Allergic to Babies, Burglars, and Other Bumps in the Night Read online

  Or what to do.

  No matter what I did, it wouldn’t stop.

  So I opened the window to give it some air. Whenever my dad is mad like that, he curses like crazy in Shakespeare—“Swim with leeches, thou dull and muddy-mettled rascal!” or “Eat a crocodile, thou churlish spur-galled pumpion!” Then he storms out for air. Air is like medicine, it always makes him feel better. But a doll can’t take medicine.

  W​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​A​H! The doll cried even louder.

  So I chucked it out the window.

  And that was the end of that.

  surviving a week without my dad is really hard.

  It’s the time when nothing works.

  Not the tightrope I tied between two trees for Anibelly’s circus arts practice.

  Not Firecracker Man’s lookout for burglars.

  Not any of the rules for being a gentleman that I’m supposed to follow.

  Not my yoga tree pose.

  Not the homework side of my brain.

  Nothing.

  “Sounds like you’re having a really rough week, son,” my dad said over the phone.

  It was bedtime and my dad had called to say good night. He never misses saying good night, whether he’s at home or not. It was great to hear his voice, but it wasn’t so great that his voice was coming out of Calvin’s cell phone instead of my dad’s body. I clamped the phone between my head and my shoulder, where my dad’s arm belonged, but it wasn’t the same.

  I couldn’t feel his quillery face.

  I couldn’t sit in his lap.

  I couldn’t smell him.

  A hot tear rolled down my cheek.

  Then another.

  And another.

  And before I knew it, I was crying full blast.

  My dad was very quiet.

  It sounded like he wasn’t there, but I knew he was. My dad’s a very good listener, and when he’s listening he doesn’t make a sound.

  “I​CAN’T​WAIT​FOR​THIS​PREGNANCY​TO​BEOVER!” I cried.

  I thought I heard my dad chuckle, just a little, but I wasn’t sure.

  “IT’S A MEDICAL EMERGENCY!” I added, just in case he didn’t know. “BUT​MOM’S​STILL​MAKING​ME​GO​TO​SCHOOL​AND​SHE​EVEN​SIGNED​ME​UP​FOR​HOCKEY!”

  There was phone noise.

  Then parts of words floated like confetti into my ears.

  “Erp.

  “Ark.

  “Wah.”

  It sounded like my dad spit all his words onto the ice and cracked them with a hockey stick.

  “Dad?” I said.

  SSS​ssssss​SSSS​sssss​SSSSSSS​sssssss.

  “Is Mom going to have her baby soon?” I asked.

  “Rrrrreh,” said my dad. “Simp … preg … great.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “It’ll … you … better man … son,” said my dad. “You’ll … understand … wa … yo … mah … went thr … for you.”

  Huh?

  S​sssss​S​ssss​SSSSSS​sssssss.

  “What if Mom has her baby tonight?

  “What if my belly bursts?

  “What if the burglar comes to our house?

  “What if I die by hockey puck?”

  Silence.

  “I miss you, Dad,” I said.

  Silence.

  “I wish you were home.”

  Silence.

  “I love you!” I said loudly.

  “Call ended,” the screen said silently.

  That’s the problem with cell phones. Sometimes you have to imagine the rest of the conversation or you’ll need lots of therapy to get over it, and I already go to therapy once a month, which is frightful enough.

  “C’mon,” said Calvin, taking back his phone. “It’s time for bed.”

  It was time for a story. Normally, when my dad’s at home, he’ll read to us a true tale of indomitable courage and dangerous expeditions. When he’s not home, my mom will read to us, but my mom was exhausted and had put Anibelly to bed and gone to bed herself.

  “Can we read more of The Odd Sea?” I asked.

  “It’s The Oddest Sea,” Calvin said. “No.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Not in the mood,” said Calvin.

  Calvin’s that way. If he misses someone he won’t do anything that reminds him of that person. Not like me. When I miss my dad, I do everything that I normally do with him to make it seem like he’s not gone.

