by Harper Kim
Even from this distance and in the veil of night, I recognize her. She is the lady in the tailored deep blue suit last Halloween. Is Mr. Cocky behind the wheel her husband? The same man wearing the green pullover? No, for some reason I can’t fathom seeing the man in the green pullover driving that slick vehicle, it suits her more. Plus, why would the husband wait impatiently outside while the wife sneaks in secrecy? Unless, that is, they’re playing one of those bizarre games married couples play to spice up their marriage. I never had to stoop that low with my Betsy.
Then the door swings wide, and as if answering my silent prayer, she appears. Her brown hair is dripping wet and clinging to her ivory skin. Her lake blue eyes drown in tears as she slumps to a pleading kneel in the open doorway. The lady in the glitzy dress gives a distressed look back and mouths a few exaggerated words of conciliation. My Betsy shows no effort to understand, and the lady enters the gleaming vehicle without further sign of remorse.
The dark sedan immediately zips away, leaving a faint wisp of high-octane fumes in its wake. My Betsy, dressed for bed in a rumpled shirt and drawstring shorts, doesn’t move from her huddled position. Deep, heaving sobs escape from her lips like a tortured animal after losing a battle. Her wounds are open; she is exposed and vulnerable.
A lump forms in my dry throat as I helplessly watch from the shadows. Why can’t I move? I need to get to her fast. I need to console her. I’m the only one who can. Betsy…it’s okay, my sweet Betsy. Just wait a little bit longer and everything will be okay.
Loral Holmes:
7:55 P.M.
…Twirling and swirling, round and round…
Picking myself up from the cold tile floor of the entryway, I grit my teeth in angst and pound up the stairs to my room. Grabbing my cell phone from my desk, I dial Mike’s number before I have a chance to think.
“Loral?”
“Can you come over?” My voice quivers unexpectedly.
“Loral? Are you okay?” Worry infuses his voice.
“Mike, are you coming over or not?”
“No, I mean yes, of course I’ll come.”
“Come in through the bedroom window. I’ll leave it open.”
“Lor—?”
Snapping the cell phone closed I take in a deep breath before heading downstairs toward the squeaky chatter of cartoons filling the living room. Tory is kneeling on the carpet, diligently coloring an outline drawing of a princess over the coffee table. Flecks of crayon wax dust the glass. Behind her Bella is snuggled in the deep-seated cushions of the beige couch, holding her favorite doll of the week, her round eyes transfixed on the animated characters bobbing up and down the screen.
Under brief examination, the girls are okay. The dramatic plight of Tess and Loral doesn’t seem to have disturbed the girls’ evening. Any psychologist would have noted that the unfocused expressions and seemingly normal activities in the family living room should have lit a large neon warning sign above my head. But I am too pissed and too preoccupied with my own troubles to notice the blaring distress signals from my sisters.
I plaster a phony smile on my face and say, “Okay girls, I’m going to be busy in my room for a bit. Can I trust you guys to stay put and not wander outside?”
Bella doesn’t blink or budge. Tory’s small head perks up and gives a faint nod before she goes back to coloring, pressing the pink crayon into the outline of a gown until it breaks from the pressure. I choose not to see the trailing tear zigzagging down Tory’s face. Tonight I am going to be selfish. Tonight I want to pretend everything is normal.
I hear Mike shuffling around the room, probably anxious and perplexed by my sudden call. Determined, I head upstairs and close the door behind me. The door misses the catch and is set slightly ajar. I don’t notice. My anxious heart pounds against my chest for what I am about to do. I take a few confident strides over to Mike, who is precariously positioned at the edge of my bed, uncomfortable.
The window is still open. A cool breeze rustles through the pages of a teen magazine on my oak desk. Taylor Swift is on the cover, an ad for mascara on the reverse. The bed slants slightly from his weight. As I inch forward, slowly closing the gap that separates us, his childlike eyes widen in alarm, and I feel more confident. The bed creaks as he shifts his weight.
