by Josie Wright
“I’m up for it. What do you say, man? I can’t handle them two alone.”
“Yeah, why not.” I smile over at Kylie and she gives me a seductive look back, licking her lips so slowly, it seems to happen in slow motion.
We’re interrupted by Mike’s voice shouting “Holy shit.” He looks around, making sure he has everyone’s attention. “Boy, you made 3,853.50 dollars.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
Wow. All the weird stuff my grandmother had was actually worth something. Who would’ve thought people like spending money on tacky figurines and weird crafting stuff?
He hands me the money, and I start laying it out on the table, making five small heaps. When I’m done I grab the first two and hand them over to Allie and Jake.
“Here’s your share.” Then I proceed to give Mike his.
“You don’t need to do that, Ben,” Allie says, staring at the money like I just stuck a ring on her finger.
“I know. But I appreciate your help.”
Mike starts laughing. “I’ll think I’ll make a trip to the strip-club.” Before anyone can say something, he adds, “And I’ll just be drinking water. No reason to panic.”
When I hand Kylie the money, she looks up at me from under her long eyelashes, thickened by what I guess are multiple layers of mascara.
“You know, you don’t need to pay me. It was my pleasure.” Shit, she definitely lays it on thick, but I have to admit it has just gotten a bit hotter. I might be hung up on Frankie, but I’m still a man.
“Kylie, stop being a slut.” Allie gives her sister a displeased look.
“I was talking about the help with the yard sale, Allie,” Kylie says before she turns to me and winks.
This evening could get interesting, in more than one way.
We end up going to a bar, drinking beer and occasionally playing pool. When Kylie isn’t trying to get my attention, she’s actually nice to talk to. So far, we’ve talked movies and music. Unlike Allie, she isn’t bubbly and has a somewhat decent taste when it comes to those things. It’s all fun and games until she wants to learn more about me.
“So, do you miss Michigan?” She eyes me curiously, a smile on her face.
How do I even answer that? I just want to enjoy the evening and not get into my family issues.
“I miss the weather, that’s for damn sure.”
They all chuckle. “You’ll get used to the heat.”
“Are you missing a girlfriend?” Kylie is running her hands suggestively up and down the beer bottle as if she’s trying to jerk it off.
“No, no girlfriend.” Only the woman who I can’t get out of my fucking head—who with just one night seared herself into every cell of my body.
“Well, isn’t that lucky?” Smiling up at me, she excuses herself and makes her way to the restrooms. For a second, I’m wondering if she’s expecting me to follow.
Before I know it, Allie slides over next to me.
“She’s really a sweet girl. She just hasn’t grasped the concept yet that she’s likeable without having to put out. Not her fault, between our sad excuse of a father and her ho of a mother, she doesn’t really have many good role models.”
“You don’t like her mom very much, huh?”
“God no, if I had to deal with that woman, I’d probably be in the loony bin.”
Her choice of words makes me swallow; thinking about my father in the loony bin, as she so nicely put it. And about my mom, who seems to have had something to do with it. I’m at a point where a harmless remark makes me cringe. For her, it’s just a phrase, a joke. For me, it’s reality. A reality that really sucks.
“I’m back.” Kylie’s husky voice reaches me from behind before she slides into the booth next to me—so close I can feel the heat radiating off her body. She turns toward me, giving me a good view of her cleavage. A part of me is turned off. It’s nice if a girl is forward, but if she serves the appetizer, the main course, and the dessert before you even had a chance to look at the menu it can be off-putting. There’s no mystery or anticipation.
The other part of me, the one that has a mind of its own, starts twitching at the view.
We play pool for a few more hours—talking and laughing. It’s the most carefree I’ve felt since that day—that one day that changed everything for me.
When we make it back to my house, Allie says something about needing to pee and takes off over to Mike’s house like the devil’s after her soul, not that the poor bastard would know how to handle her. Jake follows her, which leaves Kylie and me.
She walks over to me, and I assume she wants to say good night. When she hugs me, she presses her body close to mine. And by close, I mean she glues herself to me hip to breast.
“I had a really good night, Benjamin,” she whispers into my ear, her lips slightly touching it.
Her cheek is pressed against mine, her breasts rubbing against my chest, and I can feel her nipples vying for my attention. She runs her lips down my cheek, only a whisper of a touch. Just before she reaches my mouth, I take a step back. It’s not a conscious decision. I just do it, and I can’t stop what comes out of my mouth next.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Kylie. I had too much to drink. It’s best if we call it a night.”
Why did I do that? Only God knows because I sure as fuck don’t.
She takes a step back, and for a brief second, I can see the hurt written all over her face before she quickly plasters on her signature smile. “Sure, Ben. Sleep well.”
I don’t say anything else, just watch her get in her car and drive away.
After that, I take a long shower, hoping to ease the tension in my muscles, but it doesn’t work. Later in bed, I lay awake tossing and turning, my body still wound up tight. I think about Kylie, her body against mine, her lips on my face. I start stroking my cock, but he isn’t in the game. At least not until I replace Kylie’s face with Frankie’s, and it’s her hands running down my chest and stomach. It’s her whispering in my ear, and it’s her body pressed against mine before she falls to her knees in front of me. It doesn’t take me long to come and only then do I fall asleep.