  “Well, can we say some Shakespearean insults, then?” I asked.

  “Thou art a burly-boned, motley-minded hedge pig!” Calvin cried.

  “Thou worm of odiferous moldy biscuit!” I shrieked.

  Pillows swung.

  “Thou’rt by no means valiant,” Calvin howled. “For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork of a poor worm!”

  “Thou bootless fly-bitten harpy!”

  “Lice eater!”

  “Maggot licker!”

  We jumped so high on our beds we nearly crashed and broke all our bones. It was super-duper!

  Then Calvin thudded into his pillow.

  And I thudded into mine.

  “Feel better?” Calvin asked, breathless.

  “Yup,” I said, gasping.

  “Me too,” said Calvin.

  “Are you scared of everything changing too, Cal?” I asked.

  “At times like this, I wish there were a courage pill,” said Calvin.

  “How come you don’t show it?” I asked.

  “I’m bigger than you,” said Calvin.

  “So?”

  “So the bigger you are, the more you forget how to show it,” Calvin said. “By the time you’re as big as Dad, you could be scared to death, but no one would ever know it until they find your body.”

  “Calvin?” I said.

  “Go to sleep,” Calvin said, rolling over. “And turn off the light.”

  “But I can’t sleep,” I said.

  Silence.

  “If the baby comes tonight, no one will be ready,” I said.

  “Z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z,” said Calvin. “Z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z.”

  Like all the other dudes in my family, Calvin goes from emergency alert to stage three deep sleep with no rapid eye movement and no muscle activity in three seconds flat. And there’s no waking him, even with a stick of dynamite.

  The house was suddenly graveyard quiet.

  You could hear everything.

  And nothing at all.

  I reset Calvin’s Robber Goldbug trap, just in case.

  Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

  I gasped.

  Creak​creak​creak.

  I grabbed my flashlight.

  Tinkletinkle.

  I cracked open my door.

  P​h​r​o​o​u​u​u​u​ush!

  It was my mom. She was sleepwalking. She has a permanent bathroom pass and goes without turning on a light and without opening her eyes.

  My poor mom.

  the problem with throwing one useless thing out the window is that another one is sure to come along.

  Right after school the next day—surprise, surprise—my mom and Anibelly picked us up and we headed to sibling school, whatever that is, at Emerson Hospital.

  “But Mom,” Calvin said. “I’m not the one with issues. Alvin is.”

  “It’ll be good for all of you,” my mom said, looking at us in her rearview mirror. She was very cheerful. “You’ll learn some new skills, make some new friends and feel more prepared to have a baby join our family.”

  Calvin glared at me. He wanted to go home to work on his Rudy Goldthing device again, I could tell.

  “What if the robber breaks in while we’re gone?” Calvin asked.

  “Don’t worry,” said my mom. “Lucy’s home.”

  “But Lucy’s friendly,” he said.

  “Lucy makes a lot of noise,” said my mom. “She’ll let the neig
hbors know if something’s up.”

  “But our neighbors are never home,” Calvin said.

  It’s true. They’re three hundred years old and they have places to go and bingo to play before they die. I should know. They’ve asked me to keep an eye on things for them on account of that’s what I do.

  “Calvin,” said my mom. “You can’t let your fears tell you what to do.”

  “Why not?” Calvin asked. “Alvin does.”

  “Boys,” said my mom. “You’re both bigger than your fears.”

  “We’re bigger than a couple of grenades too,” Calvin said. “You’d fear those, wouldn’t you?”

  The wind blew.

  The radio played.

  “La​la​la​la​la​la​la​la,” sang Anibelly. “La​la​la​la​la​la.”

  My mom kept one eye in the mirror looking at us and one eye straight ahead. How she does that, I have no idea.

  I had a feeling my mom was planning to stay for sibling school to keep an eye on me, but she dropped us off instead and turned the car around, squealing on her tires as she went.