Hovering over him now, I flick the ball cap off his head. A mix of grass, dirt, sweat, and the cologne he probably doused himself with before heading over leaves a trailing scent in the air above him. Crinkling my nose, I let my fingers run through his matted hair (I saw Tess do this once). He lets out a low, guttural groan. As I move to lift his Patriot’s shirt over his head he quickly jumps off the bed and backs himself against the wall, stunned.
“Whoa. Loral what are you doing?” Gulping for air, he swallows reflexively. His eyes are slightly glazed from temptation but his arms are held out to act like a tentative barricade.
I am worried he’ll stop me, but I smile, coaxingly. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I playfully reach for his shirt again, he jerks back. Oh god, this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I decide to put in all my chips and seductively remove my shirt instead. Adamant to go through with my plan, I push forward. Finally, something is happening. Mike stands gawking at my naked body.
I know he’s been patiently waiting and wanting this moment to happen for years. I’m giving him what he wants, what I should want. Tess gives it away so easily, why can’t I? I’m her daughter aren’t I? Her blood? I must enjoy sex, too.
But why am I so afraid all of a sudden?
I once had a fairytale image of what this momentous moment would be like. There would be music playing in the background and candles lit around the bed. For one thing he’d be clean and shaven. My body would be glistening and smooth from the bath. I’d be wearing something pretty and laying on a bed glittered with rose petals. He would have just proposed and I would be blushing with innocence. The moment would be beautiful and magical; innocent and exciting.
My moment is nothing like that. It is awkward and cold.
He combs a hand through his sweat-crusted hair and awkwardly stands, transfixed. I wonder what he sees? I suddenly feel very self-conscious. My body is not as curvy as I’d like and my breasts are too small and lopsided. He probably thinks I look weird. I quickly get under the blue cotton covers and wait. “Well? Are you going to join me or not?”
Mike still stands, fully clothed and gawking. If I didn’t make the first move he’d probably have stayed in the same position all night. Clumsily, he removes his workout clothes. I have to stop myself from cringing; he didn’t take a shower. I really should have hinted at what I planned to do. Too late to do something about his poor hygiene now. It is now or never.
Awkwardly he jumps in beside me. Something hard jabs my thigh and I move to avoid it. Both being virgins, silence hangs in the air as we debate what to do next. Tension mounts, he jerks to the right, jabbing his elbow into the side of my face.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Here, let’s try this.” I move under him so he is directly above me. The position seems agreeable, and he leans in to kiss my lips. I taste salt and chocolate protein shake.
“Are you sure?” His voice is husky with desire and his eyes glaze over. I nod a solemn yes.
Next thing I know, the process is over and done with. The gentle kiss turns hard as his body moves with instinctual force. As he works, I have to turn my head to the side and bite down on my bottom lip. I lay as still as I can, the pain, almost unbearable.
My body fights back. I am dry and not ready. Pain slices into me when he enters. I blink back a tear. Closing my eyes, I count softly in my head. Counting to twelve, the event is over and he lies in a sweaty heap on top of my cold and paralyzed body.
Rolling over, with his limbs hanging off the side of the bed, his lips curl into a lax and idiotic smile. Chest heaving, he starts to giggle.
“Wo
w, Loral. That was great. You were amazing.”
“Yeah…great.” I fix a plastic smile on my face, get up, drape a robe around my shivering body, and avoid his eyes. I don’t want him to see the tears that are now streaming down my face.
As I near the door I hear tiny footsteps rush down the stairs. I finally notice the door is parted open. Shame and disgust skim through my veins. Was it Bella or Tory? I can’t be certain. I try to call out but sickness washes over me and I rush down the hall to the bathroom.
Quickly I turn on the faucet full blast for ill-conceived white noise. A clattering sound echoes the room as I jerk up on the porcelain lid. Vile liquid burns my throat as it releases in involuntary heaves. I lie limp on the cool tile floor, my skin clammy with a cold sweat. The unyielding, unmoving tile surface feels palliative against the rolling waves of directionless nausea inside.
