Page 28 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“I roofie my niece,” he says as if it’s perfectly fine to do so.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My niece. I roofie her with hot milk before bed.”
Blinking, I shake my head, confused.
He smiles. “She’s six and doesn’t know how to shut up. Talks my ears off for hours. She also doesn’t appreciate a bedtime before midnight, so… I roofie her.”
“With milk and only milk?”
He chuckles. “You should see your face. Yes, of course with only milk. Who do you take me for?”
I relax into my seat. “Well, I don’t exactly know you, do I? You could be a pervert.”
“So could you.”
Taking umbrage, I hiss, “I’m not a pervert.”
“Neither am I.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
We sit in silence as the lights dim, and our cruise director, Paul, takes the stage, welcoming us aboard.
“Good evening, cruiselings. We have a very special show for you all tonight. It is one of many and my personal favorite.”
The lead-in of “We Will Rock You” by Queen blasts from the speakers, Paul stomping his foot twice and then clapping once to the beat, prompting the audience to do the same.
I oblige; I like Queen.
“So without further ado,” Paul shouts, “please put your hands together for our entertainment crew!”
He backs off the stage as four men and four women dance onto it, all of them dressed in leather costumes with studs, their hair teased with no doubt an entire can of hairspray. They sing and dance for the next forty-five minutes, covering songs from Bon Jovi, Bonnie Tyler, Guns N’ Roses, and Def Leppard to name a few.
I happily sing along, because I love ’80s rock—Mom was a big fan. When I was younger, every Sunday afternoon, she’d blast her favorite albums while cleaning the apartment, often using the broomstick as a microphone while she was “Livin’ on a Prayer.” If I wasn’t helping her with the housework, I was cramming for an exam to “Is This Love” by Whitesnake.
The show catapults my nostalgia, but I embrace it, knowing Mom would want me to. If she were here, she’d be rocking an air guitar, embarrassingly so. I dip my head, missing her silly antics.
Riley doesn’t sing along, instead occasionally tapping his fingers on his thigh, his knee bouncing to the beat. I figure he likes ’80s music too. Either that or he’s bored.
When the show ends, we follow the crowd out of the theatre like ants leaving a nest.
“That was great!” I chirp, still on a high. “When I get back home, I’m going to make it a priority to see as many Broadway shows as I can. Would you believe I’ve only seenone?”
He slides his hands into his pockets. “And you live in Manhattan?”
“I know. It’s pathetic. I’m a recluse. Mom is always on my back about—” I cut myself short, nearly choking on my words—I’d spoken them in present tense.
“Your mom is always on your back about what?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I blurt.
Heat climbs my limbs and simmers at my chest, my sea legs now grief legs, my balance much worse than before. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, desperate to stay calm or disappear into thin air. If I vanish, I won’t have to admit out loud to a stranger that Mom is no longer in my life, that she can longer talk to me and tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. That she can no longer hug me at any moment. No longer breathe. I’m not ready for that conversation, for the pity, for the truth.
Trying to breathe—because I can and I should—I feel like the air entering my lungs is almost non-existent, containing no actual oxygen.
