Undead and Done by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

your way.”
I’d like to help you but it’s not in my nature to just show up—I’d like an invitation so I don’t feel I’m imposing on our friendship.
    â€œThe others? What others? Wait, are you telling me the— Dammit!” Antonia hanging up was like anybody hanging up: conversation over.
    My phone promptly rang again
    (“Piiiiiiiigs . . . iiiiiiiiin . . . spaaaaaaaace!”)
    and I glared at it hard enough to shatter the case. This time, luckily, it was my mother. “That was, um . . . you looked very nice.”
    I sighed. “Apparently it was the worst television interview in the history of the medium and I was a fool to contemplate it much less go through with it.”
    â€œOh no, it wasn’t
that
bad.”
    â€œThanks, but you’re biased.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean I’m lying, honey. Nixon looked much worse than you did when he debated Kennedy.”
    Sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”
    â€œThe reason I called . . . was . . . ah . . .” Hmm. Hesitancy was not a trait she was known for. This was a woman who all but kidnapped Tina so she could pump her about the Civil War. She practically chained her up in the basement. This was a woman who, if she thought my new $450 Manolos were ugly,
would say so
. Fearless! So whatever she was about to say was nothing I wanted to hear. “I know we talked about bringing BabyJon back to the mansion tomorrow . . .”
    I closed my eyes, because I immediately saw the problem. My brother/son, BabyJon, * ostensibly lived in the mansion with the rest of us. And we adored the incontinent drool machine. Except he was spending more and more time with my mother these days. What started out as a temporary arrangement in times of emergency
    (“I’m going to Hell. Not sure when I’ll return; it depends on whether or not the devil kills me. I’ll try to bring you back something nice, though!”)
    was becoming permanent. And my mom had gone from resenting her ex-husband’s late-in-life baby to absolute adoration. Which was wonderful, except it meant that these days, BabyJon was more a visitor than a resident of the mansion. But it had to be done, for the same reason Jessica and her weird babies had to move out. You couldn’t dick around with the safety of innocents. You just couldn’t. It was decidedly uncool.
    He was starting to walk, and he’d already cut his first few teeth. And I was missing all of it . . . the first tooth, first solid foods, first talking back, first scribbling on the wall, first stealing my car, first time getting drunk and throwing up in the kitchen sink . . . all the stuff I’d looked forward to as a mom/big sister hybrid.
    â€œBetsy? You there, hon?”
    I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m here, Mom. You’d better keep him for a few more days. I think the deluge is going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll come see you both tomorrow.”
    â€œAll right, hon.” Her relief was unmistakable. “I think that’s the best option for now.”
    â€œI’m really sorry.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault.” A generous lie. “Take it easy, sweetie—this too shall et cetera.”
    Sure it would.
    (“Piiiiiiiigs . . . iiiiiiiiin . . . spaaaaaaaace!”)
    Nope. I angrily stuffed my phone down between couch cushions. My phone was dead to me. And so was Diana Pierce. Well, no. Just my phone. How could I stay mad at Diana Pierce when she knew how to sit down without strangling on her microphone cord?
    â€œI’ll be hiding in my bedroom if anyone needs me,” I announced.
    â€œAw, c’mon. Don’t do that. Let’s adieu to the kitchen. This is nothing a blender of smoothies can’t fix,” Marc cajoled. “Or at least distract us from.”
    I shook my head. “I’m not