I’m screwed.
Chapter 12
Merry Christmas to Me
Time flies, when you’re having fun. Isn’t that how the saying goes? And I’m having a ball. It’s Christmas morning and I’m getting ready to visit my father. I’ve been visiting him once a week for months now.
I haven’t learned anything new from him, however. It’s always the same thing. Whenever I bring up anything to do with my mother, their marriage, and its demise, he clams up and gets upset. Then he’ll look at me apologetically and say, “I’m sorry, Son. I can’t talk about it. It’s just too hard. It hurts too much.” And we’re back where we started.
Hell, it really seems to mess with him. Whatever went down between him and my mother must have been awful, and he hasn’t gotten over it. Even when I just mention her, his eyes fill with unshed tears, and his mouth sets in a firm line. He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly and frantically, like this is the only thing that keeps him from losing it. That’s when I know it’ll take him ten or fifteen minutes to get out of the haze he’s in. At least now he doesn’t get up and leave, disappearing into his room. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me. Besides getting to know him, I wanted to find out what happened. I want the truth.
The visits are draining. A mental hospital isn’t a fun place. I look at the people there and wonder what kind of life that really is; locked up not only behind walls, but more often than not, locked in their own mind. Therefore, the weekly pattern is good for us. It gives him time to collect himself and gives me the right amount of distance.
Now that my visits are usually an hour or more, I sometimes can’t wait to get out of there. Even though we’re allowed to go outside to the garden, it’s a completely different feeling compared to actually going outside.
We talk a l
ot about his life as a kid and teenager. He tells me about his high school years, his mother, and his father who passed away when he was little. Other times, I tell him about my life, the things I’ve done, usually with Dave and Frankie in tow.
I tell him about college, the music I like, and the movies I enjoy. We chat about my truck and the work I’ve done on the house. And I share childhood memories with him, although they aren’t complete. I don’t mention Mom, and definitely not Ron, in my stories. It’s harder than I thought since he’s been a big part of my childhood.
When we don’t feel like talking, although mostly it’s Noah who doesn’t, we play chess. He’s trying to teach me and it seems to make him happy to be the one teaching me something I don’t know. So I let him do it, although it’s the single most boring game ever invented. It’s about as engaging as watching grass grow. Oh no, wait, the growing grass is actually quite exciting in comparison.
On the days I don’t visit him, I work on the house and the jobs Mike seems to magically get me. After I refurbished the bar counter, they had me work on the tables. The money was great and the job fun. Other jobs involved me repairing things for neighbors and friends of Mike’s. The biggest job so far was an order from Mr. Murphy for a custom-made desk complete with drawers. That was one hell of a challenge and made me neglect the house while I was working on it. But the end result was definitely one to be proud of, and the money wasn’t bad either.
Most evenings, I spend with Allie and Jake. They have definitely grown on me, even if they will never compare to Dave and Frankie. But they have turned out to be good friends and keep me from spending too much time with my best friend—the whiskey bottle.
Occasionally, Kylie joins us. At first it was awkward and there was some hostility after the almost kiss, but after a while she relaxed and actually stopped trying to flirt with me constantly. The Kylie who isn’t trying so hard is definitely a much nicer and sweeter girl and so much more fun to hang out with.
At times, Mike hangs out with us, although that’s been rare lately. He actually started getting friendly with one of the strippers he met during his post-yard sale celebration. Whatever floats his boat.
I’ve gotten better at quieting the memories, the thoughts, the questions, and the emotions that continue to haunt me. Mainly by keeping myself busy. Not getting answers sucks and my mind has a tendency to come up with every possible horror scenario. I want to know what happened between my parents. I need to understand what brought my father to the point he’s at now.
Since I’m supposed to spend Christmas dinner with Allie, Jake, Kylie, Mike, and Kitty the stripper, I head over to see my father in the morning. I’m not sure what he’s allowed to have and what not, and I don’t know him well enough to know what he would like. Having no idea what to buy, I ended up getting him new pajamas. Since that was a bit pathetic even for me, I made a wood frame for a picture collage. It’s dark wood and can hold multiple pictures. All the corners are rounded for safety reasons and there is obviously no glass cover. I put in some pictures of us together when I was a baby, as well as the few the nurses let me take of us over the past few months. There are also pictures of me growing up, obviously minus Mom or Ron.
When I follow the nurse to the big room, I feel like a seven-year-old boy who painted a picture for his dad at school. It’s fucking embarrassing. He’s already sitting on the couch, our usual place, and he has an embarrassed look on his face as well.
“Hi, Noah.” I sit down next to him, reaching over and placing the gifts between us. “Merry Christmas.”
He copies the motion, placing a small wrapped gift next to me. “Merry Christmas, Son.”
I wait for him to unwrap the first gift, the pajamas. He takes them out and they are somewhat old-fashioned, but it’s not like I know what he wears to bed.
