My middle sister and Judson don’t like entertaining large crowds, which is essentially any crowd larger than my sister and Judson, so when my partner and I went over last weekend for a “small” family dinner in honor of our favorite cousin from Cleveland I was surprised that their driveway was packed.
My sister was not pleased; speaking through gritted teeth she told me that our brother from Ocala had shown up with his four step-grandchildren and that Judson’s son had shown up with his new girlfriend and her two kids and that another nephew showed up with his new wife, his two sons and her two daughters.
The unexpected appearance of 10 extra guests for a small, family dinner had thrown my sister and Judson for a loop. “And none of them are actually ‘family,’ she said.
I’ve been in her shoes, many times. “How can I help?” I asked.
“Inject me with something lethal and fast-acting,” she said, grabbing her car keys. “ In the meantime, I’m going to Publix,” she said. “I hope these kids like mac and cheese.”
“All kids like mac and cheese,” I told her and, sighing, I went to the back porch to get a drink. That’s when I was greeted by an astonishingly pretty little girl who looked me up and down, clearly finding me deficient.
“Who are you?” she asked, and, wondering, I told her.
“My name is Rebecca,” she said, shaking my hand firmly, “but my friends call me Becca.”
“Hello, Becca,” I said politely .
“You’re not my friend,” she chided, “so please call me ‘Rebecca,’” and I nodded, speechless.
Next time I saw Rebecca was at the buffet table where she was reaching for the mac and cheese. “Can I give you a hand?” I asked her and she shook her head violently. “My mother says to never accept help from a strange man,” she said.
Rebuked, I thought for a minute. “The mac and cheese is really good,” I finally said.
“My mother says never believe what men tell me,” said Rebecca. “She says you’re all liars,” and now I fled.
I walked over to my brother. “Who’s the cute kid with the attitude?” I asked him.
He rolled his eyes. “She’s the new step-daughter of my ex-step daughter-in-law,” he said.
I didn’t have the energy to try to untangle that web. “Why is she here?” I asked.
Before he could tell me Rebecca returned. “How do you two know each other?” she demanded, and I told her we were brothers.
“Real brothers?” she asked anxiously, and my brother said we were, in fact, “real” brothers.
Rebecca thought for a moment. “Were you raised by your birth parents,” she asked, and my brother said we were.
Rebecca nodded approvingly. “You old guys are lucky,” she said; “you got to live with both parents. But I’m lucky cause I’m an only child,” she said, and she flounced away before I could fling her into the pool.
I did a quick calculation. “How is she an ‘only child?’” I asked my brother. “She has three brothers and sisters in this room.”
“Half-brothers and sisters,” my brother corrected me, “and step-brothers and sisters.” He explained that each of Rebecca’s parents, in their late thirties, is on their third spouse. Rebecca’s network of step-, and half-and ex-step siblings is well into the double digits and she has dozens of grandparents, since all of her real, temporary, ex- and step-grandparents have been married two or three times each.
I looked across the yard and saw Rebecca talking to my cousin, who looked like she wanted to heave Rebecca into the pool. My cousin joined my brother and me, shaking her head.
“Rebeca just explained why women need to divorce their husbands after 6 or 7 years of marriage,” said my cousin and my brother rolled his eyes again. “Rebecca’s mother is a total, man-hating nut job, ” he explained. He paused. “Rebecca’s only 12 and she’s already wrecked for life.”
Later as my four brothers and sisters and I were saying good-bye to our cousin Rebecca stopped by. “Are all five of you really real brothers and sisters?” she asked, and we all nodded as one. She was clearly impressed.
“And you were really all raised by your birth parents?” she asked, and I suddenly realized that while Rebecca is surrounded by “relatives” she is desperate for “family.” We nodded again.
“You old people are really lucky,” she said wistfully.