“Jack’s brought up an important point, class,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “We’re all special in our own unique ways. Even Jack and Anna, who are twins, have lots of differences. Anna, why don’t you tell us something special about Jack? Something he can do that you can’t?”
Jack was still right beside me, holding me like I was some kind of trophy. At nine, the idea of “uncoolness” was already starting to hover around the edges of my consciousness, but Jack just looked so proud, I thought he might cry.
Mrs. Ramsey was looking at me, waiting for an answer, so I said: “Jack is really good at math,” and we took our seats again. But later, when I thought about it, I wished I’d said something different. I wished I’d said, Jack knows how to make you feel like the most important person in the room.
*
After I’ve lived in the big house with all the old people for two months, I’m allowed a “home visit.” Everyone talks about the home visit in tra-la-la voices, as though it’s some kind of prize—a conjugal visit for a prisoner who’s been behaving himself. It makes me think of The Bachelor. Toward the end of each series, the final four girls are invited to take the Bachelor back to their homes to meet their families, let him see them in their home environment. When the girls find out they’ve made the final four, they squeal and cheer. We’re getting a home visit! Woop-Woop! To me, it always seemed shortsighted. After all, odds are there won’t be a second visit. Three of the girls are about to be booted off the show. The fairy-tale ending is unlikely at best. And for me, it’s even less likely.
I’m in the parlor when the woman comes in, tossing her bouncy hair. She’s wearing jeans and a pink cardigan and large hoop earrings, and she’s smiling at me. I’m starting to wonder if she’s simple when it dawns on me: It’s Helen. After a long night of kissing and dancing (nothing else) in the upstairs room with Young Guy, my brain isn’t all here.
“Anna!”
Helen and I don’t normally hug (as I recall), but as she comes at me with open arms, I feel it would be rude to point that out. I also decide it’d be rude to ask why the hell Jack—the blood relative, the family member—isn’t here to pick me up. But I ask anyway.
“Jack and the boys are at Brayden’s Little League game.” Helen pulls back slowly and frowns, like she’s suddenly noticed I’ve grown a third nostril. “Remember? Jack called yesterday to tell you. They’ll be home when we get there.”
“Oh, right,” I say. No need to point out that Jack had forgotten.
When we arrive, as promised, they’re there. They’ve even erected a banner: WELCOME HOME ANNA. My first thought is … but I’m not home. I’m here for my “home visit.”
The worst thing about my home visit is that no one stops talking. Everyone gathers around me, catapulting questions so fast, I can barely figure out who said what. By the time I do figure it out, and look at the person so I can respond, either they’ve moved on or they’re giving each other what I now call the “third-nostril look.” Like I’m the one who is nuts.
I’m much happier when we progress to the “watching” stage of the visit: “Watch me bounce on the trampoline, Anna.” “Watch me sit on Hank’s face and fart, Anna.” “Watch how far I can kick this ball … all the way into the neighbor’s yard!” This part, I like. I can just sit on my deck chair, clapping and waving. And I can hear myself think again.
After a few minutes of this, Helen arrives with a cup of tea, a tray of brown eating-things in little wrappers, and her own deck chair. Jack is on the grass, watching the kids and being quiet, which is fine with me. I wish Helen would follow his lead, but unfortunately, she didn’t get the memo.
“It’s great to have you here, Anna,” she says, dispensing a cup of tea with no milk. It smells funny. “I got your favorite. Peppermint tea.”
I frown into my mug. Peppermint is my favorite?
“Jack drank some by accident the other day and then spat it out all over the kitchen counter.” Helen covers her hand with her mouth and chuckles. “The boys thought it was hilarious.”
Jack mutters something unintelligible. I take a sip of my tea. It’s actually pretty good.
“Anna, watch this!” Ethan calls.
“No! Anna’s watching me,” says Hank.
“Me, Anna,” says the other one. “Watch me!”
I turn back to Helen. “What did you say?”
Helen’s smile fades. “Oh,… just that Jack tried your tea and—”
“Anna!” Ethan is swinging from the tree by one arm, like the hairy animal that eats bananas. With his dangling hand, he tickles his opposite armpit. “Oo-oo-ee-ee! I’m a monkey.”
A monkey. Right.
Beside me, to my right, Helen is still talking.
“You’re not a monkey,” says the boy in the red T-shirt. “You’re an ape!”
The boys all break into laughter, except for the little one, who begins to cry. He lets go of the branch and finds the ground.
“Would you like a muffin?” Helen says. “Baked fresh this morning. Anna?” She holds up the tray of brown things.
I rise to my feet. Someone is talking. I don’t know who. My head hurts.