  It was really too bad.

  I wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed, especially after I saw the pain chart on the wall:

  I’d had no idea that pain would be involved.

  But first, there were milk and cookies.

  I ate several of each kind of cookie and drank a carton of chocolate milk. It was “0, No hurt” on the pain scale.

  Then we did a craft. We made picture frames for our babies. Anibelly was really into it. She made two.

  Calvin got into it too. His frame looked like a Rube Goldbee device made with tongue depressors, crayons and pom-poms.

  But I’m allergic to tongue depressors. They make me gag. Even looking at one makes my mouth taste like I’d licked a toilet. So a big pile of tongue depressors was a “5, Drooling stomach acid,” which was not on the chart, but it should be, so I drew my own pain chart instead of making a picture frame.

  “Are you getting a baby brother or baby sister?” asked HELLO, My Name Is Jasmine.

  Her question was a “3.5, Hurts like a loose tooth.”

  I said nothing.

  I don’t talk to strangers.

  But Anibelly does.

  “We’re getting a surprise!” Anibelly said. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m going to have a baby sister,” said HELLO, My Name Is Jasmine. “Her name is Rose. We’re going to play mermaids together and I’m going to share my room with her and let her borrow my books and my toys and we’re going to be best friends.”

  “That’s what I want!” Anibelly said, jumping up. “I want a little sister like that!”

  Then the two girls screamed and hopped up and down like a couple of spiders in a death lock. It was a “1.0, Hurts like constipation.”

  Next was a lesson on diapering.

  It was not a play lesson, but the real lesson given to grown-ups in the new-parent class. “Diapering is sometimes a team effort,” the teacher said. “You never know when you might be asked to help.”

  We grabbed dolls and diapers.

  “Keep a hand on your baby at all times,” said the teacher. “Babies squirm a lot when they’re being changed.”

  I put a firm hand on my doll.

  “Keep your baby covered,” said the teacher, putting a diaper over her doll. “Especially if you have a baby boy, or you could get a surprise.”

  A surprise? What surprise?

  S​q​u​i​i​i​i​i​i​i​i​i​rt!

  Sibling school exploded with laughter.

  Gross!!! My doll had sprayed me in the face! It was a “10, Hurts like an arrow in the head” on my pride.

  Next was the tour.

  “All moms get the red carpet treatment here,” said the tour guide, “and yours will too.”

  I looked around. The floors were bare and shiny. Why were they offering a carpet treatment to moms?

  While the tour guide was pointing to this and that, someone whispered, “Let’s go ride the elevator!” I don’t ride elevators, but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t ride one that was labeled “Elevator to Clough Surgical Center,” which might as well have been called “Elevator to Heaven.” I had to warn them, but my voice didn’t work. Fortunately I had my pain chart with me, so I pointed to “13.0, Hurts like an explosion,” which shows a head in midexplosion that I had drawn with crayons. It took only a few seconds for the kids in the elevator to understand and to start screaming like chickens trapped in a lobster cage!

  After that everyone looked like they were at “8.5, Hurts like a finger in a light socket.”

  Everyone, that is, except me and Anibelly and her new friend, who never got in the elevator but were skipping down the hall hand in hand singing, “La​la​la​la​la​la​la​la​la.”

  The tour guide herself was at “7.5, Hurts like a snake bite” when we reached the window where the babies were sleeping like wrapped mummies all in a row.

  By the time we got to the room where the babies are born, I was at “9.0, Hurts like a smack into a tree.”

  “Your mom will be wheeled in here and she’ll be made as comfortable as possible on that bed,” said the guide.

  It didn’t look comfortable to me.

  In fact, the room looked like a genuine torture chamber! There were masks and gowns and machines and devices that looked a lot more complicated than the ones Calvin made.

  “What’s that for?” I heard Anibelly ask. I stood on tiptoe and telescoped my neck to see what she was pointing at. It was a pair of very scary, very large salad tongs.

