Authors: Daralyse Lyons
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Chapter Twenty-Eight
The doctor won’t let me go into the room with her so I wait out in the lobby while they prod and poke at my mother’s breasts. I want to be strong. I want not to worry, but I can’t help it. I picture my fearless, impeccable mother lying half-naked on a table and cringe. She must be feeling so helpless. I try not to think about it, opting instead to turn my attention to the ancient
People Magazine
in the doctor’s waiting room. It’s no use. I can’t turn off my brain. I love my mom. I need her—critical and difficult as she can be. She has to be okay.
After the doctor finishes, I go back into the room with my mother, now dressed. We sit together—her shivering and somehow diminished looking, me wide-eyed and panic stricken.
“Okay, Mrs. Ross, Ms. Ross. Thank you both for coming in today. We were able to remove the suspicious tissue and we’re going to run some tests to see if there is some malignancy.”
“You mean cancer?” My voice is shaky.
“Yes. But, not to worry. Worst case scenario, there is something there but modern treatment options are remarkable and we caught this early. Or it may be nothing, just some excess tissue. The truth is, we don’t know yet.”
“When will you know?” I ask.
“Next week. I’ll call you either way.”
I thank him. My mother says nothing, has said nothing the entire time we’ve been in Dr. Edelmire’s office. As we walk out, my arm around her waist, she keeps her eyes downcast. She must be terrified.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her as we head toward my car.
“You really want to know?”
I nod.
“I don’t care much for your shoes.”
And, inexplicably, I am grateful that my ugly shoes are diverting my mother from thinking about her own mortality.
A week later, Mom calls me to tell me that they found no abnormal cells. “I’m fine! My boobs are fine.”
“Of course they are,” I say breathing a sigh of relief. “There was never any doubt.”
“I think…” she says, “I won’t have them done. They’re really quite marvelous tits for a woman my age.”
“Sure, Mom. Yeah. I know Dad likes them.” I make a mental note to call my dad and let him know that Mom is fine. Even though I haven’t told him about her cancer scare, I’ll just let him know she’s okay.
“Yeah, well, he’s going to have to keep his hands off until the soreness goes away. They’re still a bit tender if you can believe it and your father is quite the breast man—”
I cut her off. “I am not listening to you tell me about your sex life with my father.”
“We’re all adults, Shayla. I would think you’d be glad to know that, even at our age, your father and I –”
“I’m hanging up, Mom.”
“Okay. Suit yourself. But, honey…”
I brace myself. “Yeah. What is it?”
“Thanks for your support.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say. And, knowing my relationship with my mother, I am pretty sure that, after today, neither of us will.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brice is manic. I pick up my phone and he is mid-sentence already, his frenzied chatter unintelligible to me. He is also, I suspect, quite drunk. I miss all of what he says until the very last part “So Robin and I had sex. Besides, I never learned Swahili anyway.”
“Excuse me?” I say, still groggy from sleep. It is 1 a.m. and he’s woken me up with his phone call. “Slow down. I can barely hear you. Are you telling me that you slept with your ex-boyfriend tonight?”
“It wasn’t my fault. It was my butt.”
“Come again.”
“That’s what he said.”
That’s funny
, I think. “That’s not funny,” I say.
“I butt-dialed him.”
“You did not.”
“Okay, I didn’t. But, that’s what I told Robin. I called him, thought better of it, and hung up. But when he called me back, I answered. We talked. He came over. And then we did what we did and it felt wonderful.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back together.”
“No,” Brice sighs. “He’s in a relationship.”
“What?!”
“He says he doesn’t care for this new guy half as much as he cares for me.”
“Cares for you?”
“He’s still in love with me.”
“Call me when you’re sober and recognize what an idiot you’re being.”
“I’m not being an idiot,” Brice says incredulously.
I hang up anyway.
Chapter Thirty
“I’m an idiot.” The call comes at 10:00 a.m. I knew it would.
“I know,” I say. “But, we all are when it comes to love. Especially when it comes to exes.”
“He used me.”
“Brice, it’s Robin. That’s what he does.”
“Oh, but he’s so good at it,” he laments.
“They all are,” I say.
Brice responds that he simply fell off the wagon and is going back on his dating diet immediately. Knowing his history with both dieting and men, I’m not too optimistic. Still, I hold out hope…
Three days later, when Robin still hasn’t called, my best friend is apoplectic.
“That son of a bitch! I hate him. I finally hate him.”
“Welcome to the club.”
We are out walking. Brice has decided that he needs some fresh air and exercise and I’ve decided that we might as well do something other than sit around eating and talking. So we’re walking and talking instead.
