San Andreas Island
Page 8
“Your hands are wet.” Lily reminds me that despite the crisp winter temperature this Saturday morning, I can’t hide my feelings.
“That happens to me sometimes,” I tell her, as I jolt out of the mental spiral I was in for the last several minutes. Lily’s now curled into her standard position: velcroed to my leg, head down, frown across her brow. I kiss her on the top of her head. It’s our turn to order at the SM Local golf cart. I’m jealous and astounded by Local’s calm demeanor. After the huge crowd of demanding patrons, Local is unfazed and you’d think Lily and I were the first customers of the day.
Lily cradles her hot chocolate as we walk away from the cart and onto the pathway leading back to the playground. “Thank you, Mommy.” I can see a tiny spark in her personality; it’s dim, but it’s there. I know it. I feel it. I have no idea if she’s ever going to break out of this shy, mute phase, but I pray she does. It would kill me if she lived her life as muzzled as I have.
“Graaarrr!” Dylan has somehow managed to sneak up behind us. He pinches me on the butt, no matter how many times I’ve told him that it hurts and I hate it! He scoops Lily into his arms. Her hot chocolate spills a little, but she doesn’t care, as she’s giggling and squealing with delight.
I hate that I love him right now. Love is a prickly blanket.
Chapter Eleven:
Sketches
I wake up to the most thrilling sensation. Natalia’s head is between my legs and her tongue is caressing me. My entire body is warm and tingling with pleasure. She’s taking her time, and taking me in. The ocean breeze from our Malibu hotel room is perfectly warm. I press her head gently closer to me. Her arms are resting along the length of my torso, and she’s holding me as if she’s worshipping every inch of me. I arch my back and help her press her mouth more firmly onto me. She makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Without releasing our connection, we roll over together and her lips are devoted to me. I’m now laying on my stomach, straddling her face as she relaxes underneath me. She lets me let go—completely. I grab the pillow as I press my hips towards her face, and we rock together. Our sweat is blending and my body is sliding against her hands as she’s guiding my hips. Our hearts are pounding in unison, and I can feel the rush inside me getting stronger and stronger. She’s so patient and going at exactly the pace I like when I’m pleasuring myself. My legs tighten and she pulls me even closer. The intensity of this arousal is beyond anything I can remember experiencing before. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I beg her.
“What?” Dylan asks.
“Hmm?” I open my eyes, disoriented and startled.
“You were talking in your sleep again. At least you weren’t sleepwalking,” he says in that you’re-such-an-idiot tone I hate.
I come to and realize where my fingers are and I couldn’t be more obvious. I was so close to reaching orgasm, I had to have been loud. Did he even notice?
His loud snores give me my answer.
I pull out my phone. My fingers press and slide across the screen until her name shows up, and quickly type three words.
Me: I miss you
I can’t believe I sent that. The butterflies in my stomach are fluttering around my entire body now. I delete the entire conversation, close my eyes again and try with all my might to step back into that dream.
****
The house still isn’t ready, and everyone’s supposed to be arriving at any moment. Time has been a point of contention with Dylan and me over the years. In his world, the start time of an event translates to the time you leave the house, which means with LA traffic plus finding parking, we’re at least 45 minutes late for everything. Tonight we’re hosting game night at our place, and I can already envision him still mopping the floors as our friends arrive.
I’m wiping down the kitchen counters when I hear a thunk from another room.
“I’m ok!” Lily calls out.
“Ok!” I shout back. She’s just too freakin’ cute.
I step out of the kitchen and pass Dylan, who’s in his usual spot on the couch. Lily’s coloring; she puts down her pencil and meets me in the bathroom, and I start working on her hair.