  “It’s used for babies that need a little extra help …,” the guide began.

  “Tossed baby green salad?” Anibelly asked.

  Everyone shrieked.

  Then lurched.

  My liver burped.

  My stomach rolled.

  It was hard to hear what else the tour guide was saying. I was off the chart and completely freaked out, and so was everyone else.

  Lucky for me, I was standing next to a little red handle on the wall. “Emergency,” it said on top. “Pull.”

  I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next.

  there are many ways to get out of trouble after making such a big disturbance at the hospital.

  1. Cry.

  2. Cry louder.

  3. Let out a high-pitched, piercing, howling, intense “top-of-the-lungs” scream lasting three hours.

  4. Give a gift.

  I had a feeling I’d already overused numbers 1 through 3. So I made a Pregnancy Disaster Kit for my mom. It was not like the one Flea gave me, which was useless. This one was helpful for going to the hospital. It contained:

  A Nightgown.

  Slippers.

  Lipstick.

  A photo of Mom and Baby Alvin.

  A photo of Mom and Toddler Alvin.

  A photo of Mom and Kindergarten Alvin.

  A photo of Mom and Grown-Up Alvin.

  (So that she wouldn’t forget me.)

  A water bottle.

  A rope (for climbing out the window in case of fire).

  A mask (to prevent smoke and germ inhalation).

  A map of escape route out of the hospital (in case she changes her mind).

  My pain chart.

  And a letter from me.

  I put it all in an overnight bag and gave it to my mom at dinner.

  “Oh, Alvin,” she said. “You’re so thoughtful.”

  My mom put down her chopsticks and gave me a hug. “You’re my sweet, sympathetic boy.”

  I am.

  And it worked.

  Normally, I’d be busted, but she wasn’t upset with me at all!

  But like I said, she wasn’t normal.

  My mom was getting bigger and bigger!

  On a pregnancy scale, she was a “9, Ready to burst!”

  After dinner, my mom was cleaning and moving furniture like crazy! We were spying on her from upstairs, where it was saf
e.

  “I don’t think Dad’s going to make it home in time,” Calvin said. “Pregnant ladies clean and move furniture when the baby’s about to be born.”

  “Hooray!” said Anibelly.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Plan B,” said Calvin, running to our room.

  “What’s Plan B?” I asked, running after him.

  “If Dad isn’t back in time to drive her,” Calvin said, “Mom could end up having her baby here.”

  “In our room?”

  “Yup,” said Calvin. “If we turn our room into a birthing room, it’ll be nice and comfortable for her and the baby.”

  “Hooray!” Anibelly said again. “We’ll make it nicer than the one at the hospital.”

  “Let’s draw a plan for it,” Calvin said.

  So we did. Here’s what it looked like:

  It was super-duper!

  But we had no time to lose.

  First, we pushed our beds together.

  “Rrrrrf, rrrrrf!” said Lucy, who was supervising everything.

  Then we took all our blankets and made a nest. Lucy added her blanket. And Anibelly brought all her blankies from her room and tucked them in with ours. Then she added ribbons. Ribbons! In my room!

  “Birds use ribbons in their nests,” said Calvin, who always has a good word for Anibelly.

  “Chirp, chirp,” said Anibelly. “Nests have to be pretty.”

  That’s the problem with having a girl for a sister. She can really ruin your style.

  Then we filled a bunch of hot water bottles and put them in the nest to make it warm and cozy.

  Then we climbed in, even Lucy.

  Our nest felt like a warm bread basket.

  “It’s really nice in here,” I said.

  “Mmmm,” said Calvin.

  “I wouldn’t mind being born here,” I said.

  Calvin was very quiet.

  “If you move over a little,” I said, giving Calvin a shove, “there’ll be room for the baby.”

  Calvin shifted.

  “No tossed baby green salad here,” I said, pulling the covers closer.

  “Z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z,” Calvin snored. “Z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z​z.”