She nods and smiles, and I know she’s gone a lot further than this with other guys.
“Hey, I have an idea,” John says and throws me the phone. “You be the photographer this time.”
I can’t tell what Mikki’s thinking, but she’s got this dazed smile on her face, so I think she must be okay and I start clicking away, like I’m some kind of professional. I get all fascinated with what I’m doing and start taking pictures of them from every angle. I feel a little bit turned on, watching him rubbing his dick between her legs. I get fascinated by how beautiful and smooth her firm little buttocks are compared to his big hairy ones and I feel that feeling in my groin, watching her lying there like an exotic princess. He doesn’t do anything to Mikki, just lies on top of her, getting himself worked up and in a couple of minutes he turns away, letting his cum spew on the floor, then sits back on his haunches, his limp dick dangling like a chili pepper hanging out to dry. For the life of me, I can’t understand what it is about that appendage that’s so appealing. Mikki’s breasts on the other hand…
John turns toward me and instinctively I back away a little.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I know a dyke when I see one,” and I feel a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’ve wondered about myself for a long time, but I don’t want to be gay. I just want to be normal, and fit in, and being a lesbian would be one more mark against me. I’ve never had a boyfriend, and never really wanted one. Sometimes I think it’s because of what Mom’s boyfriends did and that if I was with the right guy, I’d be fine. I decide now is a good time to put this theory to the test.
“Nah,” I say. “You got that all wrong. Come over here Romeo.” He doesn’t need a second invitation.
He places himself on top of me starts rubbing himself between my legs but I can tell that he’s not really into it that much. I can’t blame him. Mikki’s such a female girl; she’d never be mistaken for a boy like I sometimes am. He kisses me, and that feels a lot better than anything that might be happening farther down. I pull him toward me and picture it’s Mikki I’m kissing, until I realize that that defeats the purpose of being with a guy. I guess he can tell I’m not that much into it either because he stops what he’s doing and hands me the half-empty bottle of beer he was drinking before we started all this. “Take a swig.” I take a long slug and he says, “Hold on, I want a photo.” I lie back, holding the bottle and tip my head back, as if I’m some kind of magazine model who’s enjoying a sophisticated cocktail. “Great!” he says and I drain the bottle. “Now, put the bottle between your legs.” If I didn’t have such a buzz on, I’d probably be shocked, but as it is, I pull my shorts off, keep my bikini bottoms on, and place the bottle between my legs. “Perfect,” he says snapping away, and I feel like a Playboy model.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, and he looks surprised, but he willingly puts his tongue in my mouth. I can taste the beer on it, and also stale smoke, and I feel as if I’m going to burst with pride for being with this cool guy. I can’t wait to see the pictures he’s taken and show them to— well I don’t really have anyone to show them to. Still, I’ll have them for myself and Mikki, and since she’s snoring and not seeing any of this, she might appreciate having a memento of the occasion.
“Listen,” he says, “I have a couple of friends coming round in a bit. How about you and her take showers and put on some nice clothes and then we can have some dinner before they get here?” He stands up and pulls his pants up. I feel like a failure and I guess he sees my reaction.
“This was a fantastic afternoon and you’re both great girls. Don’t worry, the night is young, and we can take a whole lot more pictures and have a whole lot more fun.”
I feel slightly mollified and start shaking Mikki. She rolls over and I pull her up.
“Shower time,” I say, and once again, I feel like the mom, taking care of her wayward kid. Which makes me think of Mrs. Clark all over again, and I feel that empty space inside my chest expand. Today’s been too long, and it’s still not over. Up and down, up and down, like the roller coaster you see advertised at Busch Gardens, another place I’ve never been to. Right now, I feel like I’m on one of those rides that make the news on TV when they get stuck and all the people are just left dangling in the air.
“Come on.” I pull Mikki a bit more roughly than I meant to. “The party’s just begun. And we are not going to sleep through it.”
Chapter Ten
Barker, April 9
I need to broach Wynn on a very delicate subject and I’m trying to decide how best to do it. She has been getting very forgetful. I realize that after a certain age, which thankfully I haven’t reached yet, everyone has senior moments, and I know she’d be the first to admit she’s flaky, but I have to get her to see that it’s more than that. I can’t figure out how to do it, and then, as luck would have it, an opportunity falls right into my lap.
“I’d really like to see that new movie with Julianne Moore. It just opened at the Regal,” Wynn tells me when I get home from work.
“The one about the woman who gets Alzheimer’s?” I ask.
“Yes, it sounds interesting.”
It’s been a long, exhausting day. All my home visits were difficult. Mr. Phillips was complaining that the kids only talk to Mrs. Phillips and ignore his presence altogether. I tried to reassure him and explain that it’s not unusual for kids who grew up in single-parent homes, or had abusive fathers. I didn’t tell him that even when that’s not the case, foster kids seem to have a gift for triangulating foster parents so that Mom thinks they’re wonderful and Dad resents them, or vice versa. People call those kids manipulative but I’ve never thought they do it on purpose; it’s as if it’s in their genes. Then I spent an hour trying to persuade Mrs. Lopez to keep a five-year-old who yelled solidly for four hours without letting up. I reminded her about the part in the foster parent training where she had to imagine herself being ripped from her own home and placed with strangers in a strange city. At my next visit, I had to placate two siblings who hate the home I placed them in. I can’t blame them; even though Mom has all the qualifications, she’s a cold fish, very standoffish, and they’re used to being in a noisy, rambunctious environment. It took me so long to finish my visits that I haven’t even started on any of my paperwork. But Wynn’s suggestion that we go see a movie about a middle-aged woman who gets dementia, is too good an opportunity to miss.
