Love's Awakening (23 page)

Oh
my
God
, Celia thought.
What
a
finale.

“What is this?” Shirley demanded. “Why does my son have breasts, long hair and a dress in—” she counted—”six drawings?”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Richard whispered. “You said you didn’t want to leave him.”

“Richard, what is—”

“Dad is transgender,” Oliver interrupted. “Transgender.”

Chapter
Twenty-One

Richard’s drawings gave Oliver nightmares for the next couple of weeks. Oh, not nightmares in the traditional sense, but nightmares as in unsettling, haunting dreams. The nightmares started like this:

Oliver awoke one morning, Celia in his arms, and he checked the time. Five-thirty. An uneasy sensation gnawed at his stomach. The urge to look at Celia, to make sure she was still there, that she was all right and okay, seized Oliver. Darkness reigned outside, and Celia was barely visible, so Oliver reached over her and turned the lamp on. He kept his breathing and movements to a minimum, content to study Celia’s profile. Her lips were slightly parted, and drool trickled a slick path down her jaw. Her hair was a rainbow on her pillow. “You’re beautiful,” Oliver murmured, love for Celia burning his body. “I hope I make you as happy as you make me.”

Ring.
Celia’s cell, not Oliver’s. Celia never turned her phone off. Oliver had never asked why. No need to. You never knew when there would be news.

Ring.

The gnawing at Oliver’s stomach became more insistent, and a heaviness settled in his heart. He felt in his gut the reason for the call.
It’s
here.
It’s
time.
The day of reckoning. His father was gone. Oliver wondered what the culprit had been. Blood clots were tricky, hard to detect. Or maybe it had been a stroke. A hemorrhage. An infection gone bad.

Celia did not stir.

Ring.

Funny. The split second between each ring felt like a month.

Quit
stalling.
Answer
the
damn
thing
already.

Oliver reached over Celia and grabbed the phone, disconnecting it from the charger. “Hello?” Oliver sat naked, cross legged, his muscles tense and waiting.

A surprised breath. A rich voice with deep timbers. “Hello, this is Dr. Aronson. I need to speak to Celia.”

“She’s—” Oliver rubbed Celia’s shoulder. “Celia? She’s sleeping. This is Oliver. Tell me what happened. It’s better if the news comes from me, anyway.”

“It’s incredible, Oliver. Your father’s awake.”

Oliver swallowed hard. “Was it peaceful?” David must have been alone. Shirley would not be there this early.
No
one
should
have
to
die
alone.

“He’s awake. Awake!”

Dr. Aronson’s words finally penetrated. “Awake?”

“Awake. He opened his eyes not even fifteen minutes ago and said: ‘Oliver?’ “

“What?”

“He’s awake!”

Oliver’s pulse wobbled. His brain shivered.
Awake.
No
way.
“You mean he’s gone. He’s dead.”

“He’s awake and talking. I’m at home but I’m going right in to Pinewood after I call Shirley. Later today, we’ll transfer your father to Inova Fairfax for tests.” Dr. Aronson said something else, but the bedroom spun around Oliver.
Wait.
I’m
dreaming.
That’s
what
this
is.
He was sleeping. Oliver looked around the room, which continued to be topsy-turvy. He focused on a framed photo of Celia and Caleb. The room slowly stabilized.

“Hello?”

Oliver fought through his cobwebs. “What?”

“Wake your stepmother up and tell her. She needs to get here as soon as possible. You too.”

“Yes. But wait, Dr. Aronson. He’s awake? Dad’s awake?”

“I have to get going. Tell Celia to come in, okay? As soon as possible. We don’t know how long your father will be alert.”

“Bye.” Oliver hung up. Five minutes passed.

“Uhmm.” Celia was waking up now. Her eyes flickered open, and Oliver got a glimpse of lovely blue. He decided to stay quiet about the phone call. For a minute, anyway. He would enjoy what he had while it lasted, before the past thundered down on them.

