“That’s my phone,” Otter says. “It’s downstairs. You need to take a deep breath and answer the door. Someone showed up a bit early.”
“No violent video games!” I tell him. “And he eats all his vegetables! I don’t care what he tries to say. Those goddamn Brussels sprouts are going down his throat or he can stay at the dinner table all night!”
“All night,” Otter says, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Bear. Focus.”
“I am focused!” On my son being a serial killer with a tail. As I should be. (Because what if being born with a tail causes you to be a serial killer?)
He turns me around and steers me toward the stairs. “You need to get the door. I need to see who called to make sure everything’s okay.”
The phone stops ringing. But then it starts again.
There’s a knock at the door.
We reach the bottom of the stairs. He kisses me hard, knowing full well my brain is still racing at a hundred miles an hour. I’m a little breathless by the time he’s finished, and a little turned on, and a little turned around. Gosh, and today started so well.
“Good?” he asks.
“Blargh,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says and pushes me toward the door, then turns to the living room, where his phone is going off again. Must be important.
The doorbell rings.
Right. Get the door. No more babies with tails. At least until later.
“Huh,” Otter says as he picks up his phone. “It’s Megan.”
Megan. The surrogate. She had an appointment today to get an ultrasound. She told us it was okay if we didn’t come to this one, because she knew we’d be getting the house ready for Ty to come home. We thought it’d be better to have everyone meet her later. She’s a sweet girl. A bit of a ditz, but sweet nonetheless.
And now she’s calling us repeatedly after a meeting with the ob-gyn.
Headlines flash across my mind: THE SERIAL KILLER KNOWN AS THE TAILED DOORSTOP STRIKES AGAIN! STAY INSIDE! LOCK YOUR DOORS! YOU ARE NOT SAFE!
I hear him answer the phone.
Someone pounds on the door.
I open it.
“Is everything okay, Megan?” Otter says in the living room.
There’s a little girl standing on the porch of the Green Monstrosity. Dark hair, braided down the back of her head. Dark, tired eyes. A smudge of dirt on her nose. A backpack slung across one shoulder. Her eyes widen as she stares up at me. There’s something familiar about her that I can’t quite place.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying not to show this little girl that I’m pretty much a fucking lunatic.
“Slow down, slow down,” Otter says into the phone. “Say that again, Megan.”
“Man,” the little girl on the porch says. “He sure wasn’t kidding. The color of this house is like an abomination against Mother Nature.”
A buzzing sound starts in my ears. “Who wasn’t kidding?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes. There’s something so familiar about it that I take a step back. “Tyson,” she says. “You must be Bear. Derrick.”
“Wait,” Otter says. His voice sounds rough, like he’s having trouble speaking. “What?”
“How do you know my name?” I ask the girl.
She fidgets on the porch. Looks away. Back at me, then away again. “Ty said if I ever needed help, I could find him here.”