“What time does it start?” I ask, and am rewarded by her look of surprised pleasure that I’m up for going out on a weeknight, instead of collapsing in front of the TV. I read the book way before it became a movie and I thought of Wynn when I was reading it. I’m interested to see what reactions she has to it.
****
After the movie, Wynn asks if I want to go to our favorite ice cream parlor and even though I’m almost passed out with exhaustion at this point, I say yes.
“What did you think?” I ask her as we sit down, her with a hot fudge sundae and me with a peach melba. I’m hoping the sugar kicks some life into me.
“It was good, though I’m not sure if I could say I liked it. The part where she’s introduced to her son’s girlfriend, and then a few moments later she introduces herself as if they’ve never met, that was scary.”
“Scary?”
“Yes, because in other ways she was still so normal. There she was, making this complicated meal, which she got perfect, and then doing something really whacky.”
“Reminded me of you,” I venture, chuckling as if it’s a joke.
“Tell me about it! I could see myself doing the same thing—being so focused on making the perfect dish that I would screen out anything else from my consciousness,” she says, spooning ice cream absent-mindedly into her mouth.
“So if you did what she did, it wouldn’t be about not remembering, it would be about not focusing?”
“I think so. There’s a difference between forgetting and never putting something into your mind in the first place. You should know, how
often do you berate me for doing that just?” she says with a sigh. I roll my eyes; it’s an ongoing issue between us. How many times have I asked her impatiently, “How could you not notice that?” Once, when she was staying over with her mom for a couple of nights, I decided to surprise her by repainting our bathroom. When she got back, I waited and waited for her to mention it. In and out she went, unpacking her toiletries, peeing, and eventually I asked her what she thought of the new color. She looked startled, headed back to the bathroom, and came out looking sheepish. I mean, really, how could anyone not notice that?
“It was interesting to see the way the movie showed how long it took her family to realize what was going on. It was because she was still very functional on lots of levels,” Wynn continues.
“Right. Outsiders spotted it quicker than they did, because her family was used to her being ditzy,” I respond. “But honey, you know, it did make me think.” She looks at me and her eyebrows furrow into a question.
“About me?” she says and I take the plunge.
“Well, yes, about you and about us. I’m so used to you being flaky, that it takes me a while to notice any substantive change. But lately, well, I have to admit, I’ve noticed a few things. I don’t think they’re just about you not paying attention. I think your memory’s really starting to play tricks on you.”
She goes quiet and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. She scrapes the bottom of the glass with her spoon, trying to get every last drop of chocolate syrup.
“I’ve noticed that too,” she says quietly.
I cut a chunk of peach and mix it with a spoonful of vanilla ice cream before putting it in my mouth. I let her words hang in the air, so that we both know she said them.
“How about if you make an appointment to see a psychiatrist?” I want to bring up this suggestion in a soft and gentle way, but I can’t think of any way to sugarcoat it. “Or a neurologist?”
“Really? You think I should?”
“It might put your mind at ease. Both of our minds. It’s probably nothing. But if they did think something was going on, you could get on medication while it’s still helpful.”
“You know what?” she looks suddenly animated as she wipes a bit of chocolate off her lower lip, and I think she’s going to agree, but her words dispel any such idea. “It didn’t help her much in the movie did it? That doctor figured out what was going on, put her on medication, and she still deteriorated. I think if that’s what’s in store for me, I’d rather just go downhill quickly, not prolong the agony.”
“Honey, everyone’s different. She was really young, that’s why it progressed so quickly. But you hear of lots of people who take Aricept or Namenda and it changes their lives.”
“All of a sudden you’re an expert on dementia?” I’m surprised by her harsh tone. An article I read recently noted that people with memory problems often become belligerent but this is a little shocking. I feel tears well up in the corner of my eyelids and brush them away quickly. She looks up from her empty glass and sees me dabbing my eyes.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get defensive. This is just a hard conversation to have. If you think I should see a psychiatrist, then I will, okay?”
I smile and feel a weight lifted off my shoulders.
“I can help you make calls if you want,” I offer and she shrugs.
****
On the way home I think about the siblings I visited today. Summer will be here soon, and I always feel bad for the kids who don’t get real vacations. As a social worker, you can make suggestions to the parents but if they don’t take you up on them, there’s not much you can do about it. Last year Juanita, one of my single moms who worked full time, was too scared to let the twelve-year-old girl she was fostering go out on the street to play with other kids, so she just kept her at home all day. I told Juanita about summer camps but she couldn’t afford them. She told Sarita it was a staycation and stocked the house with ice cream and sodas and told her she could use the computer as much and as often as she wanted. The girl taught herself coding and became a real computer nerd by the end of summer. But I felt bad that on her first day back to school when they asked Sarita what she did with her summer, she told me that the only thing she could come up with was that she’d opened however many dungeons it was on A Link Between Worlds.
