked to watch football. As everyone worked together, Breana accepted the advice the mothers offered with a smile. No one criticized. It was Phil who suggested everyone leave right after dessert so Briana could get her rest. No one argued.

Surprisingly, just before leaving, John's mother asked Vickie for her green bean casserole recipe—all part of the same miracle that was this day.

~*~

"Five stars?" asked John over the survey.

Divina was gone. The Deus Ex Machina van had picked her up promptly at the time they said they would be there.

"Give them five but say ten in the actual review. I'm just so pleased with how everything turned out. It's nice to imagine that someday there might even be a Christmas…"

John shushed her with a kiss.