I’m going through my mental checklist before everyone gets here. The only other thing I asked Dylan to do besides mop the floors this morning was to set a platter of hors d’oeuvres on the table right before the guests arrive. I decided on easy and delicious: stuffed mushrooms and deviled eggs. The recipes said they should take about twenty minutes from prep to completion, but since Dylan is in charge of setting those out tonight, we can double that time. I’m brushing Lily’s hair and can hear commotion in the kitchen. I assume Dylan’s perfectionism is in full gear, and I hear him groaning and cursing, confirming that he’s started the hors d’oeuvres all over again because something just wasn’t right. I do have to give him credit. When I give him a list of things to do, he gets them done. It takes him forever and a day, and he often redoes my own work which annoys the heck out of me, but he’ll do them and do them well. I’d put money on those hors d'oeuvres being camera ready and delicious enough for a cooking show. I just wish I wasn’t the manager of our household and required to dictate to everyone what to do, make sure we’re on time, and to repeat myself over and over again.
“Babe, did you mop the floors yet?” I yell from the bathroom. I should know better than this. I need to not be so hard on him, and I need to let go of my own control and perfectionism, as shouting will only escalate things. I asked him to do it right after we woke up this morning, while I cleaned the kitchen, the bathrooms, and took Lily to the market with me. At the time, he told me not to worry, and that he’d handle it. Twelve hours later, I’m certain the mop is still in the garage bone dry.
“I’m doing it right now! I said don’t worry about it!” he shouts back.
I roll my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. God, I hate when he talks to me like that. He uses this tone that basically says, “You’re such an idiot for asking me anything.” Why do these little things get under my skin? It’s just the floors. Who cares? He means well and he does eventually get to them. Maybe I’m just an overly critical, nagging wife. Maybe I’m too sensitive. I know he’s intense, and maybe it’s just the way he talks. I know he’s a good guy.
“Mommy, can we play Sketches tonight?” Lily knows our game night protocol by now. Or is this her attempt at deflection? I’m sure she senses the thick tension in the air.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I say. “When I’m finished with your hair, you can set it up on the coffee table for you and the twins, and put the playing cards and poker chip case on the dining room table for the big kids.” I kiss the back of her head, and finish brushing her hair. She’s facing the mirror and looking at me in the reflection, playing with Max on the bathroom sink. She tugs and wiggles his ears, and swings his arms up and down, letting him dance with her. I love watching her get entranced in imaginary play. It’s so sweet and innocent. Did she hear my sigh over all the commotion? I need to watch that. I just can’t believe I let our tension splash onto her.
I set the brush down, and gather three chunks of her hair with my fingers to start her French braid. Her silky thick blonde hair wants to slip out of my hands, but I’ve learned by now to keep a firm grip and twist it close to her scalp so the braid is tight. I’ve practiced this on her in more ways than I’ve ever done on my own hair. I keep pulling more strands of hair, twisting, pulling, twisting and pulling, until I get to the very bottom and secure it with a hairband on the end.
“Do you need to use the restroom one more time?” I ask her. It’s my own PTSD response after countless accidents. It doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to, but it still does every once in a while. She’s going to be five soon and I know from my line of work that patients who are over five years old, still wetting themselves, and don’t have any medical conditions are often diagnosed with enuresis, which means that if they’re old enough to be toilet trained, even som
eone who didn’t attend grad school for psychology would guess it to be a strong sign of emotional distress. This just isn’t ok. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve taken her to the doctor, and tried every trick in the book.
As I’m standing behind her and we’re both looking at her hair in the reflection of the mirror, I notice the strange sensation that my feet feel wet and I look down. The carpet underneath Lily and me is soaked.
“Fuck! Are you serious?!” The words explode out of me and I throw the brush against the wall. A chip of paint falls off.
Lily gasps and starts softly whimpering.
I’ve reached my limit and can't take it anymore. I’m in a mental spiral, which has been all too common over the last couple years.
“What’s going on?!” Dylan yells from the kitchen.
“Nothing! It’s fine.” I lie. The last thing I need right now is to have him upset over this. I’ll never hear the end of it.