“Did I tell you about the summer sponsorship program Celia and I are setting up at work?” I ask Wynn as we sit at a prolonged traffic light.
“I don’t think so…but now I’m going to worry every time you start a question with, did I tell you?”
I laugh. “Then I won’t do that anymore. I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you. Celia and I were talking about our summers when we were kids and how different it is for the fosters. Her parents were scientists so she did all these enrichment programs, which were super cool, even if they did make her realize she never wanted to be a scientist. I attended a really fun camp, where we did everything: water sports, horseback riding, arts and crafts, treasure hunts, writing, and producing plays. It opened my eyes to a world beyond Dad’s lawyering and Mom’s teaching. Celia and I thought it would be really great if our kids could do stuff like that, but most of my foster parents need every penny of the foster care stipend just to make ends meet, so they don’t have any money to spare.”
“I thought the city ran day camps?”
“They do. But that’s just glorified babysitting. I’m talking about enrichment—you know where kids get to learn about space exploration, or marine biology or things that could really change their lives. So Celia and I decided to set up a scholarship fund the public can donate to, so our kids can do some cool stuff over the summer.”
“That’s great! I mean, I can’t believe you’re taking on something else, in addition to everything you already do, but the kids will love it.” I smile. Wynn’s always supportive of everything I do. “Can we make a donation?” she asks.
I had a feeling that once I told her about the scholarship, she’d offer to give money to the program. Wynn is generous to a fault. “I wish we could, but it would be a boundary violation for me to do it.” I pause. “Although I suppose since we’re not married, if it came from your separate business account, that might be okay. You could probably even claim it on taxes.”
“Oh, that’s not important.” Wynn checks the mirror then pulls across the street into our driveway.
“I’ll look into it, and let you know, okay?” I tell her and then before we get out of the car, we both turn to each other and get ourselves into an enormous bear hug.
“I love you,” we whisper simultaneously, and I think, this evening couldn’t have gone any better.
Chapter Eleven
Wynn, April 15
Dr. Larson’s house is a Spanish Colonial, set back from the street. I can see the terracotta roof tiles and the white adobe even before we pull into the driveway. This style of home always makes me feel like I’m in Mexico. As I pass the ornate wrought-iron gate, I see a plaque on it, but since I’m driving, I don’t have time to read it.
“Maybe it says the house is on the historic register,” Barker says when I ask her about the plaque. It wouldn’t surprise me. As we step out of the car, we walk through a patio with a marble fountain in the middle. To the right is a graceful archway that leads to a large wooden door with black iron hinges, which I presume is the front door. I’m about to head toward it but Barker steers me to the left where curved steps, inlaid with those hand-painted Mexican tiles we love, lead up to a balcony.
“She told me to use the entrance with the steps,” she explains as we start climbing.
We’ve never been invited here before but Barker says if she’s to get a supervisor position, she needs to have allies at work. The other day we had one of the mental health supervisors over for dinner. She was nice enough, although I felt like everything I said was being analyzed and diagnosed. But Barker seems determined to get that supervisor position, as evidenced by yet another social event with a
colleague. She told me that Dr. Larson is the best pediatrician in the agency. In fact, she thinks she’s the best in Jade County. I asked her who else is invited and she said it’s just us and that we don’t have to stay long, just have a drink and a little chat.
“Just be your funny, upbeat self,” she said. Some people think I’m a little whacky, but I love how Barker appreciates my zanier side.
We climb the steps to the little balcony and I’m surprised to see that the door leading into the house is open. There’s even a sign that says, “This way, please.” Perhaps Dr. Larson is as eccentric as I am. We walk through the entryway and right away, a woman comes forward to greet us. I notice her jewelry right away—big, clunky, and chic—and her hair, which is dyed jet-black. I gave up dying my hair years ago. I’d like to say it’s salt and pepper but actually it’s more like dried-up oatmeal.
“Right on time!” says the woman who I presume is Dr. Larson. I’m surprised that it should matter for a social invitation but perhaps Barker has already told her about my propensity to be late. She ushers us into a small, living room where she has a comfortable-looking sofa, a couple of upright leather armchairs and a desk in the corner.
“Would you like some water?” she asks. I’m a little surprised she doesn’t offer a choice of drink, but then again, it’s a hot day so I figure water makes sense. We both nod affirmatively.
We sit on the sofa together and Dr. Larson sits in one of the upright chairs.
“So, you’re Wynn,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I respond. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m so glad you could come today. I know you might have some misgivings.” I wonder why. She must be referring to office politics.
“No worries,” I say, hoping we’re not going to spend all our time talking about how to finagle Barker’s promotion. “Whatever Barker wants, Barker gets,” I sing to the tune of “Whatever Lola Wants,” and Dr. Larson looks a little shocked. I wonder whether I should tone myself down, but Barker’s such a serious person and doubtless this doctor is too, so I think it might be a good idea if I can help them both lighten up.
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