He holds them up and looks at me, his mouth pulling up into a crooked smirk. “Pajamas?”
“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t sure what you could get here.”
“No. They are great. There’s always use for them. I just suddenly feel thirty years older.” He starts to laugh, and I’m relieved he isn’t offended or insulted. “At least now I don’t have to feel bad about my gift.”
He points to the package, urging me to open it. “It’s your turn, Ben. Then I’ll open your second gift.”
I unwrap it carefully, pulling out a small canvas, maybe six by eight inches. The background is grey and has baby shoes and a rattle drawn on it. In the middle is a text and it takes me only two lines to know it’s the lyrics to “Father and Son” by Cat Stevens.
I rub the back of my hand over my eyes, wiping away the moisture. I feel like such a sissy, but this is the first time I feel like I really mean something to him, like it’s not just talk.
“I know it’s not much, Son—” he starts talking, but I interrupt him.
“No, this…it’s really great. Thank you.”
“You really like it?”
“Yeah, I love it.”
“Well, I used to sing you this song when you were little. You were so fussy and it was the only thing that seemed to calm you down. I could get dementia and this song would be etched into my brain as often as I sang it to you.”
It’s the first memory of us he shared with me and it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Thanks. I’m…this means a lot to me.”
He squeezes my shoulder before he turns to his gift. Opening it, he sees the pictures of the two of us, from back in the day and from now, as well as the many pictures of times he hasn’t had a chance to witness. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, wondering what his reaction will be, when he suddenly lets out a sob.
“God, I missed so much. I missed you growing up. This is killing me.”
I place my hand on his shoulder and say nothing. I’ve learned over the past few months it’s best to keep quiet when he gets emotional. I’m surprised though when it only takes him a few minutes to continue. His eyes shift to the side, his face marred by pain.
“Ben, I don’t want to talk bad about your mother.”
I know I won’t like what he’s going to tell me.
“I loved your mother. More than life itself. God, I worshipped her. I still do. What she did destroyed who I was, leaving behind a broken man.” He pauses, slightly shaking his head, and I barely dare to breathe so I don’t risk doing anything that could keep him from opening up.
“You were the one thing to complete us, to make us whole. But after a while, she was more and more distant. I chalked it up to post-partum depression, didn’t think much of it. Then she started going out, seemingly visiting friends or picking things up from the store, but she’d be gone for so long. It went on for weeks, months. One time I followed her and…and…” His voice breaks and he takes a ragged breath. I look up at him and see a hint of a sneer. It feels out of place, but just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. “She was there with this guy. He was hugging and kissing her. It tore me apart. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I thought we were happy. I thought she loved me. When she came home, I confronted her but she denied it, telling me he’s just a friend. I knew she was lying, but I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to be without her. So I didn’t say anything. I tried harder, spending more time with the two of you, helping out around the house. I thought it was getting better. She seemed a bit happier. Then, about two months later, I came home from work and you, she, and all your things were gone. I looked for her, but couldn’t find her. A week later a letter came—an official letter from the court. It was about a hearing—termination of parental rights. Until then, I didn’t even know such a thing existed. The things she said in her appeal—they were horrible lies. She said I was abusive, that I tried to hurt you.” He clenches his fists before he continues. “It broke me. By then, I was already so depressed about her betrayal, her leaving, and taking you from me her lawyers easily took me apart. I didn’t even get to see you one last time. Didn’t even get to say goodbye.” He’s crying now, sob
s shaking his frame. “I should’ve fought harder for you. Should have exposed her lies. I was too weak. I’m so sorry, Son. Can you please forgive me?”
Tears are running down my face while my hands are clenching and unclenching at my side. I’m hurting, and I’m livid. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t want to believe it. But the broken man before me—I don’t think he has it in him to lie.
“It’s not your fault, Dad.” It’s the first time I call him that and it feels right. For the first time, I didn’t even have to think about it. “It’s not your fault.” I place my arm across his shoulders and draw him closer, hugging him, knowing my mother’s betrayal has destroyed both of our lives.
I thought my world fell apart with one letter. But it turns out it fell apart that one day when my mother decided to be a lying, cheating whore.
We spend the rest of the visit singing Christmas carols with other patients and visitors, both of us thankful for the reprieve from the mental turmoil. All the while I keep stealing glances at my father, at the man he is today. I can’t help but wonder if this is my future, too. What if his illness isn’t just caused by the trauma of losing my mom and me? What if it’s something that always has been there, just waiting for the right trigger? The thought shakes me to the core as I think of the possibility of ending up like him, in a place like St. Michael’s.
I leave the hospital two hours later. I thought I was at my worst when I got the letter, but I was wrong. There is a voice inside my head trying to make me believe this is not the truth. It can’t be. But my mother lied to me for years, so it doesn’t seem impossible.
Actually, it seems quite likely. I need to let go of this stupid hope I keep clinging to. I need to face the truth, no matter how painful. And the truth is my mother is a heartless bitch.
I pull up into my driveway and for just a moment, I consider not going over for Christmas dinner. There is nothing merry about my Christmas and I don’t want to spoil anyone else’s mood.