“You wrote that my grief was harder because of the mistakes I made.”
“Perceived mistakes…” she corrects, “I wrote about your perceived mistakes.”
“Huh?”
“I wrote that your ‘perceived’ mistakes magnified your grief.”
“What’s the difference?”
She lets me go and sets next to me. “You beat yourself up for not spending time with them, without realizing that most parents struggle with that, men especially. You guys can’t breast feed, so you start out at a disadvantage in the connection department. Given what I know about your childhood, I would’ve been surprised if you didn’t have those issues.”
“I don’t know how you do this everyday,” I tell her. “Getting cursed out, shouldering everyones problems, you have a gift Dr. Felt.”
“Gift of what?”
“I don’t know,” I say, pulling us both up. “But whatever it is, the shit is worth more than a hundred dollars.”
Seventeen
All Falls Down
The elevator ride up to my room is taking forever, like God is giving me to time reconsider my approach—but it’s too late for that. A family shares everything, right or wrong, good or bad.I lost Melody, and I refuse to be the only person with a broken heart.
As I walk to the door I feel a peace rush through me, like the one that hit me after I took all those Ambien. I’ve gotten so used to saying goodbye that it’s routine at this point in my life. It’s always been me on the receiving end, left to wonder what it is about me that made me unfit for love. There’s a part of me that’s relishing this moment, knowing that a relationship is ending on my terms. That I’m the one holding the hammer when the music stops. I could hear them on the other side of the door, laughing and enjoying each other, almost like a real family. Part of me wants to forget about the whole thing.
But I think of Melody, the one sure thing I had left in my life, and the anger comes back.
Their voices get louder as I approach the main living space, Mom’s telling a story from her childhood. The room erupts in laughter as she hits the punch line, and I’m greeted like a king as I join them on the couch.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you until the morning,” Lily says. Judging by the bottles on the table, they’d been going strong for awhile. Her eyes are glassy, the lighting beaming off her corneas like an engagement ring. “I guess it must’ve been weird having sex with someone else for the first time, I get it. I wanna know every detail, as nasty as you can describe it.”
Someday I’ll look back and find it hilarious that my sister wanted me to describe a presumed sexual encounter in front of our mother. Today isn’t the day for that. I’m frustrated already because I deviated from my original plan. I even played it all out in my head on the ride over. I wanted to yell and curse, but that isn’t who I am. Part of me even wonders if it’s a big deal that Lily told her, since I would have to explain it eventually. Hell, I even wondered if it was my fault. How could I blame someone else for my issues?
But then I think of Melody’s beautiful skin, and the way she’d run her fingertips gently behind my ears, making my body jump before she would pull back and make me want her even more. And her kisses—good lord, the kisses. They were so passionate, from the way she rolled the tip of her tongue against mine, to how she’d bite my lips and stare into my eyes, knowing I would do anything she asked me to do. Finally, that glorious music collection with the section dedicated exclusively to sex. I knew what songs I wanted to mix with certain positions—or the humor, like having sex on the counter to “In Between the Sheets” by The Isley Brothers with no bedding in sight. When I remind myself that I walked away from that, plus the companionship going forward, I think they’re lucky I don’t kill everyone in this goddamned room.
“Maybe later,” I deadpan.
“I knew you two would be perfect for each other, what did I tell you?” Lily says, slapping me on the knee for good measure.
“Yeah, you’re a real matchmaker,” I say, my blood boiling just looking at her. It’s funny how the little things people do irritate you when you’re pissed at them.
“Tell me something I don’t know, told you we’d get you right little brother. Damnit we want details. Don’t we?”
My mother agrees, eager to hear about my exploits and pat themselves on the back for the part they played in it. It’s like when someone gives to the homeless but records it on their phone to show the world. You wonder if they did it for the right reasons. Me having sex with Melody is more about them, so I decide to play their game.
“Alright,” I agree, “but if we’re gonna do this I’m gonna need a drink.”
“I’m on it.” My mother stumbles getting off the couch but makes it to the bar in one piece. “Vodka on the rocks, right?” She asks before going to work like a surgeon. I’ve never had one of her drinks, but I’m assuming that years of drinking has at least made her proficient.
My mother hands me the drink and takes her place on the couch. They sit on my left, right, and center respectively—like children at the door of a stranger while trick or treating.
“Ok. So we get to her apartment, and I’m ready.”
“I bet you were,” Lily says.
“Lord knows it’s been too long,” this from my mother. She’s nodding, with this creepy smile, reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in Anger Management.Being in a suite means higher quality alcohol in the wet bar, but vodka is still vodka and it burns all the way down, giving me just enough courage to continue. I laugh at the absurdity of the situation and they soon join in.
“Anyway,” I continue, “we get inside and we’re trying to play it cool, you know, be adults about the situation. She went to get dressed and I checked out her record collection, putting on some Isley Brothers to set the mood.”
They agreed with the choice of record before chiding me to continue.
“So, she comes from the bedroom and she’s got this baggy sweatsuit on that’s just begging to be taken off.”
“She did that so it could slide off easily,” my mother says, her commentary making the moment all the more awkward. I quickly continue because I don’t want to know how she learned that.
“Then she goes to the kitchen, and at this point, the small talk is just building our anticipation for the main event.”
“You see, that’s why you need me in your life, teaching you little things like that. She was just waiting for you to get that shit started,” Lily says, drawing laughter and toasts between the three of us.
They think this is a joke, that I am the joke.
I don’t know why the thought came into my head. Laughing with someone is different than being laughed at. This is the latter. The combination of vodka and having to recite the moment I walked out on someone I truly cared about is making me emotional. And when I don’t have the space to process emotions I get angry. But, I have to hold it together just a little longer, reflection can wait.
“So what did you do next?” Mom asks.
“I jumped her bones in the kitchen. First I pinned her to the stove and took her shirt off—”