Cries of Penance (22 page)

I remember al the times I went to Thomas’s and I was so envious of his children, of his life. Now he’s sharing it with me and before I got on the plane for Cincinnati, I somehow saw it as a burden. No sleep, no sex, no playtime…

Those things can be arranged. Our life won’t be as spontaneous as before but I have few memories that rival the strength of Celia, sitting on the floor drawing pictures with four children each vying to sit closer her. Lifting my hand to ring the doorbel , I realize it took coming home again to make me see reality. The last time I was home I thought I had to be vanil a to have a family. I’m an idiot.

The door opens without my having pressed the button.

“Johnathon! What a nice surprise,” my dad greets me, leaving me confused.

He shouts over his shoulder, “Honey, Johnathon’s here! Did you know he was coming?”

I stand gaping in the threshold as I watch my father turn around and walk back through the house. I step inside and drop my bag before closing the door.

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My mother comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She had said a family emergency. I don’t know what I thought, but this wasn’t it.

“You saw your father.”

There is a distance between us, not that I expected her to rush cross the room and pul me into her arms, but some warmth. The dark circles under her eyes tel me she is exhausted. “He cal ed me Johnathon.”

She nods. “I always thought you bore a resemblance to his brother.”

“Uncle Jack?”

“Who else?” She shakes her head and turns away.

I fol ow her into the living room and find her sitting on the sofa, she’s flipping through a photo album. She pats the cushion beside her and I sit, looking at the page she opened to. Although the photos are old they have been preserved beautiful y. I seem to remember a year awhile back that Mom went through a scrapbooking phase.

She points at a photo of a man in his late thirties, a man I seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to. “This is your Uncle Jack. I think this photo was taken a few years before he died. Do you even remember him? God, you were so young.

A baby.”

“I was nine or ten when he died. I remember him.” I sigh heavily, the quick trip down memory lane not detracting from the greater issue. “How long has Dad been exhibiting signs of dementia?”

She looks away.

“Mom?”

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“He hasn’t been a hundred percent for years, but it’s recently gotten noticeable. He’s had to leave his practice.”

“And when were you going to tel me?” My voice is raised, earning me a harsh look.

“What was there to say? Why would I worry you?”

“Next time worry me.” I take her hand and find her trembling. “What do the doctors say?”

“The neurologist hasn’t given us any clear answers. He’s ruled out a tumor, considered Alzheimer’s, but is concerned by how rapidly your father is declining.”

Her voice cracks, and I realize just how worried she is. She doesn’t cry, and when I try to pul her closer she doesn’t let me. Lifting her chin, she gives me the look, demanding, “When were you going to tel me you got that woman knocked up?”

I don’t deny Celia is carrying my child as I straighten stiffly, rankled by her tone.

“Don’t look so surprised that I know. You are my only son and I do keep track of you, even if I don’t appreciate the lengths I have to go to in order to spy on you. I was so excited when your business added a blog to its website.”

I cringe, considering Lewd Larry’s sexual y explicit lifestyle unambiguous blog.

“She’s very pregnant, according to the pictures that posted last week. I was somewhat surprised you agreed to come. She must be due any day now. Unless the child isn’t yours.”

And there’s the rub .

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“There’s that other man. What do they cal him? Lord Fyre? If you ask me, he looks fairly disreputable. Not that you’re asking my opinion of course and I wouldn’t give it even if you did, but I just don’t understand how you could lower your standards so far.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss my life, my lovers, or the child Celia’s expecting.” I don’t mention twins. It’s none of her damn business at the moment.

I’m tired of the condemnation. “I’m here because you said there’s an emergency.”

My father comes into the room suddenly. He is no longer smiling, and I realize it is because he is having a moment of clarity. I stand, facing him as he shouts,

“You aren’t welcome here.”

“Oliver!” my mother chastises.

“You knew he was coming? You welcomed him into our home?”

She takes him by the elbow and steers him to the back of the house. I assume his “boy’s room” is stil there. Big screen television. Poker table. Pool table. Wel stocked bar. The only room in the house she al ows him to smoke cigars in.

