“Check!” I yell out a bit too loudly.
HER BODY FILLS EVERY NICHE with mine as we lay in bed together. Our kisses are tender yet filled with passion. We both have wasted so much time, and now we don’t have much left. Her hands move over me without pause, growing eager. Yet I become increasingly rigid with every inch of my skin she covers till my awkwardness becomes mechanical.
“I’ve never done this either,” she confesses, again reading me. A bashful grin forms on her swollen, kissed lips.
“Not on a first date, at least,” I chuckle, trying to ease my own discomfort. There is loss in Desi’s eyes, and she pulls away. Mood disquieted, my brow creases.
“Hey.” I say as I hold her to not allow more distance between us. Thoughts veil behind her stare, a confession at most. I pull her head close to cradle against my neck. “I’m sorry, that was mean. Nothing you’ve done in the past matters to me. I’ve known you’ve been with men, and I don’t care. You’re with me now, and I am yours. I always have been and always will be.”
She snuggles closer to me. “I’m not a virgin, you’re right, but because of that, I know who I am now. I just need to tell you, my so-called dates over the past few years have all been nothing but Maracella’s creative marketing setups. I swear!” Desi raises her head with eyes that beseech me to understand, then drops her gaze to my chin. “Nothing more than photo ops. Besides, you’d be shocked how many of those guys are gay and being set up by their agents too. That one guy Jace I was ‘dating’ for a few weeks had a partner he’d been with for over three years.”
Pulling her hair back so I can tilt her head up to see me smiling, I kiss her like a delicate whisper. “Another first for us then, eh?” I say with a flick of my eyebrow. She laughs nervously and presses a more demanding kiss, parting my lips with her tongue. A moan rumbles from deep in my throat. I can’t keep my hands from slipping into her blouse and under her bra. I need to feel more of her skin. Based on her panting, she needs it too.
Without warning, she jolts up and straddles me with those perfect long legs. Her gorgeous green eyes are glowing with impatient need. The honey flecks in them are sparking with lust and playfulness. We are both ready.
MOM AND DAD PICK ME up at the General Mitchell airport and start prattling on about happenings on the farm. I think they’re trying to avoid the elephant in the room with talk of the new horses and an organic compound Dad has been experimenting with. I’m not listening. I am texting Desi that I’ve arrived safely and how excited I am she’s coming in a few weeks. That I miss her and that I love her. It feels so natural, a relief to say it freely in its new context.
“That Desi?” my mom asks. Her big, brown cow eyes twinkle when she notices my reddish face and shy smile. My phone buzzes before she can say anything else. I answer the call to avoid the questions in my mom’s expression.
“Hey, babe! I just wanted to hear your voice,” Desi says cheerfully. “How was the flight?”
“It was fine, but I’m tired.” I don’t tell her how tired. I don’t tell her my body feels like it’s sinking to the core of the earth. My muscles and joints ache like they are being dragged between layers of rock through tectonic plates. The poor baby two rows behind me screamed painfully whenever I felt my ears pop. The mom did everything she could to easy its discomfort, to no avail. She was doing great as moms do in situations like that, so she had my sympathy. I tried not to blame the baby for the throbbing headache that stemmed from its crying. The guy next to me about got his head ripped off when he started bitching about it. Telling him to shut up made me feel a little better, I admit.
Desi picks up on the fatigue despite my attempt to hide it. “How tired?”
“Very.” My signature answer when I don’t want to go into detail.
Her sigh of surrender turns the corners of my mouth up.
“Well, get some rest and call me later,” she says, defeated.
“Ok.”
“I love you.” Her voice breaks a little, tearing at my heart, wanting her here. But this is as close as we can get right now so I let the words wash over my exhaustion. It acts like a healing salve over every sting in my body.
“Ahem,” she teases expectedly.
My eyes dart to Mom and Dad in the front seat. They’ve been watching me the whole time. Dad’s big baby blues in the rearview mirror are crinkling up at the sides. I know he’s smiling. Was my poker face not on? I know they can’t hear Desi’s end of the conversation. Mom’s head is jittering like she’s at a rock concert.