“What if he had called?” I ask. “You don’t want to be his boy-toy Brice. Besides, Robin’s a bona fide cheater. He cheated on you and now he’s cheating on his new guy. He won’t come back to you, and, even if he does, there’s no way he’ll be faithful.”
Brice nods reluctantly. He doesn’t want to agree with me, but he does. It’s always hard when you realize that someone you have feelings for thinks you’re disposable. I remember Chuck last year—unhappily married, cheating, father of a student, unfaithful to his wife, pretending to be divorced Chuck. I’d fallen for his act hook line and sinker. Until I woke up. And it took me climbing out a window naked to see the light of day. In retrospect, there had been signs, but I ignored them or let him explain them away. I say all this to my best friend who wraps me up in a bear hug.
“Remember how much he hurt you?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Brice nods.
“Good. Don’t ever forget it because the moment when you forget what a scumbag Robin is will be the moment that you risk letting him back into your heart.”
“Not to mention my bed.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I can’t believe my brothers with their— gag me—double wedding. I mean, their beautiful, extremely expensive, well-organized, and well-executed wedding. Everything is thrown together quickly. Within a few months of their engagements, the couples are getting ready to walk down the aisle. Why the hurry? When I ask John about it, he lies and says that he just doesn’t want to be a bachelor anymore. When I ask William, he lets slip that, by getting married before the end of their company’s fiscal year, he can file as a married person thereby netting him considerable tax benefits.
“Why not get it done early and take advantage of the write-offs?” he says. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Tiffany or April. Neither one is very practical and the party line is that John and I could take off work easier for the honeymoon around this time of year. Really, it’ll save us a bundle on taxes and our bonuses were really high this year.”
Thinking of my brother’s matter-of-fact reasoning, I cringe.
“Dunkin, would you ever get married to avoid paying taxes?”
“Not on your life,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder as we take our seats in the front row on the grooms’ side of the church. “Would you?”
“Thankfully, my brain doesn’t operate that way. The thought would never even dawn on me.”
“I’ll tell you the thought that’s dawning on me…” Dunkin smirks.
I know
that
look. When Dunkin gets
that
look in his eyes, I’m in trouble.
“We’re in a church,” I say.
“You look incredibly sexy.”
When I bought this dress last year, I’d been a few pounds slimmer. Today, my breasts, buoyed by the extra insulation, have floated to the surface of the dress and are protruding from my neckline, two ripe melons presenting themselves for inspection. The wedding isn’t going to start for fifteen minutes so I tell Dunkin to save my seat and slip off to the bathroom where I remove my tights and underwear and slip them into my purse. I’m going to titillate my boyfriend. He’s let me know he’s in the mood. Well, two can play at this seduction game. I’ve never exactly been a seductress and I’m fairly certain I won’t become one, but, stripped of my undergarments, I feel sexy. I feel desirable.
I slip back into the pew beside my boyfriend and whisper lightly into his ear “Hi, there, handsome.”
“Hi, beautiful.”
He hands me a slip of paper. I unfold it. Within the folds he has drawn a naughty image of two people, presumable us, engaged in various lewd and lascivious asks. I laugh.
“What do you say you and I…” Dunkin points suggestively at the paper “later?”
“Great minds think alike,” I say. “Look in my purse.”
His pupils magnify as he sees my lacy thong and removed tights.
“You mean?”
“Yep. I’m commando.” I cross and uncross my legs enticingly. I guess Sharon Stone’s
Basic Instinct
performance taught me a thing or two.
“Woman, you’ll be the death of me,” he says, but he is smiling broadly.
As the wedding begins, I slip Dunkin’s pornographic sketch into my purse along with my pantyhose and panties.
The wedding is strangely comical. My mother walks down the aisle arm-in-arm, each of her precious sons flanking her. She beams, a vision in ivory, looking every bit as beautiful as if she herself were getting married today. My father trails behind them, whispering instructions to a wayward flower girl who can’t seem to figure out rose petal distribution philosophy and is dumping handful after handful of flower petals onto the floor too early in her journey toward the altar and is left staring into an empty basket by the time she has gone halfway down the aisle. Dad scoops her up and carries her the rest of the way down the aisle with a flourish as her lower lip starts to quiver. He deposits her into the arms of an unknown woman in the front row of the bride’s side who whisks her away wordlessly before she can start to cry. I assume the woman is the little girl’s mother and somehow related to Tiffany or April. Good old Dad, I think. Crisis averted. A screaming, crying six-year-old might have put a damper on the ceremony. At least fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen follow, one after the other. I recognize several of my brother’s friends and wonder again at the rationale behind a double wedding. Perhaps, there are tax benefits to that too—double deductions or something. I have no idea.
