by Jolie Moore
Damn. I couldn’t wait to feel that length and thickness inside of me. I took him in my fist, sliding the foreskin back and forth, watching the shiny swollen head come and go, in and out.
“Can we slow down?” Lucas panted, his breaths coming out in uneven gasps.
I didn’t want slow. But I didn’t want him to walk away either.
He ran his hands along my arms, pulling them away from his penis, instead looping them around his neck. Taking his time, he kissed the top of my head, each temple, my forehead. He touched the rest of my face and neck before landing on my lips.
He brushed his mouth across mine, once, twice. I tried everything I could to capture his mouth, focus him on kissing me—hard. But he was not as easily persuaded as the last two times.
He was on to me.
Gently, he lay me on the bed, skimmed off my panties and looked at me like a man ready to enjoy a feast. But he didn’t look famished, maybe mildly hungry. His heavy lidded gaze suggested that languorous lovemaking was on tap. I tried not to let my impatience show. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to get lost in the sensation of his hands and mouth tasting my neck, nibbling at the vulnerable concave armpits, the sides of my breasts. My breath hitched when his stubbled jaw grazed my navel. Anticipation made my skin feel almost too tight.
“I’ve wanted to taste you,” Lucas whispered. His breath fanned along my pubic hair, giving me goose bumps again. Then he did, each flick of his tongue brought me closer and closer to the edge until my world shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
When I opened my eyes Lucas was braced above me, his erection sheathed in tight latex that did nothing to hide its length, width, or hardness.
Of their own accord, my thighs fell open and he seated his hips between them. With a single hand he notched himself at my opening. I hooked my heels behind his back, trying to urge him forward. He would not be moved.
“Nari,” he said. “Look. At. Me.”
I opened my eyes, taking in the room streaked with shafts of lights leaking through the blinds. Looking anywhere but at him, I gripped his wide shoulders, silently pleading. He didn’t acquiesce.
“What’s my name?”
I sucked in air, wondering if he knew what he was asking of me. “I…”
“What’s my name?”
“Lucas.” My puff of breath made his name barely audible in the silent room.
One long thrust filled me. I turned my head to the side, closing my eyes, praying for the moment when the sensation would overwhelm my thoughts, and for long blissful moments, the past would disappear.
A single hand turned my face back. “Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me.”
With the help of the sodium vapor street lamp, I could see his unblinking eyes, lips pursed in arousal. One thrust followed another, his hand settled near our joining, his thumb brushing against my clit in counterpoint. Every time my eyes dared drift closed, he paused. So I had no choice but to look at him when my breath hitched, when my muscles grew achingly tight, when I came apart, unable to hold back my cry at the rush of pleasure.
“Nari, oh God,” he said, his face dropping to the pillow next to me as he thrust his way home. For a long moment he lay on me, using his arms to take some of his weight. When he finally slid from me and went to the bathroom, I turned toward the window, feigning sleep.
Some time later, I turned my head toward the man next to me. I wondered if Lucas was asleep. He hadn’t said a word when he’d come back to bed. And now, his breathing was even, his arm heavy on my waist. I faced the windows, looking out at the glowing orange lights of the city. Every breath was labor as I tried not to let the guilt of what I’d just done crush my soul. It was the first time I’d made love with someone after Andrew died, not just had down and dirty sex. The first time I’d been stone-cold sober. There was no wine, whisky, rum, or vodka I could blame for my actions.
Lucas’ intake of breath tickled my ear. “The Hawaii conference came on the anniversary of Andrew’s death, didn’t it?”
I nodded. My cheek scraping against the pillowcase was the only sound in the room. His lips moved near my ear. It sounded like he was counting. I tried to puzzle out what he could be thinking. Then I got it. Sweat broke out on my brow, under my breasts. He’d followed the same path I would have. Develop a hypothesis. Suggest a diagnosis. Test.
“What happened on June twenty-fourth?”
Adrenaline made my movements swift and jerky. I was out of the bed in a flash and in the living room, searching for my clothes. Underwear and pants on, I stuffed the stiff white fabric of the halter in my purse and wrapped his discarded button-down around myself instead.
“Nari,” he called shuffle-hopping into the room at the same time he was trying to pull up his boxers.
But I had a firm hand on the front door.
Andrew.
I could talk about him in limited amounts, maybe even more after tonight. But the baby girl I’d handed over in the hospital. That memory I never wanted to exhume. It needed to stay buried deeper than spent nuclear waste.
“You can’t leave.” His voice was full of firm rationality.
“But I am.” I had to. If I stayed, he’d learn all my secrets. I’d bared enough for a lifetime.
“After tonight. How can you?”
I twisted the knob. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I need space.” I knew exactly what was happening. But I wasn’t ready for a relationship, shared confidences. It was a betrayal I couldn’t live with.
“From me?”
“Yes.” I’d wounded him again. I was becoming toxic to everyone around me. Leaving would be the kindest thing I’d done all day.
“Before you go, tell me what happened in June.”
Pain rose from the depths. I had to swallow three times before I could say what I should have said hours before. “Good-bye, Lucas.”