I roll my eyes, and cup the phone to mask my words against their nosy ears. “I love you too,” I whisper.
Dad whips around. “I knew it!” he yells, pointing his finger at me. His expression is classic Dad. As if he’s just created the perfect organic compost to produce basketball-sized tomatoes. Mom claps excitedly like a tween at a boy band concert. They are ridiculous, but I can’t hold back my sheepish grin.
My parents have known about my preference for girls even before I did, so when I vocalized my “out,” they were overjoyed I’d finally embraced it. They never pushed or prodded, just supported me. I’m a little irked though. Apparently, based on their reaction, they knew about Desi too. If they had only told me sooner, Desi and I could have had what we have now a long time ago. Pushing my irritation away, I sigh. No past could’ve, should’ve, if only, or what if will change what it is today.
“Hi, Desi—we love you too!” they say at the same time, warranting my forehead to drop into my palm.
Desi giggles. “Tell Mama Beth and Papa Nick hello for me. I’ll see you soon, babe.” She knows I’m raked over.
“Ok, I will. I miss you already,” I say with a leaden heart.
“I miss you too,” she replies softly. “I’ll be there before you know it. Keep your Skype open. Bye, honey.”
“Yeah. Bye, babe.” Neither of us wants to hang up, so there are a few seconds of silence before I end the call. My parents continue their not-so-covert glances to each other and to me.
Mom has always been the romantic, but Daddy is the true master. He’s big and burly, but can be as smooth as butter on hot corn. The combination of manly charm, suave sophistication, and eco-friendly conscience was the reason Mom fell so hard, according to him. Mom says it was because he had a stone-cold hard body and was a gentleman despite all the salacious rumors she’d heard about him. Errr…that I didn’t need to know. They are the most lovey-dovey couple I’ve ever known, though. He plays his sax while she stares at him with dreamy eyes, they sing ballads, dance when there is no music, and kiss all the time. Sometimes too much PDA, especially in our rural little town, but everyone knows that’s how they are. The townsfolk just hide their children’s eyes and shake their heads grinning as they walk by.
“So…Desi…” Dad starts.
After a nasally exhale, I agree. “Yes, Desi.” Both of them turn back around and nod their heads like doggie bobble head toys. I turn to the window to shun their inquisition. It won’t last long, but I try anyway.
Autumn has come early to Arena, Wisconsin as well. The maple leaves are saturated and drip of sunshine as gold begins to edge their tips. It’s quite the quintessential country sight to behold. Straight from a Rockwell painting in vibrant, bursting colors. The cool glass of the window feels good against my forehead. Familiar signs and mile markers whiz by while sleep begs my burning eyes to close. A vision of last night with Desi plays behind them. It is slow and misty, languid and tender, passionate and honest. It would have been my greatest regret not to have told her. Not to love her for all the time I have left. I am selfish.
The car rocks like the wild frog ride at the amusement park, and I slam my head against the window. “Geez, Dad. You haven’t fixed that pothole yet?” I growl, as we pass through the gates of Timeless. Rubbing my palm on the throbbing spot where a knot will inevitably grow, I look around in amazement. My eyes water, but not from the sting. Even though I only left a few months ago, I forgot how beautiful the farm is. God,
what a great place to die.
Umpteen years ago, my parents bought the Timeless Farm sight unseen. They really liked the name and the few pictures the realtor sent. Dad quit his chief chemical engineering job, and Mom moved her veterinary practice here. With a lot of hard work (and I do mean a lot), we built Timeless into one of the most prestigious equestrian centers in the country. Dad also grows prize-winning organic produce and sells his formulas to local farmers to help the struggling Wisconsin farming community. Mom has an office clinic in the back of the barn and sees to our horses as well. Our five–bedroom, grey-with-white-trim house is tiny in comparison to the barn, but my parents are minimalists, and we have ample room for overnight guests.
The brilliance of the sun’s rays pass through an opaque altostratus cloud. Its fingers extend half the length of farm, stretching out to the heavens. Despite the bite in the air, I roll down the window to take in the smells of home. It smells like crisp dew and fresh cut grass. I close my eyes and absorb another memory.