Lily’s soft whimpers have turned into inconsolable crying, and she’s hyperventilating. “Fuck! I wasn’t built for this!”
I close my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I need to try to regain some sort of sanity and dignity, if there is even any left at this point. I turn to Lily who is standing in soaked clothes with pee down her legs and looking at the puddle on the carpet. She hasn’t moved an inch. She’s having a panic attack. God! How did we get here? How is this even happening? How is my little girl so scared and sad? How has this become our life? Why am I making such a big deal over a simple accident?
I bend to her eye level and look at her little face, and slowly all of my anger and frustration melt off me and the guilt creeps in. I hold her close, not caring that now we were both soaked in her pee.
“It’s ok,” I keep repeating to her. “Breathe,” I pull back after a few moments and wipe away her tears, kissing her forehead. Her breathing has calmed down.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to her. “You’re not in trouble. I got mad and upset and I shouldn’t have thrown the brush and scared you like that. You didn’t do anything wrong, ok?” She looks up at me and her panic and her breathing gradually slow down.
She nods softly.
I’m a horrible mom.
“Let’s clean up and then you can pick out which ribbon you want for your hair.” I pick up Max from the floor, who had fallen from her arms during my tantrum and turn on the shower.
****
That detour felt like hours. But here we are. We’ve survived my flip out, everyone’s refreshed and most importantly - dry. I put the brush and container of hair bands away in a drawer, and wipe away the paint chips that had dropped onto the counter.
Even though it’s my friends who are coming over, and I’ve know Dylan’s friends for years—I still feel a burning sensation inside my chest. My social anxiety was born when I was Lily’s age, and hasn’t left my life since. “Here we go,” I whisper to myself, and sigh deeply.
As I’m heading to the dining area, I’m shocked to see Dylan’s set out the hors d’oeuvres in a colorful display on our wooden dining table between two large vases of fresh flowers I got from the market this morning. Helen and Sarah texted me earlier that they’re bringing wine and dessert, and Jake and Jane are bringing lasagna. I can smell the hors d’oeuvres staying warm in the kitchen.
Dylan’s glass of whiskey is sitting on the counter, fresh and it looks like he’s a few sips in. I roll my eyes. I really don’t feel like smelling vomit in our bathroom in the morning. He couldn’t be any more different from me, my lifestyle, my temperament. Ugh, why am I so uptight? Who cares if he drinks a little? I just pray he doesn’t take it over the edge tonight. Who am I kidding? Of course he will.
Lily is sitting on the sofa opening up her Sketches game.
Shockingly, the floors are mopped, but of course they’re soaking wet because Dylan just finished; I can hear him rolling the mop bucket back into the garage. But no one’s here yet. So it shouldn’t matter anyway. I’m too hard on him.
The doorbell chimes. “Or maybe I’m not,” I whisper to myself, and my Empathy For Dylan Moment has come and gone. Lily hops off the sofa, runs to me and clings to my leg. She’s returned to turtle mode.
I hold onto her shoulder so I can maintain my balance as I walk to the front door, pulling it open with my free hand.
“Kyle!” Even though he’s eight inches taller than me, he’ll always be my adorable little brother. He softens the energy in the air instantly.
“Hey sister, I missed ya at dinner the other night. Mom wants you to call her.” He gives me a hug, then squats like a frog down to Lily. “Ribbit, Lily, Ribbit.” He manages to get a tiny giggle out of her, but she doesn’t dare detach herself from my leg. He’s patient, and knows it’s only a matter of time until she’ll warm up. He stands back up and holds out a bottle of Merlot for me to look at, before pulling it back towards his chest. He thrusts it toward me again, I move to grab it and he pulls it back again. “I know you don’t drink anything but water and tea. I’ll go put this in the fridge to chill.” He puts one hand on my shoulder to nudge me aside, and walks past Lily and me.