Chapter 12
Lucas
Rejection had been my companion since the first day of my life. There was no way in hell I was going to invite it in. Nari had kicked me out twice, and run away once. I didn’t need to be told a fourth time that she didn’t want me. That first day of work after she left was hard. Every time I saw her slim silhouette bent over a chart at the back counter, I wanted to snake an arm around that waist. Tuck a finger under her chin and raise her head so I could see the truth in her eyes.
The truth of whether Andrew was in her past. The truth of her feelings for me. The truth of what in the hell had happened in June that had her running to that bar on Melrose Avenue.
Instead, I inclined my head and moved on to my office or an examination room. The press of patients and pre-authorizations made ignoring her, if not simple, then doable. When I got a spare moment at work, or the thought of Nari arching under me wouldn’t shake from my memory, I focused single-mindedly on prying my birth records from the clutches of bureaucrats. I needed to find my mother.
Sitting at my desk during my lunch break, I clicked lazily through adoption reunion websites, reading the stories, imagining what my own would be like.
“Is this Lucas Tucker?” a voice asked on the call that had been patched through from the front desk.
“This is Dr. Tucker,” I responded expecting a long drawn out rejection for a procedure from an insurance company rep or someone double checking on a prescription from a pharmacy. I always injected the title when I answered. It made the calls shorter. No one wanted to waste a doctor’s time.
“This is the Department for Children and Families, Agency for Human Services,” she said.
“How can I help you?” I asked. My mind was wandering all over the place. I was a mandatory reporter of abuse for the state, but I never saw children and hadn’t thought much about it. Wildly, I wondered if I’d missed something critical during my tenure at Westside Medical.
“You contacted the Vermont Adoption Agency several weeks ago regarding your placement,” she continued.
The plastic phone receiver nearly slipped from m
y grasp. When I’d left messages all over New England, I’d hardly expected a response. Who did? I thought most government agencies were black holes where money and information went and little emerged. The public equivalent of health insurance.
“Hello,” she said more insistently. “Is this Lucas Tucker?”
I must have been quiet for a long time. I repositioned the phone by my ear, steeling myself for what was going to come next. “Yes. I’m sorry,” I said.
“Because you were born prior to nineteen ninety-six, your adoption records remain confidential,” she said.
I hunched over my desk as empty of hope as a deflated balloon was of air.
“Thanks for calling,” I said mustering all the politeness I could. I pulled the phone from my ear ready to place it back on the cradle. But she was still talking. I quickly placed it back against my ear. “… so I suggest you contact them. If your birth parents are interested in contact, they may have left information with them.”
“With who?” I asked.
Crinkling of paper came over the line. “The Hope Agency in Montpelier.” She rattled off a number. I scribbled something I hoped I could read later.
“Thank you,” I said before I really hung up this time.
I had to see three patients before I could get back to the phone. I was nearly five in the afternoon east coast time when I was finally able to steady my fingers long enough to push the right combination of numbers for The Hope Agency.
“Completing families for fifty years, how can we help you?” a voice answered.
I introduced myself. “I’m looking for my birth parents,” I said. Before she could give me the brush off, I plowed ahead. “I know records for babies born before nineteen ninety-six are confidential,” I said. “But I was wondering if either one of my parents may have contacted the agency looking for me?”
“Please hold,” she said, putting the phone down rather than mute me. I heard doors opening and closing and people saying good bye and good night. Even if you were “completing families” for a living, I guessed you probably wanted to get home to your own at the end of the day. “You’re in luck. Your mother has been looking for you. Do you have a pen and paper?”
I pulled a pad advertising some kind of anti-fungal cream closer to my pen. I’d never in a million years thought it would be this easy. “Yes, I’m ready,” I said.
“Alice McGee,” she said, then spelled the last name for good measure before giving me an e-mail address. “Double luck that you got us before we closed. Nearly everyone’s out the door for the weekend. Let us know how it goes,” she added conversationally. “We sometimes like to include reunion stories on our website.”
“Thanks,” I think I said before hanging up the phone. I hope none of my afternoon patients were dying of cancer. I tried my hardest to concentrate of the parade of sore throats, irregular coughs, and the vague aches and pains. But it was no use. Skipping dictation or cleaning up the day’s files, I was out of my office at six on the dot.
All the way home in stop and go traffic, I wondered what in the hell I was going to say in that e-mail.
Even though I knew I should probably have slept on it to temper my eagerness, I was at my desk computer, not three seconds after I dropped my keys and wallet on the kitchen counter.
I pressed the button starting the laptop. Clicked to open the e-mail program. Started a new e-mail. Typed in her address. Words failed me then. I stood and paced. The room was dark by the time I’d figured out what I wanted to say.
Dear. Ms. McGee,
My name is Lucas Tucker. I’m a doctor living in Los Angeles. I think you may be my birth mother. I received your name and e-mail from the Hope Agency in Vermont this afternoon. I was born April 17, 1979 in the state of Hawaii.
Sincerely,
Lucas Tucker.
* * *
Simple. To the point. I pressed send. I snapped on the light. It was only seven thirty. A long lonely Friday night stretched out ahead. It was too late to call my parents. What could I say to them anyway? My brother and sister were out for the moment as well.