“Roll the window up, honey, you’ll get sick,” my mom says.
“-er,” I absently finish her sentence. The cruelty of what I have just said becomes evident when I see the pain flash in her eyes. She quickly faces forward in her seat, unsuccessfully hiding her emotions. She is losing her only daughter and one of her closest friends.
Ashamed at my callousness, I tell her I’m sorry, but dense mud rolls through my stomach. I want to mean my apology, but I can’t stand their optimism. I’m sick. I’m dying, and no Canadian specialist can fix that. Dr. Shaver didn’t dice words telling me so. I didn’t tell my parents about that conversation. They would have freaked out about the decreasing percentage.
As soon as the car rolls to a stop, she bolts from the car, muttering something about lunch. My dad and I watch her disappear into the house.
“Regina…”
“I know Dad, I know.” Regret and guilt weave through my voice.
“She’s barely hanging on. Only her sister knows. She doesn’t have the heart to tell your grandparents. All her hopes are pinned on this Canadian guy she found on the Internet.”
I squeeze myself between the two front seats and sit on the center console to look at my father. “Dad, we’re going to have to tell people. I’m not convinced the Canadian medical community is any better than New York’s. We have to prepare them.”
My frankness shatters the strong male façade he’d been fronting his whole life. My dad is really a big, gruff softie. His eyes spring tears he’s been holding back.
“Oh, Daddy.” I say tenderly and wrap my arms around his big shoulders as much as I can.
THE ROOM I GREW UP in has a bigger bed and a few other recently purchased “adult” furnishings in it now. I do miss my old set, though. There was a nook of space behind the twin mattress and below the headboard chest where Desi and I used to play. I hid in it when I got in trouble and when I wanted to be alone with my music. When I graduated strings from the violin up to cello, I had to abandon the space.
I barely have time to get settled and immerse in memories of childhood before I feel a pressure in my ears. Shit.
The next morning, I wake to a razor-like feeling in my throat every time I swallow. A persistent, high-pitched tone taunts me as well. Damn, Mom was right. Honestly, I’d rather be throwing up than feeling the piercing pain in my ears and the broken glass in my throat every time I eat or drink something. I spend my first two homecoming weeks plus a few days in the hospital. They keep me longer than necessary to make sure I fully recover, even though I feel better after week one. I can’t take the antibiotics, as they may interfere with my other meds. Still, there are no signs of pneumonia so I don’t get why I have to stay so long. But it is what it is; pain is pain, sick is sick. I know what’s going to happen to me as my illness progresses. I’ve seen it every time I went for treatments at the Oncology wing in the lower bowels of the hospital. I’ve seen it weaken the strongest men, rip beauty from dazzling women, and leave children with sunken, hollow eyes, all of which scares the shit out of me. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of the path that takes me to my grave. So for now, I’m grateful that I’m relatively healthy and get normal people illnesses—I’m good with that. Dr. Shaver quoted six to nine months, maybe a year, so every day that I get to breathe normally, eat chocolate cake, or wake without pain boiling my brain, I’ll take.
And yet throughout my hospital stay, I make Mom and Dad field my calls with excuses and make them swear not to tell Desi. I miss her so much, but I don’t want her to worry; it was just strep. She would have argued with me, since any kind of infection is dangerous for me. She’s right, but I don’t want to distract her from the pre-Winter Collection shoots Maracella has lined up for her. Maracella has been great about working with Desi’s outrageous demands for taking time off to see me. Every free moment between classes and trips home is booked, so I know Desi is exhausted. I love her too much to pump up her anxiety and hamper her in any way. Thankfully, signal strength is not great at the hospital, so I send Desi generic texts sporadically. With her schedule, I’m lucky to get a response after an hour or two.
Every night, I curl up with a white, red rose-embroidered pillowcase of hers that I took. It smells like her, and it is so soft. Aside from hearing her voice, it’s the closest thing I have to her actually sleeping next to me. It sates the loneliness and temporarily soothes the ripped pieces of me that tear away with each day of her absence. Even before our admission, we spoke almost every day, regardless of location or responsibilities. Keeping her at bay is making me nuts. But it’s for the best. She has to focus. My days are only manageable knowing she is building her future. Albeit a future without me.