I sit down on the sofa with a hard thump. He hates me. I knew he did, but he’s never shown me such vehemence before. My mother isn’t gone for long, and she returns alone.

“Thank God he’s easily distracted. Like a child. That’s the real blessing. It would kil him if he realized he was afflicted.”

“I didn’t expect—” The words get stuck in my throat. “I should go.”

“No. He isn’t himself, I’ve already explained that. Part of the issues we’re dealing with is huge swings in emotion. Irrational emotion.”

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“Don’t patronize me, Mother. He hated me before the changes in his medical status. I’d like the phone numbers of al of his physicians. I can be as much help to you from a hotel room as here. For that matter, I could have talked to his doctors from San Francisco and advised you of my opinion from there.”

She sits beside me and takes my hand. “He loves you. He hated what he saw as a horrible waste of a medical career.”

“He hated that I’m homosexual.”

“Are you? Homosexual?”

I look her in the eye. “I don’t consider it much but I suppose if you must supply a label, I am bisexual since I have both male and female lovers.”

“Lovers? Or just Lord Fyre and Kitten? I read somewhere that you’re a committed ménage?”

I shake my head. I’m erasing my online life as soon as I get back to San Francisco. “Don’t change the subject. We were talking about me getting in touch with his doctors.”

“I don’t need help with your father’s medical condition. I know how to handle doctors after being married to one for forty-two years. Your father has bankrupted us.”

“What?” I stand, shocked, confused.

Mother stands too, wringing her hands. “I wouldn’t have cal ed but I didn’t know what to do.”

I wait for the punch line. I look around the room, waiting for secret guests to jump out and shout “Surprise” even though my fortieth birthday isn’t for another two months.

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“From what I’ve learned, he donated most of our savings to the Republican presidential campaign and our stocks to a dozen different charities. I need to sel the house.” She paces the length of the room, gesturing nervously with her hands. “We should have downsized years ago.”

“You love this house.”

She shrugs. “It’s just a house.”

I catch her on her next turn, pul ing her into my arms. “You didn’t have me come here to help you put the house on the market. Or because Dad is sick.”

She breaks down, clinging to me, sobbing. I don’t know when I’ve ever seen my mother cry. “What is going on?”

“I can’t do this. I haven’t been in love with your father for thirty years. He hasn’t been here. He spent his best years with a woman named Jane Black. He never knew I knew about her, but I did, every secret meeting, the hotels, the expensive gifts he bought her…and now…now that he’s sick and we’re broke…she doesn’t want him! Wel , I’l be damned if I’m going to be stuck with him.” She steps back, wrapping herself in her arms, and the look she gives me convinces me when her words might have failed. “I’ve filed for a divorce but because of his current medical state, he needs a proxy. I need you to become his power of attorney and take over the management of any remaining assets, arrange for his future caretaking needs, and represent him in the divorce.”

My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say. Fuck.

“I know this is a lot to lay on you al at once. I’m sorry.” She pats my arm.

“You know your way to your room.”

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I’m not comfortable with that, not with my father’s hatred and unstable mental status. I’d like to survive to see another morning. “I’ve already arranged a hotel.”

She nods and walks away. No argument. No further discussion. Through the wal s I hear her trying to coax my father to bed. “Is he gone?”

“Yes, dear. We’re alone.”

An hour later, my head is spinning. I feel like I’ve fal en down a rabbit’s hole into some mad alternate universe. My mother wants a divorce? My mother? I can’t believe she’d real y abandon him without any thought to a caregiver. By becoming his proxy, am I expected to become his caregiver or arrange for his care? We haven’t been close, not for more than fifteen years. He hates me. I don’t hate him, but I certainly don’t want to be responsible for him. God, that sounds horrible. The man gave me life and yet I would turn my back on him? No, I can’t turn my back, but I can make my mother see reason.

Back at the hotel I cal Celia. “I’m in the Queen City.”

