A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“It’s okay,” Ashley says. “I called her; you don’t pay for long distance, it’s included.”

While the kids are at breakfast, I check with the man at the front desk, who tells me she’s racked up a four-hundred-dollar phone bill.

“We’re not paying that,” I say, and ask to speak to the manager.

“Okay,” the manager says, “how about two hundred?”

“A hundred and fifty and no more,” I say, and the manager accepts.

I say nothing to Ashley. I can’t exactly give the kid a hard time; I’m glad she has a friend to talk to.

Every time I look at Ricardo, I blank on his name. It’s further complicated by the fact that he had a name tag on his coat, clearly there for a long time, that says “Hello My Name Is” and “CAMERON” is written in faded black Magic Marker.

“Who is Cameron?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Hello My Name Is CAMERON?”

“I guess it was the name of the guy who had the jacket before me,” he says.

“Why do you keep it on there?”

“I like it,” he says. “I call the coat Cameron.”

And then there’s a pause.

While we’re outside the Williamsburg Courthouse, waiting for Ash and Nate, who wanted to watch a speech given by an actor playing George Washington, Ricardo asks, “Why did you kill my mommy and daddy?”

“I didn’t kill them, my brother did — George killed your mommy and daddy,” I say, taken aback by both his directness and my own defensive tone.

“Who is George?” he asks.

“George is my brother. He’s Nate and Ashley’s father.”

“Was he trying to kill me too?”

“No, he wasn’t trying to kill anyone, it was an accident, a big huge accident.

I’m really sorry.”

“You brought me the balloon.”

“That’s right — I wanted to see how you were,” I say.

“How do I know it wasn’t you who did it?”

“Well, because I wasn’t there when it happened. I came later. And George is in a special hospital now. He lost his mind.”

“He killed my mommy and daddy,” the boy says.

“Accidentally,” I say. “And then he killed Nate and Ashley’s mother.” I’m not sure the kid knows that, not sure I should be the one to tell him, but somehow I want to get the message across that he’s not the only one who lost his family.

The boy shakes his head. “He was a rich guy with a big TV, he didn’t need to kill anybody.”

“It’s true,” I say. “He didn’t need to kill anybody.”

I panic. Perhaps I didn’t give him his medication — his sudden rise to the surface, his clarity is because he’s unmedicated — and I worry what will happen next. Will he turn into the Incredible Hulk?

“Did you take your medicine today?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “You gave it to me this morning.”

Nate and Ash come out of the Courthouse, and we head for a demonstration of ice-cream making in the colonial kitchen and then to lunch. I keep waiting for something more to happen — but nothing does — and we carry on.

In the late afternoon, the pet minder calls to ask, “Did you see the cat before you left?”

It feels like a trick question. “Is she missing?”

“She had kittens,” the pet minder says. “Six survived; one didn’t make it, and I buried it under the rosebushes out back.”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant; she never mentioned it.”

“I’m thinking I should take them all in for a checkup.”

“Yes,” I say. “That makes sense. And Tessie?”

“Out of her element,” the minder says. “Oh, and she had them in the master bedroom; I threw the bedding out, hope that was okay?”

“Fine, all fine.”

“I’ll let you know if there’s more news,” he says, and hangs up.

I must look surprised, because the children all ask, “What?”

“Tessie had kittens,” I say, and they look more confused.

“Tessie is a dog,” Ashley says.

“You’re right,” I say.

And then in the morning, as though everyone but me got the memo, the kids show up to breakfast dressed normally and Nate announces we’re going to Busch Gardens. I’m the last to know.

Busch Gardens is not your “average” amusement park — it’s like a fiberglass steroid extravaganza with a European theme: rides with German names — Der Autobahn, Der Katapult, Der Wirbelwind.

Ricardo is deeply excited but scared to go on the rides, so Nate and Ash go off together, and I take Ricardo on some of the smaller-kid stuff, the Kinder Karussel, Der Roto Baron, and so on. He loves it, and soon we meet up with the big kids and he’s off and running — as long as I hold his hand, which means that I too am hurled through the air, twisted, turned, left and right, spun speechless and stupid, until, of course, I throw up.

“Ewwwww,” Ashley says as I throw up in front of the three of them. Ever since we arrived, I’ve been finishing their junk food, hot dogs, curly onion rings, chicken fingers, half-eaten ice creams.

“That’s not good,” Nate says as I empty myself again and again into a trash can modeled to look like a dwarf. I try to vomit into the hole, the dwarfy gnome’s mouth — but it’s futile. I let loose all over his head, on the ground in front and in back. And then, suddenly, as though the bottom has come out from under, I can’t hold myself up. I am compelled to lie down — or fall down — at the curb of the yellow brick road, my head on a pile of their jackets.

“I need a minute,” I say, wiping bitter spittle off my chin.

Moments later, as though we’ve been spotted on some sort of central-office Webcam, the super-sized park nurse comes by in her extra-large golf cart and takes me to her office. The kids ride on the back. As we’re driving, she says, “Officially, and for no additional charge, I can give you smelling salts, ginger ale, a saltine, Bactine, and a Band-Aid, and we do have a defibrillator. I bought it at Staples and told them it was toner for the copy machine. Everyone should have one.” She pauses as we pull up outside the first-aid trailer. The kids follow me in. There are fiberglass boat-shaped cots — two of them — and a couple of chairs. The nurse goes on to tell me that for a hundred bucks she can hook me up to an IV bag of vitamins and minerals. A shot of B12 is another seventy-five. “Think about it,” she says, as the kids sit down. I stand, wondering if I should wait in the bathroom, claim my moment there.

“Would you like a cookie?” she asks the children. “I have Thin Mints and Samoas. My daughter is a Girl Scout — I buy fifty boxes a year.” The kids each take a cookie. “It’s important to have something you can offer your guests, considering I get the lost kids as well — and whether it’s a skinned knee or separated from the pack, you need a little something to perk ’em up, josh them out of their pain. …”

Just the smell of the Thin Mints and the sound of the kids crunching away makes me sick — I run for the bathroom.

“Ice,” she says, “I can give you ice. I see a lot of heat-and food-related illness, also inner-ear issues — people who literally feel topsy-turvy.”

With me in the bathroom, she directs her attention to the children, who are working their way through boxes of cookies. “Don’t worry, this happens to lots of older folks who aren’t used to having to keep up with the kids full-time, so I am well prepared.”

I come out of the bathroom as she’s showing them her “crash cart,” a giant yellow plastic toolbox, like what you’d find at Home Depot, filled with supplies.

Ashley gives me a piece of gum. “Your breath,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“So what’ll it be?” the nurse asks.

“Have you got some Tums?” I ask.