Kitabı oku: «Fools Rush In», sayfa 2

The modern house was not at all my taste, though I had to admit it was very impressive—large, open, lots of glass and deck space. But it was the view that made your heart stop. The house overlooked a tiny bayside beach. Water stretched out to the horizon, dotted with wooden rowboats and seagulls, cormorants, the occasional swan. You could hear their constant cries, a melody of sea birds, if you will, that blended with the omnipresent wind and gentle lapping of the waves. At low tide, you could walk almost a half mile out, and at high tide, the water was deep enough to swim. Sea grass waved gracefully, deep green in the warm weather, golden in the winter. People, even we hardened locals, came to the beach to get a glimpse of the sunsets that glorified the sky each night. This was what my sister had left for Short Hills, New Jersey, where I hear they have an impressive mall.

I parked my car in the crushed-shell driveway and ran up the steps. Sam was a cop, and when he was not making the world safe for the rest of us, he worked part-time for a landscaper. His own gardens were spectacular. Even now in March, unexpected green things popped up to relieve the gray and brown of the dormant flower beds. In a few more months, people would be stopping on the street to admire my sister’s former showplace.

I opened the door and shouted hello. With pounding feet, my nephew came bounding down the stairs like an excited Irish setter. I felt a rush of love and gratitude that even at the advanced and cynical age of seventeen, Danny was still so happy to see me. My nephew seemed, to me and just about everyone else, the culmination of what you’d hope your child would be. Funny, generous, extremely smart, tall and a bit gangly, he also excelled at baseball, truly the all-American boy.

“Hey, Auntie,” he said, bending down to smooch my cheek. He’d become taller than I was about five years ago.

“Hello, youngster,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Calculus homework. Want something to eat? I’m starving,” he said as we went into the kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops, stark white walls and an unforgiving black tile floor gave the room an imposing military feel. Clambering onto a stool at the counter, I watched Danny galumph around, slamming, rattling, sloshing. I refused his kind offer of sustenance, though my stomach growled, triggered by the smell of a toasting bagel and the sight of my nephew downing a glass of creamy whole milk in four swallows. Thousands of calories.

“Is your dad at work?” I asked.

“Nope. He took the day off,” Danny said, peeling a banana and stuffing half of it into his mouth while he waited for the bagel to toast. “The divorce is final today, you know.”

“Yes, I heard. How are you doing with all that?”

“Well, okay, I guess.” He paused for a moment, looking out the window toward the bay. “I mean, Mom’s been gone for a while now, so I’m pretty used to that. But Dad’s taking it kind of hard.”

“Did you talk to your mom today?”

“Yup. She’s okay.”

I waited, fascinated by the amount of food my nephew could force into his mouth at once. A third of a bagel. My, my.

“She said she’s glad to be on to a new chapter of her life, a door closes, a window opens, that sort of thing. I think she’s doing all right.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured, trying to be neutral.

“Oh, come on, Aunt Mil. You can’t blame her too much.” Danny continued with a shrug, swallowing like a python polishing off a goat. “She deserves to be happy. Just because my parents screwed up when they were kids doesn’t mean Mom shouldn’t be able to move on. I mean, yeah, the whole cheating thing really sucked. But I don’t think she meant to hurt anybody.”

Such generosity! How could this child be the product of my sister’s loins? “You’re the best boy in all the world,” I said. “And they didn’t screw up, having you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to either one of them. Or to me, for that matter. Come here so I can pinch your cheek.”

“You’re not that old yet, Aunt Mil,” Danny said. “Hey, remember my friend Connor? He said you were cute. He wants to play doctor when you open the clinic.”

“That’s terrifying,” I laughed. “So, where is your dad, anyway?”

“He’s walking on the beach.” Danny turned somber. “He’s wicked sad, Aunt Mil. Wicked.”

Poor Sam, walking picturesquely on the beach on the day of his divorce. My heart tugged. I chatted with Danny a little more, asked him about his grades to remind him that I was the adult, and then left the house to find wicked sad Sam.

How Trish had landed Sam Nickerson—well, getting pregnant with Danny had worked its magic. But she’d never deserved him, that was for sure. Sam was the nicest guy around and always had been, and he’d always been especially good to me.