“How are your parents? What was the emergency? God, I’ve been so worried.”

“Sh-h, don’t worry. I don’t want you losing a second’s sleep. It’s just as I imagined, my mother overreacting. My father needs some tests done and he needs persuading. Doctors real y do make the worst patients.” My reassurances sound false to my own ears, and I wonder if she’s buying my nonchalance. I hope so—I’m not ready to divulge any of the conversation I just had with my mother—especial y over the phone. “How are things there?”

She sighs heavily and I expect the worst. “I’m going to be the worst parent ever in the history of parents.”

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“I doubt that.”

Laughing, I lay on the bed, happy to be vertical. Listening to her tel me about her day and the horrors of baby drool, snotty noses and diaper changes, I wish I was there with her.

Suddenly her voice brightens. “Atso cal s me Ce-La.”

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“If you don’t know where you are going, any road wil get you there.”

Lewis Carrol

The children are happy as I drive them to school. It’s a relief, no tears, no screaming. I find myself smiling and humming to a song on the radio. I never believed I could do it, I never thought I could manage twins, being a mommy, but I’m doing okay as an aunt. God, what a beautiful day.

Garrett is never going to believe the progress I’ve made.

Miles of sunshine later, I glance into the rearview mirror and notice a dark car, which wouldn’t be so unusual except it seems I saw the car earlier—while we were stil in the city. What’s the chances a car would drive the same roads from San Francisco to Lakeside? The hair on the back of my neck prickles as I assure myself lots of cars drive from San Francisco to Lakeside every day. Stil , I’m glad when I pul into the school’s roundabout and checking again see the car I believed was fol owing me kept driving past the school’s entrance. I’m sure I was just imagining things, but as Hektor and Olympia climb out, I’m nervous. I suddenly don’t want them to go to school today. They are smiling, laughing. The sun is stil shining. The only difference is me.

Maybe this too is hormone related. Lord knows I’ve acted pretty crazy through most of the pregnancy. I try to shake off the worry, the fear. I’m being sil y.

Driving through the school parking lot, I adjust the rearview mirror to look into the back seat at Nikkos and Atso. They are both waving their sippy cups in the air to some mad imaginary tune. I laugh and readjust the mirror just before I pul 212

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back out into traffic. A second later my humor is gone when I glance into the rearview mirror and I am left gripping the steering wheel in white-knuckled terror.

It’s the same car.

I pul over to the curb, park in front of a row of chic boutiques and breathe a sigh of relief when the dark car keeps driving, passing me. It’s paranoid as hel but I decide to stay in Lakeside instead of driving al the way back to the city.

As I unbuckle the babies and take them inside a coffee shop, I tel myself it’s because I’ve been wanting to check out al the cute, artsy boutiques in town and not because of the dark sedan. The heavy fragrance of fresh roasted coffee beans almost helps me relax, and as much as I’d love a cup of coffee, I order juice al around. We sit at a sunny window seat so that I can keep my eyes on the passing cars. I know I shouldn’t bother Master, but I pop my headset on and dial, needing to talk. He answers before I can change my mind and hang up.

“Hel o?” He sounds stressed.

“I shouldn’t have cal ed.” As I shuffle drinks and pieces of muffin I’m glad I have my hands free.

“Is something wrong? The babies?”

“No, no. I’m fine. The babies are fine. I just needed to hear your voice. I’m scared. I think I’m being fol owed.”

“Fol owed? What are you talking about?”

I tel him about the car but he doesn’t want to hear it, or maybe I real y do sound as insane as I think I do and he’s worried about my mind and trying to give me assurances so that I don’t do anything stupid. My God, am I going to do 213

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something stupid? What would I do? I realize he’s talking and I’m not paying attention.

“It’s going to be okay. I know you’re worried about Thomas and the trouble he’s facing. God, this is the worst timing in the world for me to be away.”

I hear regret in his voice and know he’d rather be here then there. “Are your parents okay?”

“They wil be. Don’t worry about them, or me. Is Enrique doing enough?”