My Soon-To-Be Sex Life (7 page)

After striking out at the restaurant, I tried calling Roach on her cell, but it went directly to voicemail. Her parents probably had the family out doing volunteer work or helping out at their church. They were super strict about Roach keeping her cell off during any such goodness. A stint of retail therapy at the mall was not in the cards.

I didn't want to go back to Monty's and so my early morning wanderings lead me to the hospital to visit my mom.

Oh joy, I'd arrived just in time for art therapy. Long tables now took up most of the floor space, everyone seated and working diligently over masses of brown clay. I slipped further into the room, lingering by the window-lined wall and was greeted by a girl, about my age, with super long black hair and a wicked attitude.

“Get a gun and shoot me,” she said, standing in the aisle between tables, blocking my path. “Do it. I know you want to, and I can't take anymore of your yoga, or your feng-fucking-shui. Let me tell
you
something for once, I never, NEVER EVER
want to hear the words
Say Not to Pot
again!” She fired the blob of clay she'd been holding. It whizzed over my shoulder and thwacked into a window, clinging to the glass for dear life. “If you can't show me how to voodoo this stupid shit so I can make a guy gnaws his own balls off, this session is useless.” She sat and returned to molding the clay as if nothing happened.

After witnessing her less than comforting freak out, I shifted closer to exit, thinking I'd make a hasty retreat and head back to Monty's. But a clean getaway wasn't my fate. A blotchy-faced instructor named Max, according to his hospital ID tag, strode toward me.

“You must be Charlie. So glad you could visit your mom today, you look just like Sara.”

The women in our family, from Grandma on down, did have similar features, coppery-blonde hair, attractive enough faces, and slim builds - I couldn't question that, but on the day I was in to visit my mom in rehab…I didn't need the reminder that maybe we shared more than looks. Like an addictive personality.

“She's just over here,” Max guided me deeper into the room. “Want a slab to work with?” He shoved a cool clay brick into my hands. “Art can change your life, make you rethink your place on this planet, open your mind to new ideas.”

“Right…” I drawled and trailed after him, the clay warming under my fingers.

“I'm serious,” he said, shooting me a grin, “serious as an
art
attack.” Poor Max was selling sobriety, and despite the fireworks coming out of his ass, he was working a hostile crowd. I was mentally cringing at the cheese that oozed from his pores. Still, there was something about his patiently open expression, like he knew how he came across to people and laid it on super thick for his own enjoyment.

“There's nothing like pounding this stuff into submission, right, Morgan?” he called out to the black-haired girl now shaping the window clay into a crooked penis connected to a suspiciously flat-as-a-pancake scrotum.

“Fuck you.”

Max chuckled again, unfazed by Morgan's blunt response. “You mom's just a few tables over.” He pointed in the direction I should take and left me standing in the middle of creative chaos. I paused for a bit, watching him glide around, cheering on the would-be-sculptors. You had to hand it to him – pretty tough to keep an
if-you're-happy-if-you-know-it
face in this crowd.

I apologized my way through the tables and chairs until I found mom in a far corner. She looked small here, insignificant, a regular wallflower – the opposite of the woman I'd grown up adoring, the problem solver. The let's get it done already mover and shaker, always calm in the face of a storm while the rest of us would only stand there, gaping at the incoming twister. Hopefully I'd see that woman again someday soon.

She molded a dark lump on the table, her hands moving stiffly over the clay. The goal? A serving plate, at least I guessed that was what she was trying to make - she kept referring to a picture taped onto the tabletop. But Mom's embryonic creation looked more wobbly-soup-bowl than Martha Stewart platter-esque.

“Heya, Mom.” I pulled out a chair, the metal legs scraped along the tile floor. Mom glanced over at the sound, spotted me, and then focused on her project once more. Okay, last visit she wouldn't stop babbling and laughing at nothing and now – she was mute.

I sat down across from her.

Thanks to the warmth of my fingers my clay had already become more malleable. I went to let it go, but it stuck to my skin. I shook my arm and the brick dropped onto the tabletop with a dull thud. The silence was killing me. I would have taken a trilling momma over this sad, silent one. So I began to blurt.

“See that girl over there? The one with making the world's worst dildo?” I gestured to the penis and its creator. “She's got serious issues.”

Mom didn't respond. Her thumbs dug deep into the clay, forming a groove around the rim of the plate.

“Did you see what she did? Almost beheaded me with that twisted noodle.” Apparently even sex references wouldn't net a token snicker.

