“No, you were just a scared kid!”
“The real hero was Crystal Summersby, and her friend, who came forward and had the sick bastard sent to juvie.”
“You were a child, Lucy! You should have had someone there for you!”
“There was nobody.” I feel Lena’s hand moving slowly up and down my back. “So I learned to fend for myself. I immersed myself in the tae kwon do, karate, and kickboxing, planning a reception for this asshole on his release, but his family had moved away and I never heard of him again.”
“But. . but. .”
“I didn’t come forward because I could never be cast as a victim. But that’s what I was. But I resolved: never, ever again. You have to stand up. You have to come forward.”
“Yes. You taught me that. You.” She points at me. “Lucy Brennan.”
My hand grips her smaller one and she presses back. “I now need to tell Dad this real story. You’re the only person I’ve properly explained it to. When I. . you know, with Jerry. .” I lower my voice and instinctively look around the empty apartment, and Lena does too, “. . that was me done. It was like exorcising a ghost. I was ready to be wrapped in chains, to let anybody do what they wanted. I was ready to voluntarily surrender. .” and I squeeze her in a hug, drinking in her beautiful, reassuring scent, “. . and I’m just so glad it’s been to you and not the police. .”
I look into Lena’s jade-green eyes, feel her cool lips on mine. I can’t resist as I feel her slipping off my cuffs.
It’s done.
We kiss for a bit, and a mountain of passion starts to bubble in me. My fingers are pushing aside cloth and working Lena, showing her where the fuck I’m coming from. As she starts to get aroused, I stick my other fist into my own pants, knuckles grinding my clit like a fighter trying to open up an opponent’s scar. I come straightaway as Lena gasps, but I keep working my wrists at maximum force against my pubic bone and hers. I only briefly see Lena’s eyes roll heavenward as she growls like a savage and kicks her legs out like a swimmer, before I feel my own eyeballs curving toward the sky. “Fuck. .”
I spread my legs to better enjoy the delicious throb, a sensation so gorgeous that I feel my teeth nipping my bottom lip in appreciation. “Fuck. . fuck. . fuck. .”
“Fuck. .” Lena gasps, as I unravel my limbs, pushing my damp hair from my face. “That was so gooooood. .”
“I know, right?”
God, I get myself so goddamn horny reading that last part. But I had to reward myself after that confession, by reliving that post-conversation moment in the blog. The crux of it all, though, was that I was finally the most free I had ever been, and I had Lena. Then all I had to do was lose the blubber. And I did. Then came the pregnancy, and back on it went, though I’m getting it off again.
Once Lena and I decided we wanted a kid, there was never any doubt as to who would be inseminated and carry it for the term. Lena’s art career was taking off again, with a massive renewal of interest in her sculpture, especially The New Man, and, of course, the photography exhibition, so she really had to work. — It took me so long to get to this point, she’d argued, — whereas you’re an expert, you’ll be able to get back in shape in no time.
It sounded plausible, but it hasn’t quite worked out that way. But I’m not complaining — well, not much. I guess we’re all great self-justifiers. I know I’d have been just as fulfilled in a career, though in a different fashion. But as a mom, in many ways, I’m at my happiest now. It isn’t all roses, though, nothing is, and I do get a little tired out with Nelson. He needs a lot of attention, and sometimes Lena can’t help that much, as she’s working most days in her studio.
I shut my laptop and I’m watching that Michelle bitch in her crappy weight-and-date show. Lena comes in with a big frown on her face. — What’s up?
— Nothing. . in fact, it’s pretty damn good news, she says, forcing some cheer into her expression, as she hands me a copy of a bill of sale.
I look at the bottom-line figure and hear my own gasp of disbelief. Then I throw my arms around her. — Jesus fuck almighty!
— They’ll be coming to take him away next week, she says glumly, like she’s talking about Nelson.
— Oh, right. . I try to inject concern into my voice. I never get this crazy artist thing about selling their work. I’d just think about the money and get on with knocking out the next piece of shit.
She reads my mind. — I know, she smiles, kissing me, giving me a scent of her fresh sweat, — I gotta let go. Mom and Dad up yet?
— Haven’t seen them, I drop my voice, — but I’ve heard grumblings from the guest suite. I feel my mouth tighten, as I cup my ear. — And gurgling noises tell me Nelson’s awake.
Lena goes to shower and change and I start to get myself and Nelson ready for the short drive to the airport. The Sorensons join us for breakfast bagels and orange juice. It’s strange how different they are from how I pictured them during that clandestine email correspondence (which they still believe was with their daughter). I’d envisioned Todd as a tall, thin man, but he’s short and squat, with a gray-blond crew cut and a deep-lined face. He says very little. Molly talks for them both: wasteful, inconsequential chatter. She has a steel-wool permed mop, and hawkish features, with a double chin, fleshy arms, and a ton of cellulite. We eat while discussing mundane stuff, Molly going on about some kind of dream she had about yesterday’s Thanksgiving. — I think it came from being in a house surrounded by water. .
I never, ever thought that my father would move down here, but he bought the house from a fading basketball star Miami Heat traded to Cleveland, or some other Rust Belt franchise on its last legs. I confess to sometimes feeling aggrieved that Mona’s living in that level of luxury and she’s almost certain to be Dad’s main or even sole beneficiary, especially when their kid arrives. I can’t exactly complain though; I like living up here with Lena, and she’s let me put my own touches to the house, like splashing a little color on those walls.
We get into the 4X4 which we bought when Nelson came along. Lena is driving, and I’m sitting with Nelson and Molly in the back, the Sorensons’ considerable, largely redundant luggage behind us. Molly’s gamely trying to distract Nelson from the squealing pig toy he loves. Todd is looking uncomfortable in the front; I see his creased face in the mirror as he blinks in the unaccustomed sunlight like a black bear disturbed in its hibernation. The day is described, as always, as “unseasonably hot” on a local radio station. It’s the high or mid-eighties, depending on which phone app you open, with an angled golden light blinding me at the intersections, even through my Ray-Bans.
— Oh, for cute, Molly says to Nelson, as the pig wheezes breathlessly again.
It’s bad manners, but when an email from my mom pops onto my iPhone, I’m happy to open it, and escape from the Sorenson banalities into the more familiar Brennan ones.
52. CONTACT 19
To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com