Celia smiled, a pure I-love-you smile. “Last night was great,” she said. Oliver saw nothing of the past in Celia’s expression. He saw only joy, happiness, love. A future. Oliver’s throat knotted. He tried to brush the phone call away, pretend it didn’t exist. Such a task was impossible. He began with a stumble, aware that he was being too blunt, too rough, but was not sure how to give the news the padding and careful handling it required. “Dr. Aronson called. Dad is awake.”

Celia jerked like she had sat on a bed of knives. “What?”

Oliver rolled out of bed. “Get to Pinewood as soon as possible.”

And then Shirley walked into the bedroom. “He’ll be okay,” Shirley said. “I’ll pray. God will make sure he’s okay. He’ll be moving around in no time. Stem cells are amazing things. He’ll be walking around in no time, I guarantee.”

“He won’t be okay!” Oliver exclaimed. “What kind of life will he have if his brain’s okay but he can’t move? If he can’t go to the bathroom by himself?”

“That’s not your decision. I’ll make sure he has the sex change surgery. We’ll get him in shape for that. You must think positive, Oliver. You must.”

*****

In reality, David died the day after Christmas. The phone rang, Oliver saw who the caller was, and his gut told him why Shirley was calling.

“Your father died,” Shirley said without preamble.

Oliver was at home and had been debating whether to stop by the townhouse to drop off a Christmas present for Caleb, a present Oliver had bought in October. Oliver had a gift for Celia too but had decided to not give it.
Your
father
died.
Your
father
died.
The pain of the words was immense, searing, wriggling into Oliver’s empty spaces, filling him. Oliver felt faint, and he pinched his arm.
Feel
later.
Mourn
later.
“Okay, Grandma. Okay. Please don’t call Celia. I’ll go tell her right now, and then I’ll meet you at Pinewood.”

*****

As Oliver waited for Celia to answer the doorbell, he thought:
Funny
how
things
come
full
circle.
He had been the one to tell Celia about the car accident; Celia had thought David was dead. And now Celia would get that final news. Caleb’s present waited in the car. Best to deliver the news right away, to not let Celia get comfortable and think the call was social.

Janet answered the door. “Oliver,” she said none too enthusiastically.

“Hey, Janet. Is Celia in?” Oliver tried to smile. He had nothing against Celia’s best friend, but Janet had never liked him. No wonder, given the fact Oliver had not bothered to get to know Celia after David announced their engagement. And if Janet knew about him and Celia...probably another reason to dislike Oliver.

“We’re having lunch,” Janet said.

“I won’t be long.”

Janet held the door open, and Oliver made his way into the living room. Celia had gone light on Christmas decorations, which was no surprise. David had never been big on holidays, and Oliver’s own apartment held no decorations. Here, a tree stood in a corner, a few wrapped presents scattered under it. Oliver wondered if one was for him.

“Are you here about your father?” Janet asked.

“It’s that obvious?”

Janet quirked her eyebrows. “Did...”

Is
he
dead?
Did
he
kick
the
bucket?
Did
he
bite
the
dust?
Is
that
what
you
mean?
“Yes,” Oliver said.

“Oh, Oliver.” Janet touched her hand to Oliver’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Thank you.”

“How did he go?”

“My grandmother didn’t say. I’m heading over to Pinewood after I tell Celia.”

“I’ll tell her for you.”

Oliver squeezed his fists.
I
want
to
tell
her.
I’m
her
lover.
Or
should
be.
I’m
the
man
she
loves.
But he could not voice his protestations. Celia’s husband was dead. This was not the time for territorial squabbling. Janet was as good a person as any to break the news.

Oliver followed Janet into the dining room. “Look who’s here,” Janet called.

A smile lit up Celia’s face. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she fed Caleb in his high chair. “Oliver! Hey. Perfect timing. Caleb was saying we needed to give you your Christmas present.”

“He did, huh? That’s a bright eight-month-old.”

“You weren’t speaking in full sentences at eight months?”

“I don’t think I’ve mastered full sentences yet.” Oliver meant the comment teasingly, but even to him, his voice sounded solemn and stern.

“What’s wrong?” Celia asked, and Janet went to her.

