Love's Awakening (3 page)

“Mmm. The
Seven
Dials
Mystery
. Want me to see about a cot for you too?”

“I’m not staying. Just checking on Dad.” Oliver lowered himself into a chair, closed his eyes, and listened to the lift and fall of his grandmother’s voice.
MacDonald
looked
upon
her,
and
she
blushed.
She
was
made
to
feel
that
she
had
taken
an
unpardonable
liberty…

Oliver clenched his jaw. Unpardonable liberty. Interesting phrase, described his dad’s actions perfectly. At least the truck driver was okay, save for a few deep bruises.

“Grandma?” Oliver asked.

Shirley glanced up. “Mmm?”

Oliver’s throat squeezed. “Dad never had a speeding ticket or wreck. The accident doesn’t make sense.”

Shirley furrowed her brows. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

“Of course it was. Your father wasn’t thinking. He was in a hurry to be with Celia.”

No,
he
wasn’t.
Dad
looked
left
one
last
time.
I
saw
it.

Shirley gave Oliver a smile and returned to the story.

Oliver fished the letter out of his pocket. The ER waiting room had been hell. The seconds were molasses, and thoughts turned Oliver’s mind insane. He’d read the letter maybe a hundred times. Probably had it memorized, but he felt the same nauseating dread every time he read it. David must have sneaked the letter into Oliver’s coat when Oliver went to the bathroom at Almond’s.

Oliver,

I know I have not been a good father. You deserve more. I look at you sometimes and I think: “Wow. This is my child, my son. How did I get so lucky?” You’re handsome, strong, determined. You’re very much like your mother.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot these past few months as we’ve gotten closer and as I prepared to have another child. I hope someday you change your mind about wanting kids. You will be a fantastic father. If you’re afraid you will repeat my mistakes with your children, stop being afraid right now. You have learned from my mistakes and are the better for them.

You were, and are, magic in my life. Please always know that.

I wish three things for you. Happiness. Love. Laughter. Don’t make the same mistakes I have when it comes to love.

I was thinking about Penny the other day. Remember how I used to call her Henny Penny? I was also thinking about Jean, Adele and Minnie. You know my sins, so I won’t list them here. If you happen to see them again, though, please tell them I really did love them.

Please look after your little brother after I’m gone. Please love that child the best you can, and please tell him I was a good person.

David left the letter unsigned.

Why hadn’t Oliver contacted the police about the note? Shock, maybe. That this couldn’t really be happening. That his father wrote a suicide note. But David couldn’t have known the truck would show up when it did. No matter. If not the truck, then something else.

Interesting that David had not mentioned Paul Joseph and Erin Elizabeth in the note. Maybe not so interesting, actually. David probably did not think about them anymore. Or perhaps he liked to pretend Oliver might not think about them anymore. Paul Joseph and Erin Elizabeth popped up in Oliver’s mind and in his heart at the most random times, like when he served a customer wine or when one of his professors set up a PowerPoint presentation.

Paul
Joseph.

Erin
Elizabeth.

He could call them “the twins.” Their parents probably did. But they were two separate people with two separate, equally cool names. Paul Joseph and Erin Elizabeth were what Oliver called them. Significant, nice names.

Anyway, so what was going through David’s mind while he waited to pull out in the street? Maybe he had decided not to do it. He’d decided he wanted to live, but looked left one last time, saw a truck, and something, something, took over. He did it even as his body, his brain, shouted: “No! No!”

Or maybe it was a cry for help. David Hall was a planner. If he wanted to end his life, he would damn well end it the right way. He would leave nothing up to chance.

Cry
for
help.
That’s
what
it
had
to
be.

“Sweetie?” Shirley’s voice jarred Oliver out of his reverie. “I’m going to bed.”

Oliver hugged his grandmother goodbye. “Sleep well.”

He made his way home. Driving with a cast was not too bad as long as he took turns slowly and carefully. Once he got home, he popped open a beer. Lori had called his cell with frantic apologies a couple of times.
OhmygoshOliver!
I
never
meant
to
push
you.
I
am
SO
sorry.
Can
I
come
over
tomorrow?

Oliver walked through the apartment. Lori had left her stuff—not that much stuff in the first place, but still—and his blood boiled. He grabbed a plastic bag and filled it with her toothbrush, hairbrush, makeup and the rest of her stuff. He tossed the bag into the dumpster behind the building.

“Good riddance,” he muttered. At least he’d had sense enough to never give her keys to the place.

Back in the apartment, Oliver rested his feet on the ottoman and texted Lori:
We’re
done.
Your
shit’s
in
the
dumpster.

He waited for her to reply immediately with protestations and declarations of love. Nothing. Nothing at all, and disappointment stirred in his throat. Tasted like acid reflux.

Lori was damn good in bed. Good enough for Oliver keep her around months past her expiration date. The two of them had started off great. Lori used to be the opposite of clingy. She had been perfect for Oliver, didn’t mind his heavy schedule of school and work.

He had been too busy to notice her turning into an insecure nag. A mean drunk. Or maybe he hadn’t been too busy. Maybe the transformation happened so gradually he never had a chance.

Well, whatever. He and Lori were over. But Oliver’s chest hurt. He had loved Lori and maybe still did. Even if she had accused him of being in love with his stepmother and accidentally pushed him down the steps.

Oliver re-read his father’s message on the cast.
Plenty
of
fish
in
the
sea.

“You should’ve left these as your last words,” Oliver mumbled. He got the letter back out. How was he going to tell Celia? His grandparents? Should he?