When I was eleven or twelve and Trish and Sam were hormonal teenagers, my parents had gone out, leaving my sister in charge. Katie was sleeping over, and Trish stuck her head into my room to inform us that she and Sam were going to a party. She warned us not to tell Mom and Dad or she would kill us, a threat we’d taken with the gravity it deserved.

At this moment, Sam came in and said hello to us, commented favorably on my Barbie and her Dream Van, chatted us up for a minute or two. When he realized that Trish was supposed to be babysitting, he told her that they couldn’t just leave us alone. They ended up taking us to the movies to see some preteen-appropriate flick. Sam even bought us popcorn and soda and hadn’t seemed to mind that Trish was fuming. Tragically, that night still held the title of Best Date of My Life.

That was Sam for you. Or that was Sam before seventeen years of marriage wore him into a “yes, dear” kind of husband, slightly defeated and always a little confused when it came to Trish. But once, at least, he had genuinely loved her, and when I caught sight of him, looking out over the ocean, shoulders hunched against heartbreak, he did indeed look wicked sad.

“Hi, zipperhead,” I called merrily over the wind, my shoes crunching on the crisp, cold sand as I walked over to him. He turned slightly, wearily.

“Hey, kiddo,” he responded listlessly.

“That’s Dr. Kiddo to you,” I said. My eyes felt wet; not from the wind, alas, but from seeing Sam so obviously miserable. I linked my arm through his. “How’s it going?”

“Okay.” He gave a halfhearted grin and returned his tragic gaze to the ocean. Sympathy and irritation bickered in my head. Sam was better off without Trish, though I knew better than to say this.

“Guess what?” I offered, determined to be upbeat.

“What?” Sam answered.

“I’m taking you out tonight! Come on, let’s go back to the house. Man, that wind is murder! My ears are like hunks of ice.” I began to steer him to the path that wound through the sea grass toward his house.

“Sorry, kiddo. I don’t want to go anywhere,” Sam answered, letting me propel him, though he had at least eight or nine inches on me.

“I know. That’s why we’re going out. It’s too pathetic to sit at home on the night of your first divorce. As opposed to your second, when you can indeed stay home. It’s every other divorce. Go out, stay home, go out, stay home.” Shockingly, Sam was unamused by my feeble attempt at humor. I stopped to look up at him. “Really, Sam. Come out for a beer with me. I’m buying. You will not sit home alone tonight. I will chain myself to your oven before I let you.”

“Millie…”

“Come on! Please?”

He sighed. “Okay. One beer. Nowhere local.”

“Good boy!” As we climbed up the deck stairs, I turned to him once more. His face was so sad, so dejected, that my eyes filled. “Listen, Sam, I want to say something. Seriously.” I swallowed. “I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re wonderful. And I’m sorry you’re hurting.” My mouth wobbled. “I’ve always been really proud to have you as my brother-in-law.” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and gave him a watery smile.

Sam looked at me with a trace of amusement, then put his arm around my shoulders and started into the house. “That was pretty good, kiddo. Did you practice it in the car?”

“Yes, I did, wiseass. For that, you’ll have to buy the second round.”

CHAPTER TWO

TWO HOURS LATER WE WERE at a bar in Provincetown, drinking beer and waiting for buffalo wings. There are still places like this in P-town, though you have to know where to look. Otherwise, you end up eating things like grilled sea bass enchiladas with fresh cumin in a creamy dill sauce.

The bar was perfectly ordinary and nice, and chances were we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. I understood Sam’s desire to get out of town. There wasn’t a person around who didn’t know about the breakup and winced at the fact that not only had Officer Sam been dumped, but for a rich stockbroker from New Jersey.

We sat quietly at our little table, watching the local color. Sam had been pretty morose on the way up, and I was getting a little tired of it. Trish had left last August, and though today was the official day, it seemed (to me, anyway) that Sam was enjoying his misery a tad too much. Determined to snap him out of his funk, I kicked him under the table.

“Guess what?” I asked in my adorable, merry way.

“What, kiddo?” answered Sam gamely.

“I started running today,” I said. “As in, ‘I will someday run in the Boston Marathon’ running.”