Oliver continued standing where he was, on the periphery of the dining room, and forced his gaze to the microwave. He did not want to intrude on the private moment, and all he could hear was Shirley’s voice:
Your
father
died.
Your
father
died.
Your
father
died.
Your
father
died.

Oliver hoped Janet knew how to tell Celia right.

*****

“He was the same as usual,” Shirley said numbly. “I went to the bathroom, refilled my water bottle and got peanut M&Ms. When I got back, David was slumped over and cold.”

Oliver stole a glance at Celia. She was pale. David remained in the wheelchair; probably Shirley or an orderly had straightened him. His eyes were closed, no grimaces, no frowns, nothing, but he did not particularly look at peace. Just some indefinable thing, and Oliver did not voice his thought. Probably
he
was the one not at peace. “Dad looks so small,” Oliver said.

Shirley wiped at her eyes with a tissue. “At least he didn’t die in bed.”

“Yes, thank you,” Celia said mechanically. “For getting him in the wheelchair.”

“You know what Oliver said when I called him?”

Huh?
Oliver risked a look at his grandmother. What was Shirley getting at?

“No,” Celia replied softly.

“Oliver didn’t ask how it happened, how his own father died. All he said was: ‘Okay, Grandma. Okay. Please don’t call Celia. I’ll tell her right now, and I’ll meet you at Pinewood.’ And his voice was flat. No emotion.”

Celia’s eyelashes fluttered. “Oh.”

“Oliver’s first thought was about
you
. Not about his own father.”

Awesome,
Grandma.
Awesome.
Oliver spoke: “Grandma, I’d been expecting this for a while. You knew it had to be coming too.”

Shirley swiveled her gaze to Oliver. “She’s your father’s wife! Your father’s wife!”

“You don’t know what’s going on in my head, okay? So don’t pretend you do. Celia is—she has—she’s not a monster. You think we jumped into bed for the hell of it? I wouldn’t do something like that to my father. Celia and I—”

“Do you love her?” Shirley asked the question with a mixture of curiosity, bitterness and distaste.

“Do I love...”
Oh,
geez
. Oliver had no intention of declaring his love to Celia this way. “I love you, Grandma, and we’ll discuss this later.”

Shirley’s lips set in a thin line, but she assented with a nod. She tore open her package of peanut M&Ms. After a moment’s hesitation, she proffered the bag to Oliver. Oliver took a few of the candies, and then Shirley offered the bag to Celia.

“Thank you, Shirley,” Celia whispered. She plucked a few M&Ms.

The three of them munched in silence until one of the orderlies stuck his head in. “Excuse me. Mr. Vincent and Mr. Thomas from the funeral home are here.”

Shirley got to her feet. “I’ll talk to them.”

Oliver rose as well. “I’ll go with you.”
Give
Celia
alone
time
with
Dad.
Oliver was under the impression that Celia had not visited David in quite some time.

When Oliver returned five minutes later, Celia seemed to not have moved. Oliver took Celia’s hand and kissed it. “Are you ready for them to take the body away?”

Celia grimaced. “Body. Do you want a few minutes with—”

“No. I had a good time with him yesterday. It was a great Christmas. He smiled. I really think he did. That’s what I want our last time together to be.”

Chapter
Twenty-Two

“We chose a mahogany red casket,” Celia said at the townhouse that night. She showed Richard a picture.

“Nice,” he murmured.

Truth be told, Celia barely remembered her, Shirley and Oliver picking out the casket. She barely remembered them making the arrangements. Celia had not realized things would move this fast. David was so freshly dead, and here they were making arrangements.

They could have waited until tomorrow most likely. But Shirley needed something to do. Something to channel her anxiety, her nervous energy, into. The three of them had mostly spoken to other people. Not to one another.

“I will be cremated,” Celia said. The statement was directed toward no one in particular, although Richard was closest. He sat next to her on the couch. Shirley and Lynn, Celia’s mother, were in the kitchen with a couple of neighbors heating up a casserole for dinner, Janet fed Caleb in a chair across the room, and Oliver stood by the front windows, his arms crossed.