Since mom wasn't holding up her end of the conversation, and I was safely ensconced in a corner, I felt free to scan the room. On the surface, these were just regular people. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons. You wouldn't give them a second look if you passed them on the street. But they were real drug addicts, jonesing away. I didn't see what my mother had in common with them. Mom wasn't like that. She just needed some space, some down time.

I caught Max watching us from a few tables away - his eyebrows crept up into his receding hairline and he pointedly glanced at mom. I gave him a glowing smile so he'd think everything was cool.

And it was. Icy.

I talked through the chill. “That's the second time today someone's tried to bump me off with a good head whacking.” I laughed. Alone. This wasn't going well. “Owen's got a gang, did you know? He and his loser friends ambush innocent bystanders down on Main Street. Their weapon of choice? Ice balls. What are kids coming to these days, I ask you? And he's one of the churchy folk.”

Mom ducked her head sharply, looking in panic at her clay-covered hands. “Oh God, no. A nose itch.” She rubbed her nose on her inner arm. The rub loosened her rolled-up sleeve and the cuff slipped, trailing into clay.

“Shit.” She tried pulling the material back into place with her teeth.

“Here, let me.” I took over, tucked and rolled, until the sleeve showed no immediate signs of coming loose.

“Thanks.” Mom slipped back into the pottery zone, once again tuning me out. She dipped her red-stained fingers into a water bowl and dampened the platter to keep it malleable.

We fell quiet again. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered to show. She obviously didn't want me there, but I couldn't bring myself to leave. Not yet. I drew in a deep breath. Might as well do something then. I grabbed my hunk of discarded clay and worked it into a snake, focusing on the middle. The ends grew with my efforts. Thinner and thinner I rubbed out the clay until it disintegrated under my hands and I'd halved the snake. Mom leaned over and grasped one of the chords I'd made, rolled it further down to a delicate string's thickness and laid it around the lip of her platter in a wavy design.

“Pretty,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mom agreed. “But not really functional.”

And just like that she turned into the mom I hate, the out of control, scary mom who might just do anything.

She shifted on her feet, shaking chunks of clay off her fingers. “How many do-overs does it take to make a fucking plate?” Her voice was loud. A few people looked over at us. “Ten.
Ten.
I can't leave it alone. I almost get there and then it looks so shitty, like some amateur hack piece of shit plate and I kill it and start over. Why don't I leave it alone? Who cares if it's not perfect?”

“Shh…it's okay.” I kept my head down, and my voice low hoping we hadn't attracted too much attention. “Nothing's perfect Mom.” I thought of dad and his hoochie momma, twisted around a road sign, while we waited at home, dinner cold on the table. “You of all people should know that.”

Mom either deliberately ignored me or was obsessing too much to hear anything but her own internal critic. She rambled on, and as she did, I noticed she'd chewed off the flesh around her nails. Dry blood, but the skin was red and raw.

“How's it going here, ladies?” Max's cheerful voice cut into my thoughts. He shouldered in between mom and me. “Oh, this is looking good, Sara,” he said, gently lifting mom's creation, holding it aloft like a priceless relic.

“Do you think so?” Mom asked, making praying hands, like a little girl asking for a trip to the fair.

“I sure do,” Max gushed. “And the detailing you've added around the edge.” He gave her a benevolent smile. “Very creative.”

“I don't know where that idea came from,” Mom said, animated by his praise. “One minute I was making a string with the clay and the next I was swirling it around like that.”

“This is what I'm talking about. Come on, let's show the others.” Max led Mom around from table to table. Much oohing and awing ensued. It felt good to see Mom smiling, but crazy strange to see her so needy.

I stood alone at the table, forgotten.

“It was supposed to be a snake,” I said.

No one heard me.

Art therapy apparently worked wonders or could have been Max's tireless praise. I don't know how many people had life altering conversations around those clumps of clay, but there were a lot of bloodshot eyes staring back at Max when he announced it was time for lunch.

Mom's mood sure improved. Her platter du jour success might have helped.

Thanks to my snake, of course.

The rehab cafeteria, much smaller than the one in the main part of the hospital, contained a small cooler of stale looking sandwiches and crusty-topped puddings, and served a limited amount of slap in the fryer items at the grill. Despite the mouth-watering aromas (AKA grease) leaching into the air, I couldn't get the smell of disinfectant out of my nose.

