Read Online Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense by Heather Balog - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Balog
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the ledge of the sink. I must have packed the Advil or Tylenol or something that will help stave off this headache, I think confidently, riffling through the bag. Ah yes, here it is, right next to the Dramamine . It’s the sinus headache type in the packet instead of bottle, but it will have to do.
“Mom! I’ve got to go to the bathroom now!” Lexie is screaming. “Like right now! ”
“Give me a second!”
“I’m gonna pee my pants!” Lexie wails, and I can hear Allie’s maniacal laugh in the background.
“That would be hysterical,” she says. “I’d pay to see that.”
“Shut up!” Lexie screeches. I hear something hit the wall, and then a scream from Allie.
“Stop throwing stuff at me!”
“Stop being a bitch!”
Grabbing the medicine packet, I pop out one pill and shove it in my mouth, swallowing without water. Please start working instantly , I beg the little pink pill. Oh what the hell, this headache is killer , I think as I take a second pill.
I throw open the bathroom door, steam billowing out in my wake, to find my oldest child reclining on “her” bed with my youngest child resting in the crook of her arm, contentedly playing with her hair. Lexie is pacing like a caged lion next to the bed, eye trained on the remote that is gripped tightly in Allie’s hand.
“Thank God .” Lexie rushes into the bathroom and slams the door, causing the photo in the cheap frame to fall off of the wall. I retrieve the picture off the floor, and go to hang it back up but there are no hooks. Shrugging my shoulders, I wonder if it was hot glued to the wall or something. Looking for a place to lay it down, I glance around, trying to find a spot that hasn’t been covered with luggage or clothing. And then I notice something else. Or rather, the lack of something else. Colt is nowhere to be seen.
He’s probably hiding under the bed, or in the closet with the ironing board.
“Allie, where’s your brother?’ I ask.
“He’s right here, Mom,’ she mumbles in her “I can't believe this idiot is my mother” voice.
“Not Evan. Where’s Colt?” I rummage through the suitcase for a pair of panties that still has the elastic intact. Ugh, Amy, why didn’t you go to the store and buy yourself a new package of underwear? You bought new underwear for everyone else.
“How should I know?” Allie answers me. “Probably playing with Babe Ruth on the balcony or something.”
I have to pause in this tale to explain Allie’s weird remark. My eight-year-old son has always been very active, a sports aficionado, if you will. He loves running around and throwing a ball, catching a ball, rolling around in the mud with a ball. He’s always been very much a boy, which was a little difficult after having two girls. But cute, nonetheless. His sports enthusiasm slowly transitioned into watching sports of all kinds (I recently walked in on him completely engrossed in a curling match) and researching sports and sports figures. In the past few months, he has taken to playing sports with the likes of David Wright and Tom Brady (which totally ticks off my Yankee/Jets fan husband). By “playing” I mean he pretends that Tom and David are in the backyard with him, and they are engaged in a lively game of baseball or tossing the pigskin around in the Super Bowl. So I am not initially alarmed by Allie’s nonchalance.
After throwing on a robe, I poke my head out of the sliding door—which gets jammed in the process—and step out onto the four foot by two foot cinder block balcony with a stunning and breathtaking view of the back of the resort office building. I can actually see the resort manager at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, leaning back in his chair while he talks on the phone. I can also see a guy passing on the sidewalk below, his dog taking a crap on the manicured lawn. The guy does not clean up the crap. I also see a disgruntled older woman lean off of her own balcony and chastise the man.
What I don’t
“Mom! I’ve got to go to the bathroom now!” Lexie is screaming. “Like right now! ”
“Give me a second!”
“I’m gonna pee my pants!” Lexie wails, and I can hear Allie’s maniacal laugh in the background.
“That would be hysterical,” she says. “I’d pay to see that.”
“Shut up!” Lexie screeches. I hear something hit the wall, and then a scream from Allie.
“Stop throwing stuff at me!”
“Stop being a bitch!”
Grabbing the medicine packet, I pop out one pill and shove it in my mouth, swallowing without water. Please start working instantly , I beg the little pink pill. Oh what the hell, this headache is killer , I think as I take a second pill.
I throw open the bathroom door, steam billowing out in my wake, to find my oldest child reclining on “her” bed with my youngest child resting in the crook of her arm, contentedly playing with her hair. Lexie is pacing like a caged lion next to the bed, eye trained on the remote that is gripped tightly in Allie’s hand.
“Thank God .” Lexie rushes into the bathroom and slams the door, causing the photo in the cheap frame to fall off of the wall. I retrieve the picture off the floor, and go to hang it back up but there are no hooks. Shrugging my shoulders, I wonder if it was hot glued to the wall or something. Looking for a place to lay it down, I glance around, trying to find a spot that hasn’t been covered with luggage or clothing. And then I notice something else. Or rather, the lack of something else. Colt is nowhere to be seen.
He’s probably hiding under the bed, or in the closet with the ironing board.
“Allie, where’s your brother?’ I ask.
“He’s right here, Mom,’ she mumbles in her “I can't believe this idiot is my mother” voice.
“Not Evan. Where’s Colt?” I rummage through the suitcase for a pair of panties that still has the elastic intact. Ugh, Amy, why didn’t you go to the store and buy yourself a new package of underwear? You bought new underwear for everyone else.
“How should I know?” Allie answers me. “Probably playing with Babe Ruth on the balcony or something.”
I have to pause in this tale to explain Allie’s weird remark. My eight-year-old son has always been very active, a sports aficionado, if you will. He loves running around and throwing a ball, catching a ball, rolling around in the mud with a ball. He’s always been very much a boy, which was a little difficult after having two girls. But cute, nonetheless. His sports enthusiasm slowly transitioned into watching sports of all kinds (I recently walked in on him completely engrossed in a curling match) and researching sports and sports figures. In the past few months, he has taken to playing sports with the likes of David Wright and Tom Brady (which totally ticks off my Yankee/Jets fan husband). By “playing” I mean he pretends that Tom and David are in the backyard with him, and they are engaged in a lively game of baseball or tossing the pigskin around in the Super Bowl. So I am not initially alarmed by Allie’s nonchalance.
After throwing on a robe, I poke my head out of the sliding door—which gets jammed in the process—and step out onto the four foot by two foot cinder block balcony with a stunning and breathtaking view of the back of the resort office building. I can actually see the resort manager at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, leaning back in his chair while he talks on the phone. I can also see a guy passing on the sidewalk below, his dog taking a crap on the manicured lawn. The guy does not clean up the crap. I also see a disgruntled older woman lean off of her own balcony and chastise the man.
What I don’t
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