The Chicken Sisters(22)
“I go potty,” Ryder said.
“No problem, sweetie. We’re almost there.”
“No, I go potty now, now, Mommy, now—”
“One minute.” They were turning into Mimi’s. “One minute, really, less, I’m parking.”
“Now!” Ryder was squirming, trying to get to his own seat belt while Madison leaned over from her booster seat and pushed his hands away. “Now, now, now,” he roared, and then, “Oh.”
“Ryder!” Madison screamed. “Ryder, that stinks! Ryder, eww.”
Plane travel had not agreed with Ryder. Mae acted fast, without exactly knowing what she planned to do next, slamming the car into park and undoing her own seat belt as she opened her door, “It’s okay, Ryder. Hold still. Ryder! No!”
Ryder had put a hand under his bottom and pulled it out, obviously wet and dark, then slid from the seat, frantic, and wiped it on the back of the driver’s seat.
“Mommy! I’m dirty, get it off, get it off, Mommy!”
As she tried to pull him from the rental car while touching him as little as possible, he plunged his hand into her hair, trying to hang on. She swung him around into her body to get his hand away and found the front of her skirt and the bottom of her shirt in nearly as bad shape as everything Ryder was wearing. “Ryder! No! Hold still!” She put him down, fast, on his feet.
“I’m dirty! Mommy, clean me. I need new pants, Mommy. New pants. Not these pants. I don’t like these pants.”
“He’s going to need a new car seat, too,” Madison said sadly.
Or something. Damn. She had clothes—with her one clean hand, she carefully lifted the smaller of their two suitcases out of the hatchback—but she couldn’t clean this up without water, and lots of it. This was how she’d be making her return entrance to Mimi’s, then. Covered in shit and with a kid in even worse shape, and another kid hopping along helpfully narrating the whole thing.
“Mommy! How will we clean the car, Mommy? Will Grandma help? I’m going to tell Grandma Ryder pooped in the car.” Slowly, because Mae couldn’t put a hand on Madison and move her along, they made their way around the back of the restaurant, skirting the patio area and walking around behind the fence that separated it from the parking lot. Even with her attention on the kids, Mae could see that things looked worse than she had expected. A lot worse. The grass hadn’t been mowed, and clearly more than one patron had chosen to dump trash back here rather than in the trash cans on the side of the patio. Her optimism about this whole plan was disappearing fast. At least the door to the kitchen was propped open.
She gestured to Madison to stay behind her and leaned her head into the door, carefully holding both of Ryder’s hands so that he wouldn’t touch anything.
“Mom?”
The guy at the fryer was easily six three, as tall as Jay but with twice his bulk. He wore a black T-shirt, shorts with a white apron tied around his waist, and Mario Batali–style orange clogs. There was no sign of her mother. Instead, clearly framed by the pass-through window into the serving area, she saw the last person she wanted to see at this moment: Sabrina Skelly, Food Wars host. The convertible and the fancy van in the crowded parking lot suddenly made sense; how had she not realized they would beat her here? She’d turned back toward her car when Madison started to push past her.
“I want fries!” Mae hip-checked her daughter, still not wanting to touch her, and Madison fell to the floor dramatically, howling. “That hurt! Fries!” she said. “You said fries and chicken and I want fries and chicken and where is Grandma?”
Her shouts caught the attention of the cook, who started across the kitchen before cursing and turning back to the fryer, pulling out the chicken, plating it quickly, and grabbing two of the paper orders off the row in front of him.
Another woman Mae didn’t recognize leaned into the pass-through window from behind the counter. Sabrina had disappeared from view. “Can I help you?” the woman asked, but the man spoke over her, sliding the plated chicken through the window as he did.
“Door’s on the other side,” he said over his shoulder. “This is the kitchen. Go around.”
“I know this is the kitchen,” snapped Mae. “I know where the door is, too. I’m looking for my mother—Barbara. Barbara!” she repeated loudly, knowing it was hard to hear over the fryer but suspecting the man was ignoring her anyway. Who the hell did he think he was—and who was he, anyway? “My mother! Barbara! Is she here?” Mae cast a frantic look toward the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Had Sabrina heard her?
“You must be Mae, then,” the cook said, turning fully around. His expression was hard to read, but Mae thought he looked amused. “Finally. Your mom stuck around a long time waiting for you before she went home.” He put out a hand. “Andy.”
Damn him, he had been messing with her. He knew who she was. And Barbara went home? What the hell? Before Mae could react, Sabrina Skelly appeared in the door that connected the kitchen to the counter area, her face a perfect expression of delight and excitement, trailed by the inevitable camera. “Mae! Mae Moore!” She rushed forward, clearly ready to embrace Mae, and Mae frantically backed away from them both, holding up her hands.
“I really can’t,” she said. She pointed at her son, and she could see from Sabrina’s face that the smell was telling its tale.