Love's Awakening (16 page)

“Sophia, whom he doesn’t know is his sister.”

Celia leaned forward, caught up in the game. “Sophia is also nosy. One day, she’s ruffling through Charles’s luggage and finds an old family photo. It falls into place. She realizes who he is. She has to decide between her duty to her country or to her illegitimate brother. She has no idea he wants to kill her. Furthermore—”

A cry. A stomp. Shirley brushing past Oliver. “That’s not how it happens,” she huffed. “Not even close. Move over!” She flapped her arm, motioning Celia aside.

“Grandma, we were only having fun,” Oliver protested. “You can play, too.”

Shirley grabbed the book. “That’s not how it happens! This isn’t play. Let’s not confuse David.”

Be
that
way
, Celia thought.
No
new
copy
for
you.

“Why are we here, Grandma?”

Shirley’s expression turned cool and distant. “Your grandfather is at the condo packing. He and I have been undergoing problems. He’s moving back to Rhode Island next week.”

Oliver shifted his weight. Scratched his cheek. “Wow. Sorry.”

Celia squeezed Shirley’s shoulder. She was sure that under her mother-in-law’s icy veneer was a world of pain and hurt. She had to admit, though, that the news did not surprise her. She did not blame Richard for leaving. Shirley was obsessed with David. Spent her time with David and most of her conversations were about David—researching treatments, the leaps and bounds science was bound to make, how the family ought to pray, et cetera. Richard had become furniture to Shirley. She discounted his opinions and did not even pretend to entertain them.

“I’m sorry, Shirley. Anything I can do?”

“I’m fine,” Shirley said. “Just as well. David needs all of my focus.
Our
focus. Richard thinks—” Shirley scoffed. “He thinks David’s dead. He thinks our baby’s dead. He’s thought so all along.” Shirley shot Oliver a provocative scowl, daring Oliver to contradict her.

Oliver said nothing.

Celia said nothing.

Caleb slept.

Celia tried to see David through fresh, unbiased eyes. Gray hair. Sunken chest, weak. Non-expressive. David’s T-shirt and sweat pants were more alive than he was. David was an it. Not a he or she.
That
isn’t
a
person.
That’s
a
zombie
corpse.
What was in the bed was a husk. David’s once-strong chest was paper-thin. His jowls sagged, and his muscle tone was decreasing. The nursing home staff played music for David, flexed his arms and legs, but there was only so much they could do.

The opposite had been happening for Shirley. As her son withered, Shirley grew.

Shirley reached into the nightstand drawer and drew out a tattered book. “Let’s finish
Ten
Little
Indians
.”

In other words, Celia and Oliver were dismissed without goodbyes.

Oliver sighed a helpless sigh. He sat on the floor and rested his head, uptilted, against the wall. He closed his eyes.

Celia sat at a round corner table. She cradled Caleb and, soothed by the rise and fall of Shirley’s voice, watched Oliver, Shirley and David. Mostly Oliver. His long eyelashes—his father’s eyelashes. The dark tousled hair.

Celia’s whole body hurt. Oliver infiltrated her thoughts, her waking moments. Celia could count on two fingers the number of people she had been in love with.

Alexander, her first boyfriend.

David.

Oliver could join that list very, very easily. With the slightest nudge. Maybe already had.

Celia’s love for Alexander had developed over time, in high school. Celia’s love for David had developed slowly, too. Celia almost had not accepted David’s request for a second date, but something whispered in her ear to, so she had. A few months later, she was firmly in love.

Now this thing with Oliver. This thing that wasn’t a thing. Did she want to be in love with Oliver, especially at this time in her life? No, of course not.

But there it was, and it was different from what she had felt for Alexander and David. Celia could not explain it. On a higher plane, somehow. Perhaps because of their circumstances. No denying they were going through a highly emotional experience together. Essential to remember:
You
are
not
in
love
with
Oliver.
The
situation
makes
you
think
you
are.

Oliver opened his eyes. He met Celia’s gaze and smiled: a little sad, secret smile. Celia’s skin prickled, and she felt Oliver’s tongue again playing hide and seek with hers. Celia imagined Oliver’s hands rubbing her back, and then her breasts. They might as well be in bed together, their arms and legs entwined, so intimate and poignant was Oliver’s smile.