Now Sam, as an ex–Notre Dame football player, had obviously been something of an athlete and was still in good shape. He ran, played softball in the town league and probably did other physical things related to his profession. His interest, however, was muted, and he merely nodded and took another sip of beer.

“Want to hear how far?” I tempted, not above using my own degradation to bring a smile to my brother-in law’s face.

“Sure.”

“One point seven miles.”

This caught his attention. “Really,” he said, looking slightly less tragic. “How long did that take you?”

“Oh, gosh, let’s see now,” I answered. “Um, about twenty-eight minutes.”

His laughter bounced off the walls, and I grinned along with him.

“Christ, Millie, I can crawl faster than that.”

“Ha, ha, gosh, you’re so funny, you stupid jock. I’m just starting, you know.”

Our wings arrived, and I, who had worked so very hard that day, felt that surely I deserved at least eight of them. We slurped our way through the food as old pals can, and I watched him for signs of suicidality or vegetative depression. None so far.

Sam was pretty attractive. Not the masculine perfection that was Joe, who had been the subject of at least three catfights in which the authorities had been called. Sam was averagely clean-cut, American attractive, tall and lean, light brown hair going to gray, beautiful, sad hazel eyes with crinkles at the corners. Gentle voice, nice smile. He was such a kind man, so sweet and hardworking. And yes, I had a master plan to fix his life, bring him happiness and undo some of the misery my sister had wrought. But I had to do this gently, because, after all, the poor guy had only been divorced a few hours.

“How’s your dad?” Sam asked as the waitress cleared our plates.

“Dad’s okay. You know. He’s still furious with, uh, Trish, but uh, you know how much he loves you.” Whoops! I didn’t mean to mention the T word. Sam grunted in response.

“So, Sam, how are you doing?” I asked in my best compassionate-doctor voice. He smiled sadly, tragically. I clenched my teeth hard for a minute.

“I’m okay, I guess.” He took a deep breath and another swig of beer, then rubbed his palms on his jeans. “It’s just that…well, I keep wondering what I did wrong. I never saw it coming.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, I knew she wasn’t happy. Neither of us was, but we weren’t exactly miserable, either.”

“Why wasn’t she happy?” I asked curiously.

“I don’t know! Don’t you guys talk about stuff like that? Ask her. She’s your sister.” Sam shot me an irritated glance, then began picking at the label on his beer bottle.

“Well, Trish and I aren’t exactly close,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you, big guy. It’s just…I don’t know, a marriage doesn’t fall apart just like that, does it?”

Sam sighed. “Probably not. She complained about me working too much, but, well, we had lots of bills. And she was happy to spend whatever I brought in.”

True enough. My sister liked nice things, a term she used to describe her spending habits. Others might use foolish or irresponsible.

“And…I don’t know, Millie. We got to a point where we knew things weren’t really working, but we didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t anything concrete, just this sense of things not being…right. I didn’t know how to fix it, so I basically just ignored it until the boyfriend came along.”

That was probably the longest paragraph I’d ever heard Sam utter, and he seemed to regret saying it. He took a long pull from his beer, then said, “It’s weird not to be married anymore. I’ve always been married, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’ll take some time.” Six months and counting, I added silently. “And as for Trish, well, she’s just…she’s always wanted so much,” I finished lamely. “She’s kidding herself if she thinks she’s going to be happy with Mr. New Jersey.”

“Right,” Sam said tersely. I winced and made a mental note to avoid mentioning Trish’s lover.

“Guess what?” I said. “I’m getting a dog.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yup. I think I’ll name him Sam.”

He smiled. “It’s good to have you back on the Cape, Millie.”

I smiled back, and we chewed our celery sticks without further discussion, listening to the music and watching a game of darts. Then Sam glanced up. “Oh, hey, Joe,” he said casually.

My heart froze, my face froze, my mind—yes, you guessed it—froze. I looked up. And there he was.

It was like a play, when the spotlight shines only on the leading man. Joe Carpenter stood at our table, smiling down at us, dimples flirting, white teeth gleaming. Lust and panic flooded my veins in equal measure.

“Hey, Joe,” I said, my heart suddenly pounding, mouth dry.

