For A Good Time, Call... (20 page)

It
was fucking terrifying.

“Hunter...”
I whimpered out, not sure what I was saying or what I was asking. Did
he feel it too? Was I alone in the scary new sensation?

He
pulled back slightly, looking at me with his gorgeous blue eyes for a
second before finally slowly withdrawing out of me and pushing back
in. Then there was no more thinking. Just feeling. Just him and his
delicious, frustratingly slow pace and my body pulling him, trying to
drive us both upward but in an unhurried way. Like I had all the time
in the world to get there, like it was something that would add to
the experience, but wasn't the only reason we were doing it.

I
leaned forward, burying my face in his neck as I felt my body pushing
toward the peak, a sensation of being pulled downward until I burst
up, whimpering his name into his skin.

“I'll
remember you,” I said as he came, holding him tighter. It was a
promise. A vow.

Eighteen

It
felt wrong. That all I could think after Hunter slipped out of my
apartment. The door closing had felt like a pain in my chest. He said
he would call, kissed me almost chastely, then was gone. I stood
there dumbly for a few minutes, staring at the door, before turning
to go check bus schedules.

Because
I wasn't the girl who pined over guys. I wasn't that pathetic. Nope.
Not me. But even as I typed into my computer, his face kept popping
into my mind.

I
got up and went to my closet, trying to decide what to pack. What do
you wear to go face the man who made your life a living hell after
four years away? What can you wear that is a slap in the face to his
opinions on how a woman should dress as a silent 'fuck you'? But,
also at the same time, be somewhat respectful of the fact that your
visiting someone dying in a hospital?

Eventually,
I packed a few outfits and set aside the one I would be wearing: a
skintight, knee-length black pencil skirt and a form-fitting pale
pink scoop-neck, three-quarter length sleeve shirt. Low black heels.
I showered, fixed my hair, applied a little makeup, grabbed my purse
and suitcase and headed down to the bus stop.

I
could smell Hunter's cigarettes as I walked out of the building. I
knew he was out on the balcony smoking but I refused to let myself
look back. If I looked back, I might run back. And that couldn't
happen. I pulled my shoulders back and kept walking, a lump the size
of a fist in my throat.

The
bus ride was long and nerve-wrecking. I tried to keep myself focused,
calm. It was a couple hours. That was all I needed to get through and
I could jump on the next bus back to the city. I was the one in
control for once.

But
that didn't stop the rolling in my stomach, the tension headache, the
sensitivity to loud noises around me. It didn't stop the ghosts of
the past creeping in.

The
bus led to a hotel which led to a cab which dropped me off outside of
the massive, sprawling white and sparkling window building. I looked
up at it, feeling small. Feeling, irrationally, that if I went in
there, that I would never get out.

I
took a deep breath and moved into the revolving door toward
reception. I was almost done. Getting there was the worst part.
Getting there was full of all the anxiety, the fear. This would be a
couple minutes. Say my peace. Leave. I could leave at any time. No
one could stop me.

The
elevator dropped me off on the floor. I walked onto the worn, but
pristine linoleum floor, my heels making a clicking noise that
sounded deafening to my own ears. One of the nurses in deep purple
scrubs, looked up and offered me a small smile.

“Fiona
Mary?” My grandmother's voice called, shrill and disbelieving.
She rose up out of her chair outside of my father's room, dressed in
a simple but expensive gray pantsuit with a single round diamond at
her throat. Her perfectly died ash-blonde hair was pulled back from
her face in a chignon. Everything about Joanna Meyers screamed
simple, sophisticated elegance. She had the house and car to match
her wardrobe.

“Grandmother,”
I said, my voice as cold and betrayed as I felt.

It
had been a long time since I saw her. Two years. I had still been
sporting the dark brown I had dyed my hair that year, and wearing
nothing but thrift store baggy men's clothes, desperately trying to
disconnect from my old self. My face had been burned and I was gaunt
thin from living on the streets.

I
had been a mess.

It
had taken me eight months after getting a roof and food to slip back
into my more natural state. I stripped my hair, I put on some weight,
and I bought clothes that fit. I put myself together.

She
had only seen me when I was still in pieces.

“You're
here,” she said, sounding like she was in complete shock.

“I'm
here,” I agreed, inclining my head slightly. “Wasn't that
the intention when you sent Isaiah to break into my apartment?”

“He
broke into your apartment?” she asked, sounding genuinely
concerned.

“Oh
yeah we had a... nice little reunion,” I said, feeling the
nurses eyes on us. The tension made the air thick and sharp. Like at
any moment, someone might lose a limb.

“That
explains his dour mood since he returned,” she said.

“How
dare you?” I started, walking closer so I could lower my voice.
“We had a deal.”

“I
might be a lot of things, Fiona Mary,” she said, lifting her
chin much the same way I did and I wondered fleetingly if that was
where I had picked up that habit. “but I am not stupid. When
your father passes on to Heaven, you will have no reason to keep
calling me. So I really didn't have anything to lose by giving Isaiah
your address.” There was a certain sadness in her voice when
she said I would stop calling her, like she would genuinely miss it.

I
exhaled my held breath through my nose and shook my head. “You
know, Grams,” I started. “if you had just once cared
about me... not as your son's daughter, not as a soul that needs to
be saved, just me as a person... I would have happily kept in touch.
I don't have anyone else. But all you want is submission and
obedience. And I'm not your fucking puppy,” I growled, watching
her face jerk back like I had struck her.

A
shadow moved from the room behind her, coming out into the hall.
“What is all the racket out here... Fiona Mary,” Isaiah
said, looking surprised. He was ragged, his eyes heavy and red. He
looked past me, over my shoulder with a look of trepidation.