“One little Indian boy left all alone,” Shirley read. “He went out and hanged himself, and then there were none.”

Chapter
Fourteen

Celia, Oliver and Caleb left together. “I have a date this Saturday,” Celia said. “Sort of. It’s a double date with Janet, Chester and a friend of theirs. Probably gonna amount to nothing, but…”

Oliver smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Cool. I’ll baby-sit Caleb while you’re on your date.”

Celia was horrified. “No!”

“Why?”

“Not while I’m on a date, Oliver.”

Oliver’s responding grin was casual. “What’s the big deal? Babysitting is babysitting, and the kid’s my brother.”

Did Oliver really think that? Or was he protecting himself? Didn’t matter. The answer was no either way. Celia shook her head. “Not while I’m on a date. That’s too tacky.”

Oliver jammed his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Whatever. Look, I have to be at work soon, but do you have a minute to stop by my place? I want your opinion on something.”

*****

In the apartment, Oliver led Celia into the kitchen. Caleb was sleeping, and Celia had kept him in his baby carrier seat or whatever it was called, and set him on the living room floor.

Oliver zipped his backpack open and hoped he was not about to make a colossal mistake. He got three books from the backpack and laid them, covers up, on the kitchen table. Books on taking care of infants and toddlers.

Celia blinked. Several more blinks. Confused blinks.

The walls closed in on Oliver.
What
are
you
doing,
Oliver
David
Hall?

He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been around to help with Caleb, but I want to be. It’s what Dad would have wanted. Ah, screw that. It’s what
I
want. For several reasons. Uh…” Oliver rubbed his forehead. He pretended to be engrossed in the cover of one book: a baby in pink.

“I don’t have much family left,” Oliver said. “My mom’s parents are alive, yeah, but they’re so far away. Grandma and Grandpa are closer but just as old. Healthy, but just as old. After they’re gone, it’ll be just me unless I…” Oliver sighed. “I’ve realized that…eh. Never mind. Thing is, I have you. I have Caleb. Why aren’t I taking advantage of that? Dad’s going to die, he won’t be here this time next year, and you’ll meet someone eventually. Marry someone else. That guy will be Caleb’s father. Dad isn’t Caleb’s father. He gave up that right, but I don’t want to make the same mistake Dad did. And, uh…when you get married again, Caleb will still be Grandma and Grandpa’s grandchild. I want him to always be my brother, too. No matter what.”
You’re
babbling.
Oliver forced himself to slow down.

“I’m rambling nonsense, but what I’m trying to say is that if there’s an emergency or something, I should know how to take care of the kid. Or even if there isn’t an emergency. If you need me to baby-sit, I’ll try. I want to do right by him. Anyway, I got these books from the library. Are they any good?”

Celia had tears in her eyes.

Oliver touched her arm. “Please don’t cry.”

Celia wiped at her eyes, preventing her tears from falling. She riffled through the books and said a simple: “They look good. I can lend you a few of mine.”

“Good.” Oliver re-packed the books. “Okay, then. I better get ready for work.”

“Something I need to clarify,” Celia said slowly. “David
was
Caleb’s father. While I was pregnant. He read to my stomach, and even after he started freezing me out, he went to the doctor appointments. He took charge of getting the nursery together. David was Caleb’s father. He was.”

“All right,” Oliver said, aware his voice was a monotone. Jealousy stirred inside him.

“I wanted to clarify. That’s all.”

“Clarified.”

Celia brushed her thumb against Oliver’s cheek and brought her lips to Oliver’s. “Let’s shut up about him. Can you spare another minute before work?”

*****

Oliver and Celia went to the bedroom, and Celia wrapped her arms around Oliver. Oliver lost himself in Celia’s smell, her touch, her closeness, her femaleness.

Oliver did not stop Celia when she unzipped his jeans and acquired his penis.

She smiled and stared. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Handsome. It’s handsome.”

Celia chuckled. “It’s not a doll. But handsome. Okay.

She got on her knees. She took him into her mouth, and jaysus cripes! Her mouth was crazy insane wet. And firm. And experienced. Oliver tried to stave off the almost immediate floodtide of relief but couldn’t.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit. Sorry.”