“Hey, guys. Mind if I sit down a sec?” Joe asked, pulling a chair around and straddling it. He wore faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt and work boots, and I swear to you, he was the most desirable and delicious man God ever made, thank you, Father, thank you, Son, thank you, Holy Spirit.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sam answered. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“Oh, just out on a date,” Joe replied, turning his beautiful, smiling green eyes to me. “Hey, Millie.”

“Hey, Joe,” I said again, wracking my brain for a clever comment.

“What about you two?” Joe asked. “What are you doing up here? Arresting someone, Sam?”

My heart thudded so hard my chest hurt. Why hadn’t I put on makeup? Why wasn’t I wearing something other than a Holy Cross sweatshirt? Did I have on earrings? Was chicken wing stuck in my teeth? Trying to save Sam from having to explain that this was Divorce Day and also to say something adorably memorable, I fumbled for an answer.

“Oh, we heard this place had good food,” I said.

Then, walking across the room, hips swaying, blond hair flowing as if in a shampoo commercial, came Joe’s date. Tall. Skinny. Big boobs despite the skinniness, their cantaloupe-like roundness announcing them as store-bought. Unlike me, she seemed to know what to wear to a bar in Provincetown: she had on a wide-necked shirt and interesting earrings that matched the blue in her blouse and, no doubt, her eyes.

“There you are,” she said, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder in a statement of ownership. Yes, I could now see that her eyes were indeed blue—Caribbean-blue, I believe Bausch & Lomb called them.

“Oh, hey,” Joe said, grinning easily at the blond one, “let me introduce you. This is Sam, this is Millie, and this is Autumn.”

“Actually, it’s Summer,” she said with a glare. Sam swallowed a smile and I bit my lip.

“Right,” said Joe, unremorseful. “You’re just so pretty, I forgot for a minute.” Gross.

She bought it, gracing him with a tight smile. For us, she had nothing.

“Well,” said Sam. “We’ll let you get back to your night. Nice meeting you, Summer,” he said, standing. “See you, Joe.”

I sat frozen for a moment. Was I going to have to stand? This would mean Joe and Summer would see that I was still chubby, the day’s run notwithstanding. But, no, gracious Joe also stood. He smiled down at me and I managed to smile back.

“Bye,” I said.

“Bye, Millie,” he answered. Summer apparently didn’t think that a goodbye was necessary, for she just walked away, tiny little behind twitching.

I dragged my gaze away from Joe’s perfect backside and looked at the table. Say something, I commanded myself, not wanting Sam to see the love I had for Joe written all over my face. Feigning normalcy, I asked Sam if he wanted another beer.

While seeing Joe with another woman never felt good, it was certainly not uncommon. For sixteen years now, I had watched him with other women, and I didn’t expect that someone as gorgeous, sweet and hardworking as Joe would be alone. Of course, it bothered me a little. He was always with someone like Summer, someone very pretty and not really nice. These relationships never seemed to last.

I wholeheartedly believed that once I had Joe’s attention, he would see in me all that he had been missing with other women. I was smart, nice, funny, undemanding. And let’s not forget I was a doctor, for crying out loud, helping the sick, comforting their families, and, once in a while, saving a life! A pretty cool job, if I did say so. Once I became as attractive as I could become (short of plastic surgery and diuretics), Joe would finally see me as something more than an old classmate and fall in love with me.

Maybe you’re wondering where I got the chutzpah, the hubris, the balls to go after a guy like Joe. After all, the longest relationship I’d had was less than six weeks. The thing was, I’d spent most of my life in love with Joe Carpenter. I would be turning thirty soon. I figured it was now or never, and if I was going to try to get Joe, I was going to give it all I had.

I put the encounter with Joe in the back of my mind…another trick I’d mastered over the decades. Later I would examine every detail with excruciating fervor, rating myself, considering what I could do better, psyching myself up for next time. But for now, I put the incident aside. After all, I was used to pretending Joe was just an ordinary guy.

Joe and What’s-Her-Name were occupied playing pool when Sam and I left a little while later. We strolled down to where we’d parked.

“So, Sam, you’re not going to go home, listen to a Norah Jones CD, get drunk and cry, are you?” I asked as we got into the car.

“Well, I think I’ll probably pass on that one,” he said amiably. “Another time, maybe.”

“You’re a good boy. An excellent role model for my dog.”