Oliver swilled the rest of his beer and sat at his computer. Time to type his own letter to Celia, time to commit to paper what David couldn’t tell his own wife.

Celia:

I don’t know where to start. Maybe six months ago, when I found out Dad was a woman in a man’s body. He walked into Azizi. Midnight, Wednesday.

“Just water,” Dad said, but I knew that.

I took a break, and we went outside. We sat and made conversation. Dad told me you were pregnant, and I said: “Congratulations” or something like that. The usual pleasantries.

Then Dad bit his lip and said: “I have something to tell you.”

“Make it quick. I have to go back in.”

“I’m like your friend Sebastian,” Dad blurted out. “You treat him like he’s normal. I love you for that. More than you will ever know.”

Understanding eluded me at first. The realization dawned gradually, a brain cell here, a brain cell there, and…

Aw, hell. No point in typing the whole sob story. Dad’s transgender, he’s a woman, and he was too chickenshit to tell you.

Oliver bit his lip, selected all the text and deleted it. He continued typing.

Lori was right. I am in love with you. Goddamned pathetic, I know. Happened the first time we met. You smiled, a slightly lopsided grin, one end up more than the other, and held your hand out. “Oliver,” you said, your voice soft and delicate and eager, “I’m so happy to meet you at last.”

I scrambled to my feet and shook your hand. Here I was, trying to come to grips with this sudden young woman who was engaged to my father. I had pictured someone my dad’s age. Not this. Not you. You smiled some more, and I felt instantly sorry for you. I could warn you about what Dad was like in a relationship, but you probably wouldn’t believe me. And Dad would be furious. He lived in denial.

You smiled your smile many times that night. Lucky Dad.

Whatever happens, you can do so much better than him. (And better than me, too.)

Oliver re-read his words, deleted them and got another beer.

Chapter Three

In the morning, Celia packed for freedom. She could not wait for her and Caleb to escape the claustrophobia of the hospital. People hovered as if they expected her to slit her stomach in half and smear the floor with her entrails. Plus her breasts throbbed. The pain was persistent, ever-present. Her son, this child who burst from her, was greedy. He needed to go home.

Oliver showed up, and Celia stifled a grimace.
Great.
As
if
Janet,
Richard,
Shirley
and
Mom
crowding
the
room
aren’t
enough.

Oliver chatted with his grandparents before making his way over to Celia.

“On your way out?” Oliver asked her. He smelled faintly of beer, and his hair didn’t look much better than it had yesterday. His face was pinched, and lines of exhaustion were etched under his eyes—which were green today. Made sense; his shirt was green.

“Going home,” Celia said.

Oliver nodded. “Well.” He proffered a gift certificate to Chili’s. “Fifty dollars. I figured you wouldn’t feel like cooking for a while.”

Celia blinked. What a miracle. Yesterday, her stepson touched her, and today he was giving her an actual gift. Too bad it had taken David’s accident for this to happen.

To convey the extent of her gratitude, Celia lightly touched her fingers to Oliver’s elbow. “Thank you.”

“Like I said,” he mumbled. “You probably wouldn’t feel like cooking.”

“That’s…this is great. Thank you. How are you coping with the cast?”

“It’s a cast. It’s fine. Anyway, call me whenever if you need me to bring food over from Chili’s.” Azizi, where Oliver bartended, was next door to Chili’s.

Celia wanted this newfound rapport to continue. “Hey, do you want to come tonight for dinner?”

Oliver squinted. Ran his hand over his cheek. “I have class.”

He was lying, but Celia said nothing. She could remind Oliver about the lunch and coffee dates they had made when they first met. Dates to get to know each other before Celia became Oliver’s stepmother. Dates that Oliver canceled on. Each and every one, until Celia stopped asking.

Now was not the time to bring up old history.

“When
can
you come over for dinner?” Celia asked. “Or lunch or something?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Great.
Same
old.
Celia wondered what her stepson was like in his natural element, with friends. Probably funny and witty.

Oliver flicked hair out of his eyes. “Look, I’ll call. We’ll have dinner sometime.”

Celia nodded, stifling her frustration. She and her stepson would never be close. Would never have that dinner. “Sure. Looking forward to it.”

*****

The throbbing in Celia’s breasts was unceasing. She had never hated milk more.
Moo.
Moo.

Traffic was good for the drive from Inova Fairfax to the townhouse on Rundale Court. Celia looked at grass beginning to turn green with the promise of spring. At boring old suburbia. Strip malls. Seven-Elevens. Starbucks. Couples with dogs. With children. She could be anywhere. She could be in, say, Boston. Long Island. Oklahoma City. She was not necessarily in Northern Virginia.
David
won’t
be
home.
How
can
that
be?
Three
days
ago,
he
was
walking
around,
living...fucking
someone
else?

Stop
at
Baskin-Robbins.

Stop
at
the
mall.

Stop
at
the
flower
shop.

Go
to
Dulles.
Buy
plane
tickets
for
somewhere.
Anywhere
that’s
not
here.
I
bet
Rome
is
good
this
time
of
year.

“We’re here,” Lynn announced.

Celia wandered upstairs to the nursery. Her breasts could wait a few more minutes. She and David had not finished the nursery, but the necessities were complete. Crib, fresh green paint on the walls, diaper changing table, rocking chair. Baby book. Celia slumped to the floor, pressing the book to her lips. The leathery kiss of dead cow failed to comfort her. No faux leather for her husband. First-class all the way for David Hall, yes sir. Always.