When Tiffany and April walk down the aisle together, holding hands, flanked by their fathers on either side, I lean over and whisper into Dunkin’s ear, “Oh, look, it’s an Oreo cookie.”
Indeed, the black-suited men are sandwiching the white-clad women. Dunkin pokes me in the ribcage and bites back the urge to laugh. I bury my head in his shoulder to muffle my own giggles. To the casual observer, it might appear as if I am crying, overjoyed of course by the impending nuptials of my big brothers.
The ceremony is a strange affair, vows being exchanged in a round-robin of love and adoration. Mercifully, the ordeal doesn’t take too long. Receptions are the best part of weddings and, within an hour, upon the synchronized kissing of the brides, we are released to go to the reception.
“You’re next,” Mom whispers to me the moment she finds me alone.
Dunkin has gone up to the bar to fetch us champagne and I am without defense against Vanity Ross’s commentary. I look around wildly for my father, but he too is at the bar, procuring much-needed libations and chatting amiably with my boyfriend.
“When do you think you and Dunkin might tie-the-knot?”
“Mother, we’ve only been dating for eight months. We’re not even living together. Let’s just be happy for John and William. It’s their day.”
“True. They’re so handsome. And don’t Tiffany and April look beautiful today?”
“They do.”
“Tiffany lost two pounds,” Mom beams proudly. “If you ever get engaged, you should ask her for her diet plan. She looks fabulous! Doesn’t she? Simply breathtaking.”
I nod my agreement.
So my brother’s fiancée went from being a size two to a size zero. I nod again as if I have the desire or the capacity to subsist on lettuce and rice cakes. If I did try her meal plan, I’d likely become the worst ever Bridezilla and Dunkin would leave me before we ever got to the altar—either that or I’d die of starvation. Luckily, I am spared from having to comment.
“There’s my beautiful girl,” Dad arrives at our table and beams down at me. “Care to dance?”
I do. Dunkin, ever the gentleman, leads my mom out to the floor while Dad twirls me around as if I am a little girl again—standing on his feet as he waltzes me around the living room. I am lost in my own joy, excited to be dancing with my dad, when someone taps me softly on the shoulder. It’s the minister—an imposing figure with piercing green eyes and a disapproving grimace.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ross, but your vehicle is parked behind mine and the valets need to move it. I’ve been called away.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, okay. I’ll come move it.”
“No need,” says the minister. “Where are your keys?”
“Over there, in my purse.” I point to my abandoned chair, my purse strap hanging lazily across it, as I turn back toward my father.
Suddenly, I realize my folly. It is too late. The minister is three long strides ahead of me on his way to my handbag.
“I’ll get it!” I yell after him.
But, he is already at my chair, taking my purse from its perch. My words and my feeble attempt to wrestle the bag from his grasp startle him. We struggle for a moment before he lets go, sending the contents of my purse flying. Out tumble my stockings, the lace thong, Dunkin’s pornographic drawing, which lands (open) at the minister’s feet, and several prophylactics.
He picks up my underwear by the waistband, wriggling his nose disgustedly at my panties, and hands me the offending undergarments along with the (upon closer inspection) incredibly-detailed drawing. I turn bright red, thank him, and then stuff everything back into my purse.
Wordlessly, the minister holds out his hand as I deposit the keys into his outstretched palm. As if I couldn’t be any more mortified, my dad, who has rushed over to help, picks up one of the three condoms that have fallen at my feet and hands it to me. Dad is beet red. Neither he nor I say a word and we simultaneously cast our respective gazes toward the floor then pretend that nothing at all is wrong even though we continue to avoid eye-contact.
Once everything is restored to its right order and Dunkin and I are back on the dance floor, I look up at my boyfriend quizzically.
“What are condoms doing in my purse?”
“I usually keep them in my wallet, but I can’t wear a wallet with this suit so I slipped them in there along with some cash and a packet of Altoids.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly.
“It could be worse,” he points out.
“How, exactly, could this situation be any more embarrassing? My dad
and
the minister and about a dozen other people saw my panties, our condoms, and your rendition of our naked activities.”
“Hey, if I had my way, you and I would’ve disappeared off into a coatroom for a quickie. At least they didn’t catch us in the act. Besides, my drawing is art. It’s beautiful.”
“Okay, Picasso,” I laugh, as I pull him closer and we sway together to the music.