“Don’t you dare name your dog after me,” he laughed.

When we got back home, I felt warm and fuzzy, like a good sister-in-law, though officially, I wasn’t one anymore. Sam kissed my cheek, thanked me and walked inside his big house, looking, I believed, not nearly so wicked sad as he had earlier. “Hang in there, buddy,” I murmured, putting my car in reverse. “Life is about to get better.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, I GOT OUT of bed and collapsed to my knees. My God! What had happened to me? Every muscle south of my scalp had seized like a bad engine. Scrabbling with my quilt, I hauled myself up and lurched stiff-legged into the bathroom, swinging my pelvis like John Wayne to minimize any leg extension. Knives of pain shot up my Achilles tendons into my calves. I’d been hobbled. Whimpering, I bent to the faucet for a mouthful of water and gulped down four Motrin.

My pain turned to joy as I mounted the bathroom scale. I had lost not one but two, two whole pounds! Of course, I knew this was just fluid loss from my excessive perspiring yesterday, and that I couldn’t really have lost two pounds of fat in one day, that the complex workings of the human body just won’t allow that, but long before I was a doctor, I was an overweight American woman, and guess what? I lost two pounds, that’s what!

Katie and her sons arrived a little while later. Corey was six years old, Mikey three. Like her sons, Katie had creamy blond hair and sky-blue eyes, making her my polar opposite. Her beauty attracted dozens of admiring men, but Katie…well, since her divorce, Katie had become a bit hardened. Maybe even before that, but since Elliott left her, she just didn’t, as she put it, have a lot of time for crap.

And when exactly had Elliott chosen to leave her, you ask? Why, just after she’d given birth to Michael, after thirty-six hours of labor and three hours of pushing her nine-pound, six-ounce son into the world. Good thing I was there for the birth, because Elliott the Idiot was not. In one of those unbelievable, made-for-Lifetime-television scenes, he arrived a few hours later and told Katie that he wanted a divorce, that he “just wasn’t happy anymore.” And so, as Katie bled from her impressive episiotomy, as her breasts took on the texture of granite, as her newborn son mewled in her arms, her husband had dumped her for a younger woman.

Katie had become, unsurprisingly, suspicious of men. In addition, she had to work hard to support the boys. She lived in an apartment above her parents’ garage and worked as a waitress at the Barnacle, and while she made ends meet, I wanted more for her. Though she swore the last thing she wanted was a relationship…well, I just happened to know a wonderful man who was recently divorced himself, a man who loved children, especially boys, had a fine son of his own, a man I was very fond of, who would make a perfect husband for my best friend. I had to tread gently here, because Katie would hate the thought of being set up. And Officer Nickerson was still smarting from my own sister’s betrayal. Gently, gently, subtly, subtly…

“I saw Sam last night,” I blurted as Katie and I sat at the kitchen table. The boys were in the dining room, engrossed in the Bob the Builder and Spider-Man coloring books I had bought for them.

“How’s he doing?” Katie asked.

“Sad, for some reason. He’s so much better off without her,” I said, deliberately insensitive, though I did indeed think it was true.

“Oh, come on,” Katie said. “They were together a long time. He must feel pretty crappy, poor guy.” She sipped her coffee with an appreciative murmur.

“Maybe we could take him out some time,” I craftily suggested. “Cheer him up a bit.”

“Sure.” Mission accomplished! “When do you start work?” Katie asked.

“April Fool’s Day. A coincidence, I hope, and not an omen.”

Though I wanted to go into private practice, the costs were prohibitive for someone just out of residency. I had approached Dr. Whitaker, our Norman Rockwell–style physician and my own doctor since birth, to take me on as a partner. He wanted me to get a little more experience first and suggested the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic, which was a satellite of Cape Cod Hospital. Dr. Whitaker would then reevaluate the situation in the fall.

“Are you excited?” Katie asked.

“I sure am. Can’t wait.”

“And how’s the Joe-hunt going?” Katie inquired, looking into the dining room at her boys, their fair heads nearly touching as they colored. A maternal smile of happiness warmed her face.

