Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(17)

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Brooke clucks.

My third oldest sister, Linda-the-middle-child, shrugs. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Let’s make believe we’re wherever that is.”

Linda is a bestselling sci-fi author who walks around with a purse full of scribble-filled sticky notes and a pencil stuck in her hair—sometimes several pencils. Linda shares custody of her son, Javen, with her recently exed ex-wife, and the only clothes I’ve ever seen her wear are pajamas, sweatpants and—if she’s feeling fancy—jeans.

Next is Erin—we’ve covered her pretty thoroughly already.

And last, there’s me.

My dad’s a retired sanitation worker, a union guy, and my mom is a retired florist. They’re great parents—affectionate, supportive—and tired. They’ve been tired for as long as I can remember. I guess raising five girls successfully to womanhood will do that to you.

Two years ago we all pitched in to send Mom and Dad on a cruise through Alaska. When they got home, they showed us the pictures from the trip and they were almost all photos of their stateroom. Because they slept—the whole week.

For the next few hours, my family unpacks their cars, stacking everything in the den and the garage where my designated work area will be. Because Snow White was right, and whistling—or bopping out to music—while you work is always better, I hook my phone to the Bluetooth speakers installed throughout the house and pull up my moving-day playlist. Songs by Smashmouth, and Tina Turner, “New Fav Thing” by the Danger Twins. It makes the time go faster and it’s funny to see my mom and dad shaking their booties at one another as they carry stuff in.

Most of the items are raw materials—paints, tools, brushes, fabrics and faux furs I’ll eventually make into curtains, accent pillows and rugs. There are some larger, used furniture items that I’ll refinish and refurbish into new, unique pieces. This is a big house—it’s not going to be easy filling it on a tight budget

“Did you pull this out of a flood zone?” Judith looks down at the warped, worn side-cabinet she and Linda just dragged in.

“No—I scooped it up from Mrs. Kumar’s curb on the last heavy pickup day.”

“What the hell is this for?” Jack, Erin’s boyfriend, gestures towards the rusty, patina coated, penny-farthing, high-wheel bicycle I found at a flea market in Pennsylvania.

I gaze at the bicycle warmly—like the treasure it is—because I love what I do.

“I’m either going to use the big wheel as the base for an accent table—or just hang the whole thing on the wall. I haven’t decided yet.”

I’ve always been a picker, a dumpster diver, a saver-for-laterer, a recycler. It makes me sad to think of something that was once loved being discarded without a second thought.

When I was a preteen and outgrew my immense collection of stuffed animals, instead of tossing them like my mother wanted—I sliced them open and gutted them. I used their stuffing to make new pillows and sewed their fuzzy pelts together to make a one-of-a-kind rug for my bedroom floor.

Morbid? Possibly.

But it gave a new purpose to the furry companions that had seen me through thunder storms and scary movies and tummy aches.

I was a lifestyle blogger at heart before the words even existed.



~



After everything’s been moved in, and the den resembles the overstocked junk yard of an owner with fabulous taste, the family enjoys pizza and cocktails on the back patio. I’m with Jack and Erin in the kitchen making more lemonade, both the adult and kid-friendly kind.

I bend over slightly at the waist, rubbing my breasts covertly with my forearm, wanting to just full-out massage the poor girls. Because they’re aching—a cold, excruciating, throbbing sort of pain—like my nipples have frostbite.

“You okay?” Erin asks.

“Yeah—it’s just my boobs are killing me.” I glance at Jack, leaning against the white marble counter. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Boobs are my second favorite thing to talk about.”

“What’s the first thing?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re sister’s boobs.”

Erin laughs, then she turns to me, still smiling.

“Oh, my God—do you know what I just thought of? Remember, when you were preggers with Jay—but you were still hiding it from Mom and Dad? And we were all home from school in the car going to get the Christmas tree, and your boobs were hurting so bad, that you had them pressed up against the heating vents in the back of the car? You said it felt like they were frozen—two boobsicles.”

“As if I could ever forget.” I snort out a chuckle. “That sucked.”

But then I stop chuckling.

And everything inside me freezes—going as stone-cold as my poor chilly nipples. Because I did forget—what it felt like to be pregnant. The early signs.

It’s like God gives women amnesia about the really shitty parts of child-bearing, so we won’t mind doing it again and again. But now, in this kitchen—it’s like a horrible lightning bolt of epiphany has struck me. Like the blinders have fallen away.

And I remember all the early symptoms. The soul-deep exhaustion, the heavy, sluggish, bloated feeling, the nausea . . . the painful, aching breasts.