“Don't
worry,” I said, shaking my head. “I didn't bring him.”

“Bring
who?” Grams asked, perking up. “you told me you didn't
have any respectable gentlemen in your life.”

“Well,”
I said, smiling wickedly. “he's not respectable. And he's
certainly not a gentleman,” I added.

A
strange look came over my grandmother's face then, a light in her
green eyes that almost seemed amused. “Have you... sinned with
him?” she asked, only sounding half-concerned as she usually
did about the idea.

“In
every every room and every position,” I agreed and one of the
nurses coughed to cover her laugh.

“Well,”
Grams said, waving a hand. “God will forgive you of that. He
wouldn't have been so forgiving of you not saying your last respects
to your dying father.”

“Respect
wasn't what I came here to give him,” I said, taking a deep
breath. “But I promise I wont pinch his IV lines,” I
said, winking at the nurses. There was a pained silence that I
finally broke. “Is he awake?” I asked, looking at Isaiah.

“Yeah,”
he said, watching me like he was trying to study me. Like there was
something about me that confused him.

“Good,”
I said, moving toward the door. “I can get this over with
then,” I saw my grandmother moving to step in behind me and I
blocked the doorway. “I can handle this alone,” I said
firmly then went inside and slammed the door.

There
was a curtain pulled, blocking his bed from view but I could hear his
machine beeping and his breathing, raspy and slow. I leaned back
against the door, taking a deep breath. The encounter with my
grandmother had bolstered my confidence a bit. I could do this. I
could walk over there and dish it out as much as I used to have to
take it.

I
took a long, slow breath, pushed off the door and walked around the
curtain. To say it was a shock would be the biggest understatement of
my life. My memories of him were like that of a child: he seemed
huge, imposing, powerful. But there he was, completely swallowed up
by the bed, his body swimming in it's hospital gown. He looked old
and frail.

At
the sound of my heels, he turned expecting, I imagined, to see my
grandmother. His eyes squinted for a second, uncomprehending before
they went wide. “Fiona Mary,” he said, reaching for the
button that slowly bent his mattress upward. “What are you
doing here?”

“Well
your mother thought it was important enough for me to be here that
she broke our deal and sent your son up to see me.”

“Isaiah?
Isaiah was up in that god-forsaken place?”

“Yup.
Plenty of things to see to pervert his mind on his way to my
apartment,” I agreed.

“I'm
dying,” he said, sounding very matter-of-fact about it.

“Yes,
you are,” I nodded, putting my purse down on the windowsill.

“So
you're here to make amends?” he asked, nodding. “For all
the heartbreak you have caused this family?”

“Not
even close,” I said, watching as his jaw tightened. That was
always how it started. If you watched him close, the anger would
start in his jaw. Then he would flush. And his eyes would turn to
slits. His fist would clench. I spent a lot of time watching him when
I was growing up.

“Then
why are you here?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“Closure,”
I said, shrugging a shoulder. “To show you that you didn't
break me. I know that was always the plan.”

“Willful,”
he spat the word like it was a curse. “you were always so
willful. Like your mother.”

“Yeah,”
I agreed, glad for the comparison. “I haven't purposely set the
living room on fire yet. But I'm still young.”

“Purposely,”
he repeated, looking perplexed.

“Oh,
you didn't think it was an accident, did you?” I laughed, the
sound taunting. “It seemed Mom had a bit of a problem with you
mutilating her only daughter.”

“It
was discip...”

“It
was child abuse,” I cut him off, my voice raising enough to
make him shut his mouth. “It was child abuse. You were a
predator who hid behind his bible. You were a weak and pathetic
man...”

“You
ungrateful shrew,” he started, his face turning bright red.
“Coming in here dressed like a common street whore and throwing
your city ideas around like know more than your father...”

“Listen,”
I said, glancing out of the window, watching the night take hold
across the sky. “I know there is no making you see how evil you
were,” I said, holding up a hand when he went to speak. “What
you did was evil. And you can resolve that with your god. But I don't
forgive you. For what you did to me and to my mother. Even for the
way you have warped Isaiah. I just needed to tell you that before you
died and I didn't get the chance to,” I said, grabbing my purse
off the windowsill and walking toward the door.

“You'll
burn in hell for this,” he yelled as I opened the door, making
everyone in the hall look at me.

“As
long as you're not there,” I called back, slamming the door.
Outside, Isaiah looked like he was in genuine pain and my
grandmother's mouth had fallen open. “I'm assuming that wasn't
what you had in mind when you told me to come here,” I said,
looking at her. “But, damn, it felt good.”

I
walked out of the building feeling ten pounds lighter than I had when
I went in. That was what closure felt like: lightness. Like weight
that had been holding you down had finally been lifted.

I
walked down a few blocks to wait for a cab out front of a coffee
shop. It was done. I had done it. I had faced the person who made me
wake up screaming when I tried to sleep at night, the person who made
me carve into my skin, the one who made me look for answers at the
bottom of empty bottles.

Maybe
I would never be completely free of him. Maybe I could never be as
whole and well adjusted as the average person. But maybe I wouldn't
have to spend my life inches from self-destruction. Maybe I could
build a life that didn't revolve around trying to avoid my past.
Maybe I could sleep at night and have healthy relationships.

Hunter.
I could be with Hunter.

I
grabbed a coffee, checking my phone with the silly hope that maybe he
had called or texted. I had only left him a few hours before. It
would have been too soon for a call or text. For all he knew, I
hadn't even arrived yet, let alone arrived and had my last words.

The
cab took half an hour to take me back to my hotel where I paced
around my room in endless circles, feeling too anxious to sleep.