Her eyes shining, Celia looked up at him. “You are an eager, eager boy. Or I’m
that
good.”

“Both.”

Celia licked her lips and unbuttoned her jeans. She tugged them off and lay spread-eagled on the bed. “Now you go down on me. Okay? Fuck me like I fucked you.”

Oliver saluted and tucked his penis back into his jeans. “Yes, ma’am.”

She was gorgeous. She’d made a landing strip on her pussy as if to say: “HERE.”

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say “C’mere,” he wanted to sweep her into his arms and make love to her.

That wasn’t what she wanted, though. This had to be on her terms. No foreplay, yes to plan B.

Celia moaned and moaned as Oliver explored her pussy, as he licked her generous wetness, her engorged bud of pleasure. She was sweet, sweeter than any woman Oliver had been with. Sweeter than she had any right to be.

Her orgasm was fast too, a great shudder of
uh
uh
uh
ahhh!

“Now,” Oliver said, “I really need to get ready for work.

“This was good, Oliver. Thank you.”

Oliver kissed her on the cheek, a peck. “No problemo. Have a good rest of the day. Call after your date if you want. Hope it goes well.”

*****

Oliver checked himself over in the mirror Saturday morning. Jeans, red polo shirt, new red tennis shoes. The kids would like that, red shoes. Sherelle had called Wednesday to say Oliver could take the children to the park down their street for two hours Saturday. Just him and the children. Oliver surveyed the bag at his side. Just him, the children—and baseball gloves, baseballs, tennis racquets, tennis balls and a few Frisbees. In case no one had anything to say.

Sherelle had not said much on the phone. Didn’t need to. Her tones had been disapproving since Oliver re-entered the kids’ lives. No doubt she was afraid that once the children turned eighteen, they would abandon her and Malcolm and gravitate toward Shannon and Oliver. Shannon and Oliver who had given them up, Shannon and Oliver who did not deserve them.

Oliver resolved to tell Sherelle that she need not worry about the children picking Shannon and Oliver over her and Malcolm. Sherelle did not see how the children looked at her. Sherelle was their mother, Malcolm their father. Shannon and Oliver were curiosities.

At three o’clock, Oliver rang the Thompsons’ doorbell. He was scheduled to work until eight today but had switched shifts. Who knew when another opportunity like this might arise?

Malcolm answered the door with an easy smile. “Hey, Oliver. How ya doing?”

“Good. Fine. Thank you.”

Another grin from Malcolm. “Great. Well, uh, tell you what. Paul decided he doesn’t want to go.”

Oliver managed to keep his smile up. “Okay.” Paul was the sensitive one. He had not really made an effort to get to know Oliver when he resurfaced in the boy’s life. Not that Oliver blamed him. Oliver could promise repeatedly he would not lose contact with Paul again, but why should Paul believe him? Perhaps he just did not care. He had his mother. He had his father. He had his buddy Shannon. What use did he have for a white dude called Oliver?

“So,” Malcolm said, “Paul and Sherelle are at a movie. Hope you don’t mind if I go with you and Erin. I’ll…” He lowered his gaze for a second. “Let you guys have some alone time.”

“That’s great if you come. Sure.”

Malcolm called for Erin, and she bounced out a moment later.

“Hey, Oliver. We got a dog! Her name used to be Mr. Goodbar, but she’s a girl dog. She’s a chocolate lab. Paul wanted to name her Hershey, but that’s kind of obvious, don’t you think? So I said: ‘Let’s call her Mr. Goodbar.’ And Paul said: ‘No! She’s a girl.’ Mom said to call her Ms. Goodbar. Can she come with us? Please?”

“Ask your father.”

Malcolm ruffled Erin’s hair. “Go get Ms. Goodbar.”

*****

They set off walking down the sidewalk to the park. Erin was in the middle and held Ms. Goodbar’s leash. Erin was a chatterer, always had been. Her topic of conversation today was Ms. Goodbar, who was her first dog.

Oliver wished he could look at Erin. No, not look at her. Study her. Examine her. Take her in. Like he could with pictures. Touch her, feel her. Experience the texture of her hair, of her smooth cheeks. Watch her sleep.

At the park, Ms. Goodbar pooed, and Erin wrinkled her nose and glanced at her father. “Do I have to clean it?”