“That stench has completely destroyed my appetite.” I let my hamburger drop onto the paper plate, watching Mom inhale hers. “The smell's gone right through the meat.” I poked at the patty with my fork. “No burger should taste like a hospital smells. It's just wrong.”

“Hmm…” Mom said around a mouthful. She only chewed twice before swallowing, I counted. “What are you talking about? This is great. Even the fries. Nice and crunchy.” She drenched one in ketchup and popped it into her mouth. She groaned, grabbing three more of the grease sticks. “I'm going to be a hundred pounds heavier when I get out of here. All I do is eat. Or smoke.”

“You smoke, now?” I scraped my hair back into a ponytail, feeling the pull on my scalp for a second before releasing it with an I-don't-believe-this huff. “Jesus, I thought rehab was supposed to help rid you of vices, not introduce you to new ones. Smoking and binge eating. Just lovely. It's really too bad you couldn't just quit your little Val habit cold turkey. Although, no offence, I don't think I could have handled it at home if you started seeing bugs everywhere and scratching your skin off.”

I caught sight of mom's frayed fingers and gulped down half my pop. Damn, I'd been joking, but maybe she
had
experienced hallucinations. No one told me anything. The first few weeks of rehab were locked down, no one went in and no one came out – unless you quit the program, which could mean you literately quit the program and went home to your crack house of choice – or you
offed
yourself and were chilling in the morgue with the other quitters.

“How are things at your grandfather's?” Mom asked into the strained silence that had settled between us. “Is he treating you alright?”

“Other than trying to poison me every night with what he calls
food
, you mean?”

“My mother did always cook,” Mom said. “You would have loved her. You've got a bit of her look about you. The hair. Eyes. Everyone loved your grandmother. Even
he
did, there's no denying that. Maybe he loved her too much. When she died, I just didn't matter to him anymore.”

“Wow, like that doesn't sound familiar.” I sucked back a breath, my chest tightening. Damn, I'd said that out loud. I waited for Mom to blast back at me, but she just gave a pained smile.

“I know and I'm sorry.” Her lips flatted. “Why do you think I'm in this place? I was starting to check out on you Charlie. Just like Monty.” Her voice faded.

I put my clay stained fingers over hers. Just hearing her admit it, that she'd been slipping away, keeping herself at a distance since Dad died…the pressure in my chest eased.

I dared to hope, to dream that in a few weeks we'd over the drama, the pain, once and for all. And maybe we would be. But if I'd been secretly hoping for some sort of father-daughter reconciliation between the two most stubborn people in my life, things were definitely looking iffy. Mom still sounded so bitter about Monty.

Mom continued, “Except I was using pills instead of booze to stay numb. I won't be like him. I won't.”

Weird. I'd had the exact same thoughts about not becoming like her. Maybe that was a part of growing up. And if Mom was still growing up at her age, looked like Monty had too, which explained why he wasn't what I'd expected.

I noticed Mom's expression turning dark again. I didn't want a repeat of the deathly silence when I'd first arrived, so I redirected the conversation, keeping my tone light. “Grace took me to
Up-A-Chuck
last week.”

Mom turned her hand, clasping mine in a comforting grip before letting go. She straightened her shoulders. “That's great. How was it?”

“Same food, so you'll be happy. Actually, nothing's changed with the new owners except the hokey menu blurbs.” I leaned over the table, wagging my eyebrows. “Food wasn't the highlight of the night.”

“No?”

“Nope. I don't think Ian's going to make it past the four-month mark.”

“Why not?”

I leaned back. “We ran into Blake.”

“Ah,” Mom said and nodded, as though that explained everything. “All of them?”

“Un huh. Man, they're lethal.”

“Gracie Locks and Her Three Blakes I used to call them.” She shook her head. “Those were the days. That whole year they dated I never figured out which one was Blake. Maybe
Blake
was a general heading, a code word even - they all answered to it.” She scooped crumbs into her hand, dusting them off onto the floor. “I always said they were like that ancient Greek dog - the one with all the heads – and about as sex-crazed too. That's why Grace turns into a jabbering fool whenever they come sniffing around.”

“The Blakes did have a certain classic, sex god look about them,” I agreed. “We dodged them just in time, ran out through the back entrance.”

“There's a back entrance?”

“Yup. It was hard to find though. We hid behind a half-dead fish, and snuck into the kitchen, then Grace got momentarily side-tracked by a busboy with a fake Italian accent, while I got splattered with tomato sauce…” I took a breath. “…And fell.” I paused for a moment, remembering. “But this guy caught me just before I bit it.”