“Joe, Joe…” I crooned. I told her about how yummy he’d looked the night before, how sweet he’d been, how funny it was when he’d called Summer the wrong season. Katie listened as my voice took on the tone of a zealot. I could hear myself babbling inanely about Joe’s virtues and charms, but like any good zealot, I found it hard to stop. Finally I reined myself in.

“So, anyway…that’s Joe for you,” I finished.

Katie chuckled and patted my hand. “You’re a nut, you know that?” She put aside her cup with a regretful sigh. “But you make the best coffee. Come on, boys. We have to go to the market. You can have a muffin if you behave.”

Corey and Mike cheerfully ripped out their masterpieces, proudly presenting the blurry, messy pictures to me for my refrigerator door, where they would hang for months. I received my kisses and hugs and helped buckle the boys into the back seat of the Corolla, waving as they trundled down my driveway.

Turning back to my little cottage, a small, familiar wave of loneliness mingled with my new sense of house pride. I knew Katie would have given her kidneys (well, one, at least) for the pleasure of a day alone, but it was different for me. When solitude was unrelenting, it tended to lose its shine. And so, onto the next step in my plan. Adopt a dog.

Oh, yes, a dog. Not a cat! No, having a cat says, “Hi. I’m single. For a reason. Because I love my cat. My cat and I have something special here.” But a dog! A dog is a statement of humor, energy, fun. A gal who can get down on the floor and wrestle with her dog is wicked cool!

We’d always had dogs when I was a kid, but when I was a teenager, our last dog went to that great beach in the sky, and my parents hadn’t gotten another one. Now, with a home of my own, I was all set to become a proud new dog owner. This dog of mine, my new best friend, my companion while I ran oh-so-gracefully, this dog who would adorably wake me with a cheerful nuzzle, who would collapse in paroxysms of joy upon my arrival home, who would protect me, no, die for me, who would undoubtedly love Joe and Joe’s three-legged dog, was just hours away.

To the Cape Cod Animal Shelter in Hyannis I went. I first stopped at one of those mega-stores for pets, where I purchased an adjustable-length collar with day-glow reflecting colors to save my pup from an accident. Along with this went a leash, a comfy cedar pillow bed that had Sweet Doggy Dreams printed all over it, and a two-sided ceramic doggy dish with blue-painted paw prints in it. Throw in a bottle of shampoo, some tick repellent, heartworm tablets and a book on dog training, and I had spent $167 before even laying eyes on my new pal.

The animal shelter was surprisingly benign. When you picture the pound, death row usually comes to mind. Poor, abandoned animals in too-small cages, making their last confessions to the priest…but this pound was not bad at all. While I waited in the sunny foyer, I talked to the adoption counselor and explained what I was looking for. She told me to go ahead and look around, and so I went to where the dogs were kept.

A cacophony of barking, from savage snarling to high-pitched yipping, greeted me. The vast echoing room housed dozens of doomed doggies, each in its own cage. Tears welled in my eyes as I passed the inmates. It was death row. Doggy death row. Poor darlings. A huge black-and-brown beast snarled at me, and my sympathy faded as I leaped away from his cage. There were quite a few of this type of dog: huge, muscled creatures with terrifying, feral mouths excellent for killing the addict who tried to get to my stash. Of course, as I was not a drug dealer, I didn’t really need such a creature. Now, there was a nice-looking pooch, a little mop kind of thing of indeterminate parentage. Whoops, large scaly patches on back. Not a Joe-magnet type of dog. In the next cage a Chihuahua mix, looking like a wingless bat, trembled and urinated in terror. Sorry, kid.

And then…there he was. My dog. As if waiting for me, he wagged his tail as he stood on his hind legs, front paws against the chain-link door. Mostly white with splotches of black, floppy ears, sweet, hopeful eyes…he looked like some combination of Border Collie and Lab. I put my hand up to his eagerly sniffing nose.

“Hi there, buddy,” I said. He licked my hand. Sold.

Of course, we had to spend some time in the Bonding Room before I could leave with my new best friend, but it was just a formality. We were in love. I filled out the paperwork and coughed up some more cash. An hour after meeting, Digger and I were walking to my car. He was two years old, which meant he was fully grown, friendly, good with kids, and he was adorable. Wagging, wriggling, licking, Digger was my very own.

He loved the car. He was so excited that he peed on the passenger seat as we drove out of the parking lot.