Thursday rolls around, and I am finally home with a precautionary warning from the hospital. A huge bouquet of orange Asiatic lilies, fuchsia carnations, red Peruvian lilies, lavender chrysanthemums, and lush greens fill my room with Desi’s scent. I know they are from her even before I open the card. She has sent the sweetest sentiments across the miles. I inhale deeply as if it was her and my heart floods with longing. I’m at a loss for breath. It feels like I’m a juice box being squeezed dry.
AT DINNER, DAD TELLS ME we are flying out tomorrow morning to Quebec to see Doctor Salavichne, the chief resident at the Intel Paradygm clinic. My mind spins. I haven’t even fully unpacked yet, and I wonder if I should bother to at this point. I rub my tired eyes, then drag my fingers down my face and drop my head back. I can’t determine if the exhaustion stems from the strep adventure, the draining annoyance that bubbles up every time I look at their hopeful faces, or just plain old resignation. Maybe it’s a subliminal tactic because I’m afraid of that road.
As soon as I finish my dinner, I excuse myself to seek solace in my room. I’m looking at the pictures I took from Desi’s photo album when a soft knock comes from my bedroom door. Mom pokes her head in. We didn’t discuss the car incident at all during my hospital stay, so I know we have a bridge to rebuild.
“Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, she carries in a tray with tea and small finger biscuits. “You know we’re not much into sweets here, but I made these for you, thinking you might like them. I hope they’re alright. Mrs. Jenkins gave me the recipe.” She is babbling as she sets the tray down on the bed. Her movements are stiff, and there is a quiver in her voice. I move the pictures to the nightstand and pat the bed, inviting her to sit.
As I pour tea in both teacups, I eye her trying to gauge her mood before I speak. “Mom, you have to stop babying me. You’ve never babied me before, so now is not the time to start. I can’t handle it. It makes me feel ‘sick’. I am sick, but I don’t want to feel ‘sick’.” Her eyes flicker with a little understanding, but it’s guarded. I sigh. I know she’s trying. “For now, I’m still strong enough to exercise the horses, shovel manure, clean out the stalls, or even help dig up the basketball tomatoes I know Dad’s growing behind the barn.” I chuckle, hoping to lighten the thickness that entered with her.
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She faux smiles, but her eyes are beading up. “You’re my only child, and I can do whatever I want. You’re not the boss of me,” she whimper-cries and playfully shoves my shoulder. My mother has always had such glowing beauty that it is not a wonder my dad took to her immediately. She has an ardent strength like Desi’s that resonates in everything she does. Though sitting in front of me, I realize she is fragile where I am concerned.
I smirk at her attempt to coddle me. Picking up one of the most atrocious-looking tea biscuit I have ever seen and, with my eyebrows raised at her mock obstinacy, I take a bite. My expression instantly changes.
Mom is hell-bent on keeping Dad healthy, so she rarely bakes and never buys snacks. Dad, on the other hand, has a major sweet tooth. He is also an ingenious snack sneaker by necessity. For my mom to bake for me touches my heart, but oh, good gracious, she is not good at it.
“What? No good?” she asks, laughing at my disgusted expression and wipes stray tears from her cheeks. Whew, ice broken.
“I fink I broke a toof.”
“Come on.” Rolling her eyes, she grabs my arm. “I bought ice cream yesterday.”
I let her drag me off the bed. “Thank God! I thought these just looked horrible. Were these meant for the horses too?”
“Shut up.”
“Is he really growing basketball tomatoes behind the barn?” My question is barely heard as I follow her down the stairs like a stampeding bull.
“I’ll never tell,” she sings back as we run into the kitchen.
Dad looks up from behind his newspaper, his glasses clinging to the edge of his nose. “Well, I see you two are playing nice again.”
We both start giggling and pretend-fight our way to the fridge. I swear, my forty-something-year-old mom acts like a teenager sometimes. I grab the ice cream container, and Mom grabs two spoons, but no bowls.
My Last Season With You Page 4