I lifted the receiver ready to call Nari, try to bridge the gap between us. She seemed to understand my quest. I had dialed the three-two-three of the area code when the computer pinged. I looked to see who’d sent me e-mail. Alice McGee’s name was the only one in bold in the upper left hand corner. My hand shook.
When my mother had finally acquiesced to me and my sibling’s ceaseless demands for store bought bandages, Christian, Brooke and I had rushed home to try them. But two days later, we couldn’t get them off. Tiny hairs and skin had fused with the adhesive. Mom had taken us all out on the back porch and ripped them off in less than a second ignoring our whelps of pain.
That lesson had hurt at the time, but was probably one of the best ever. I clicked the e-mail ready for whatever was coming my way.
* * *
Dear Dr. Tucker,
I live in San Bernardino County in a city called Twentynine Palms. I think there are probably more than twenty-nine palm trees here. I’m home all day tomorrow. I’d love to meet you. Here’s my address:
6568 Indian Cove Rd, 29 Palms 92277
Alice.
* * *
She’d left no phone number. I credited her with sparing me the embarrassment of possibly crying on the phone. I e-mailed her back promising to be there at ten a.m. at the latest.
If I hadn’t woken up with sun streaming through my window, I wouldn’t have known I’d slept. I’d tossed and turned for what had seemed like hours imagining what our reunion would be like.
With the workweek and disaster of the previous weekend with Nari in my rearview mirror along with the skyline of downtown Los Angeles, I drove to the desert ready to unlock the secrets of my past.
During the traffic free three hour drive toward San Bernardino County, I mentally mapped out how the day should go. Would my mother hug me? Yes. Tell me why she gave me up? Without hesitation. Would she have my hands, eyes, height? Of course. We were of the same flesh and blood.
After I pulled onto Indian Cove Road, I waited three doors down from the address scribbled on the paper wilting in my hand until I could catch my breath. Whether it was the scorching desert heat or corresponding lack of humidity, I could scarcely bring air into my lungs.
For a full ten minutes, I considered backing up my car, making a three-point turn, and driving home. I tapped at the steering wheel weighing the possibility. This was what I’d wanted, I reminded myself. What I’d fantasized about while staring out the window of my childhood bedroom while heavy snowflakes fell. Resolved to meet my past, I started the car once again and inched toward the house number that had been emblazoned on my mind since Alice’s e-mail.
I hadn’t seen a single lawn since I’d pulled off the freeway and into the town. This street was no different. The tan stuccoed house was barely distinguishable from the sand surrounding it; a far cry from the green oasis of Palm Springs a few miles south. Turning off my phone in case my parent’s called, I pushed open the car door and made my way to the house before I lost my nerve.
A small dark-skinned woman was out the door and down the walkway before I had a moment to get my bearings and ground myself in the biggest moment of my life so far. The woman, only half my size, nearly tackled me with a hug.
“Jared?” The question was a shriek. “Could it really be you?”
“Jared,” I said to myself as much as to her. I waited. There was no instant connection. No zing of recognition of her voice, of my name. Nothing. Emptiness remained.
“That’s the name I gave him…you. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I had to call you something.”
I stood stock still. Beads of sweat trickled down my neck making me itch in the early morning desert heat.
“Come in. I made some iced tea,” she said.
I walked behind the five-foot tall woman, her dead straight dark hair, streaked with gray, swinging behind her. Was there some big strapping soldier in th
e story? Alice McGee looked as different from me as my own adoptive mother. Maybe this whole thing was a fool’s errand. Tentatively, I sat on a small couch while the woman bustled around the kitchen, humming.
Handing me a glass and paper napkin, she sat on an easy chair opposite.
“Tell me about yourself. Did you grow up in Hawaii?” Her voice was low and husky. Had my dad met her singing in a lounge—love at first note? I refocused. Tried to answer her question.
“My parents…” I paused, uncomfortable with that to call Matthew and Joyce in the face of the woman who’d really given birth to me.
“That’s okay,” she said leaning forward to give my leg a few firm pats. “They were your parents. The Tuckers, was it, provided food and shelter and love where I…couldn’t.” Alice’s cough was close to a chocked sob. In a moment, she’d pulled herself together, cleared her throat.
“Joyce and Matthew only came to Hawaii to pick me up. I was raised in Vermont.”
“And you’re a doctor now,” she said with no small amount of awe.
I nodded. “I work at a clinic in West L.A.” Quiet descended while I sipped at the astringent drink. “We don’t look anything alike…you and I. Is my…father tall, blond?”
“He was a Marine, jarhead and all. But not as tall as you. His hair was light brown and stick straight like mine.” She sat forward like she was going to touch he, my hair, but resisted. “Your curls are a mystery.”
“What happened to him? Did you…Do you…?” I stuttered to a stop. This was the part I’d worried about most. The last thing I wanted to do was bring up some unspeakable pain for Alice.
She laughed, a hearty full-of life sound. “Me and Joe were on and off for nearly thirty years. We gave up a few years ago. Finally.”