In the process of scraping extra onions off her burger, Mom looked up when I mentioned the
guy
word, squinting at me. “A guy caught you?”

“Yeah,” I said and sighed, “with the whole arms wrapping around me and saving- my-clumsy-ass routine that's usually reserved for romantic comedies. A truly bizarre moment in my life.” Well, not really, pushing my tit into Eric's palm was worse, but I couldn't get into that and avoid a beheading. Mom's favorite expression when she was pissed: I brought you into this world, and by God, I can take you out!

“Romantic was it? Sounds like you've got a crush there, Charlie Brown.” Mom slapped the bun back on her patty.

“I do not.”

“Do.”

“Don't.”

“Does.”

“Anyway,” I said, rushing on, “we left in such a hurry we forgot our coats. I went back for them before I came here. That's why I've been carrying Grace's around with me.”

“That's Grace's coat?” Mom peered over the table. “I didn't notice.”

“I've got a huge down-filled coat wrapped around my waist, it's bulkier than hell, and you didn't notice? Didn't you think that
two
winter jackets might be overkill?”

Mom shrugged. “Charlie, if I worried about every strange quirk of yours, I'd have been committed long ago. You're a weird kid, face it.” She reached over to lightly touch my hand. “But you come by it honestly. We've got faulty genes. One of my great uncles was a taxidermist. When his wife died….”

“Taxidermy might be a bit gross,” I said cutting her off before she got into the details, “but I don't think you have to be a genetic freak to enter the field.”

“Anyway…” Mom spoke pointedly over my words “…when his wife died he did it to her.”

She looked at me like I should be shocked or something. But I didn't get
it
– whatever
it
was.

“Did what?” I asked.

“Stuffed her.”

I blinked. Gagged. “Bullshit,” I said.

“God's honest truth.” Mom crunched on a fry. “Did a pretty good job, too. Some university has her now.”

Thankfully, my cell phone started playing the theme song to
Mr. Roger's Neighborhood
.

“Roach!” I answered her summons with gusto. “I gotta say, you bible thumpers have great timing.”

“Shhhh!” Roach hissed. “Listen to this…”

I heard a bunch of muffled thumps as Roach presumably held up her cell, and then my ear filled with the roar of a crowd, piercing guitar riffs and pounding drums. Unfortunately, the quality sucked. I heard a guy's voice in the mix somewhere, but it was too discombobulated for me to catch the words.

“Aren't they amazing?” Roach yelled. “I was stealing you some chocolate croissants and this guy offered to act as a lookout so I could get more, and guess what?”

“What?” I asked.

“What? I can't hear you…it's too loud…”

“You said
guess what
?” Now I was the one yelling. “So, what?”

“Oh, right. The guy is Brother Preston from Divine Wrath, only the biggest Christian rock band for miles.”

That wasn't saying much. This town didn't have much of a talent pool, unless you counted petty larceny. “
Brother
Preston?”

“Yeah, the lead singer. Every member of the band is Brother Somebody, and their fans are all called their Brothers and Sisters. It's part of their shtick.”

“Ah,” I said wisely.

“Here, listen…”

I held the phone away from my ear, and at Mom's questioning look, I rolled my eyes. “Christian tuneage,” I whispered.

Mom snorted.

I turned to watch another table of visitors clustered around a strung-out looking guy a few years younger than me. I could easily identify his mother and father, with their matching shattered expressions, but his oxygen tank-toting Granny held my attention. I witnessed her put her foot into the aisle and trip one of her annoying grandchildren running around the table. I could totally picture Monty doing that, or worse. Old people were hilarious.

Roach's voice squeaked out of the phone, and I remembered I was supposed to be listening.

“See you at home later, right?” she was asking.

“I'll be there,” I said.

“He's amazing! Just listen to that voice….” Roach ended the call.

A fresh wave of grease-air burped forth from behind the counter and drifted over our table. I'd be starving later, good thing she invited me over for supper. Real sustenance made a nice change now and then.

“How
is
Rachel?” Mom asked.

“She's fine. She just met some guy in a Christian rock band.”

“First you, now Roach. It's raining men.”

“Halleluiah,” I said, deadpan.

We blinked at each other, then burst into: “It's raining men...halleluiah…it's raining men…”

It felt like it should be one of those big song and dance numbers, where the whole cafeteria would surge to their feet, but it was just the two of us singing.

Badly.

In line for what had to be his third burger, Max gave me a thumbs up.