Clamping my hands over my mouth I muffle heaving sobs and shake violently in the corner of the bathroom. Disgust, dread, and shame overwhelm me from the shock of what just happened. I started this. I chose this. I am ultimately at the wheel, ultimately destined to face alone the consequences of whatever madness provoked me. In some convoluted way, I thought that by losing my virginity, I would somehow get back at my harlot mother. Now that it is over, I feel repulsed by my actions and can’t help wondering: what did I just do?
Tess is not here to scream at me, reprimand, or feel threatened by my actions. It’s just me. Me. Alone.
Growing up is a bitch.
So what if Tess chooses to ruin her life by having an affair whenever she wants. I don’t even know who this new guy is. Who am I to judge? I don’t mean anything to her anyways. Why did I ever think I mattered?
Water runs from the faucet for a good ten minutes before I pick myself up and scrub my face raw. Gazing into the oval mirror, I look ragged, my brown hair disheveled. Running a brush through the tangled mess helps some, but my pale face, splotchy from tears, and deadened eyes look ghostly. The slight jab to my cheek fortunately didn’t leave a mark but my quivering lips show fear instead of happiness.
I’ve been gone too long. Mike is probably worried. I assemble a smile on my face that hopefully simulates happiness, square off my shoulders, and head back toward the room.
Mike is no longer zoned out in a blissful sweaty heap over the far side of my bed. Nor has he left the room. He is planted squarely at the edge of the bed, wearing only his navy blue boxers. Making himself comfortable, he is deeply consumed in the contents of my notebook.
Enraged, I snatch up my notebook from his sneaky fingers and tuck it back under the mattress where it belongs. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s private!”
Sheepishly he rises. “Sorry, Babe. You were taking a while and I just stumbled upon it. I was curious and…I just read a couple pages. They’re really good, Loral. You should have someone look at them.” He rakes a hand through his rumpled brown hair and looks at me with pleading eyes.
“First, do not call me Babe. That’s ridiculous. And second, I didn’t ask for your opinion. If I wanted your—”
Suddenly, I hear Brett’s voice over the television downstairs. “Girls, where’s your sister?”
“Shit.” Grabbing the rest of Mike’s clothes I shove him toward the window. “Go. Go.”
Panicked, Mike quickly pulls on his shirt and jeans. I toss out his shoes and socks before he has a chance to put them on and push him forward. Just as he manages to escape out the window, there is a tiny knock at the door.
“Loral?” A timid voice calls out from behind the closed door.
Smoothing my hair, I clutch the robe closed high above my collar bone and open the door. Tory avoids my eyes and looks at the floor instead. “Dad’s home…is…” her voice lowers to a whisper, “is Mike gone?”
Great, the rush of tiny steps down the stairs was Tory. No time to be embarrassed. I need damage control. Kneeling down, I lift Tory’s chin and brush the hair out of her face. “Yes, he’s gone. I’m sorry you had to see that. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again, okay? I made a mistake.”
Tory’s timid eyes look up and she braves a smile. “Okay. I won’t tell.”
“Okay. We’ll just keep this between us. Now let’s go downstairs and get you and Bella ready for bed.”
Taking her small hand, we walk down the stairs in silence. As we near the landing, I notice Brett in the kitchen selecting leftovers from the fridge.
I clear my throat. “There’s some turkey behind the milk.”
Poking his head above the open door he says, “Yeah, I just found it. Thanks.”
“Sure.” The genuine smile that passes between us startles me. It is like his head was suddenly cleared and some fatherly sense was knocked back in. Does he know? Is it written all over my face that I had sex? No, that’s a myth…but…I feel the heat burn my cheeks. Why the sudden relaxed state? Maybe it has to do with where he’s been going the past few nights. Was he having an affair, too?
“So, uh, where have been these past few nights?”
“Oh, sorry, I guess I was so busy I forgot to update you. I’m taking night classes at Grossmont.”
“You’re going to school?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m so old, but I’m really enjoying it. I want to get a degree in Business Management so I can own a bar. I thought I have so much experience with bartending and my dad’s a banker so I figured business is in the genes and I should be good at it.”
“Your dad’s a banker?”
“Yeah. I guess I haven’t been very open with my past. Maybe someday we’ll talk about it.”