I see Helen crossing our quiet street toward the house. “Helen! I’m glad you made it!” I say, dipping into autopilot hostess mode. She’s gorgeous as always, walking up my driveway in a yellow dress flowing to just below her knees, and white strappy heels. She leans in to give me an armless hug, as her hands are occupied—bright yellow orchids in one and a foil-wrapped dish in the other.
“Where’s Sarah? I thought you guys were coming together,” I say as I take the flowers.
“She texted me and said she’s getting a ride from this attorney guy; I think his name’s Luke.”
“Why does she have an attorney?” I ask naïvely.
“Jelina, seriously?” Helen purses her lips, bewildered that I still just don’t get these hints.
“Maybe someday I’ll understand her wild and free sex life,” I say and gasp and cover my face with my hand, as I catch myself saying that in front of Lily. I try to change the subject. “Thank you for these gorgeous orchids!”
“I got them at Trader Joe’s, and the cake at SM Cucina, of course,” she says as she heads for the kitchen. “Where do you want me to set this down?”
“Don’t go in the kitchen! The floors are still wet,” I shout as she reaches the doorway, and my annoyance at Dylan’s procrastination covers me like an oily film on my skin.
“Helen, what’s up?” Dylan swoops around her and pulls her into a suave dancing motion with him, sweeping her off her feet. Before she can respond, she’s giggling and so lost in his charm that she doesn’t even realize he’s taken her dish. “Damn! Someone’s a fucking chef!” He holds the dish up to his face, peeling back the foil and peeking at it, closes his eyes for a moment and breathes it in. “A chocolate lava cake! I hope you guys enjoy everything else we’re having, because this is all I’m having tonight.” He disappears with the dessert.
Helen’s blushing. Are you kidding me? She’s actually blushing. How does he do it? He can pull anyone in with a few seconds of his charm. I soften a bit.
“Good to see you too, D!” she yells, gathering her composure and possibly coming out of his spell and back to remembering how I’ve vented about him so many times before. She turns and comes over to Lily, who’s let go of my leg by now, and was lost in joy for a moment, laughing at the entertaining Dylan and Helen dance show she just witnessed. She loves her daddy so much. I’m grateful for it. It’s one of those things I love about him. I can never take that away from her. “Lily, I heard you wrote a cool book for Miss Kayla’s class! Can I see it?” Helen extends her hand, which is left hanging.
Lily’s expression turns from a big smile back to looking down at the floor. Her frown returns and she chews on a fingernail. She sits on the couch, fiddling with her Sketches and doesn’t say a word.
Helen knows it’s not a time to push. She’ll warm up in about an hour—or maybe not.
“I’ll get it!” Dylan says. I see him re-enter the room and fly towards the door. “Hey, you guys are early!” It’s Jake and Jane and their twins. He’s right. They’re usually on Dylan’s timeline ever since they had kids. Their daughters are a couple of years older than Lily, but they couldn’t be more different from her.
Sarah is walking up the driveway with her flavor of the month. “Sarah! Hey, come on in!” Dylan shouts. “And who’s this lucky guy?” They all pour into the house, and the volume and energy goes up about ten notches. I can feel my body tense as my introversion is starting to feel the pressure.
“This is Luke,” Sarah says, motioning to her date. “Luke, Dylan. Dylan, Luke.” She glides past them and straight to me. “Jelina, meet my friend, Luke.”
I can’t keep my eyes off him. I’m too nervous to get any words out. I’m surprised by this one. He doesn’t look like her typical tattooed personal trainer type. Luke’s dressed in cream-colored slacks and a button-down shirt fitted to his athletic body, with the sleeves rolled up to expose his tan skin and muscular forearms. He has a nicely trimmed goatee and blue-lensed aviator sunglasses resting on his head. This guy’s got to be out on the Malibu hiking trails every weekend, and I get confirmation when I catch the natural highlights in his wavy hair. He seems comfortable to be around. He extends his hand to Dylan. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dylan.” They shake hands, and he steps back and waits for Sarah to enter the house first, putting his hand on her lower back.