“Yeah, someday…” I don’t want the conversation to end so I try thinking of something else to say. “What’s the bar going to be like?”
“I wrote it all down, that is, my vision of the place.” Brett digs in his backpack until he finds the papers he is looking for. “The professor is this weird old guy, but he’s really interesting and he told us at the very first day of class to visualize the restaurant, hotel, or whatever it is that we want after this class is over, and the place just came to me. I guess it’s been on my mind for a while now.
“Here, tell me what you think.”
His vision is a sultry restaurant and side bar at the top of a luxurious high-rise. There would be recessed lighting casting a warm glow over the entire room. Dark gleaming wood, high open-beam ceilings, orchids spurting out of tall crystal vases, and a piano positioned in a quiet corner.
Low, comfy white chairs and gleaming, lacquered tables would line the smooth black walls, decorated with bold impressionist paintings from around the world. Candles would flicker in the center of each table. And in the center of the space, there would be high round tables and stools with a bright spotlight centered on each, for those who wanted to be noticed, like Tess.
At the far end of the room would be the bar, stocked with the best wines and spirits around. Spotless glasses would hang from above the bar. And lights would be strategically placed to produce a soft shimmering glow over the entire bar, so that the customers would be engrossed by an ethereal web of light as though they were underwater, in a faraway dream.
The wait staff would be dressed in all white, each young and beautiful. They would serve scant, elegant dishes the size of a child’s fist, with each plate holding an orgasmic secret of artful culinary pleasure: rich, exotic, aromatic, bursting with color and flavor. The cost would be on the high-end but definitely worth it. And absolutely no doggie bags allowed.
“So what do you think? You think Tess would go for something like this? It’ll be a big investment, but don’t you think it’ll be great?”
“It sounds like her.”
He has a goofy grin on his face. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
All I can process is that Brett opened up to me. Finally, after all these years, we had a normal father-daughter conversation. And Tess was going to fuck it all up.
Feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, I divert my attention to the couch. B
ella is fast asleep, crouched in the fetal position with her thumb in her mouth. Tory is obediently clearing the table of her crayons and coloring books the best that she can—she swipes the pesky wax bits onto the carpet, thinking that is considered cleaning. I make a mental note to vacuum the living room carpet early the next morning before the wax can be trampled permanently into the soft, champagne-colored fibers.
Uncomfortable by the sudden amity, I scoop up Bella and motion for Tory to follow. Over my shoulder I say, “I’m going to take the girls to bed now.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Thanks. You know…it was great talking to you.”
I nod, amazed.
“Oh, Loral?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you know when Tess is going to be home?”
“Umm,” hesitating, I immediately visualize Tess in the sexy purple dress escorted by her so-called client going to a so-called business meeting and shake my head. “I think she said she had some business function to attend and might be late.”
His eyes fall to his plate of reheated leftover mish-mash and he nods slowly.
Quickly, before he can ask anything else, I turn and head up the stairs. Brett deserves better than my mother.
Chapter Thirteen:
Flashback to:
Sunday, April 22, 1979
3:00 P.M.
Young Neil Wilcox:
Elizabeth had just turned seventeen. That day, I saw her run down the weather-beaten porch steps of the four-room shack she shared with her father near the train yards. Their home (if you could call it that) was an unfinished, no-color plywood box with a crumbling roof. The worst sections of the roof were covered by tarred canvas tarps. The floor plan was mostly one story, except for a small second story add-on loft toward the rear of the structure. Their water was supplied by a garden hose, buried beneath a few inches of soft dirt and attached illegally to a forgotten, rusty spigot fifty feet away in the train yards beside their plot. The other end of the hose threaded into the structure’s crude but leak-free copper piping system. The effluent side of the plumbing—never properly tied into the municipal sewer system—was instead routed directly into the ravine out back. Strangely enough, there had been an electric service installed when the shack still had hopes of becoming a house. A power line serendipitously ran along the tracks nearest their abode; an umbilical, blackish-gray wire drooped and twisted from one of the rakish wooden power poles to their eaves, providing Elizabeth with hot showers, hot meals, and light by which to study.