by Kim Holden
I hug all three of them at once because I can’t fathom excluding any of them while I hug their sibling alone. I hug them. I kiss them. I tell them all I love them more than anything else in the world, and that’s when my eyes fill up. I’m trying with everything in me to hold back the tears because they’re already scared and sad, and I don’t want to stir up any more heavy emotion in them. But I can’t help it, I feel like Miranda took an ax to the top of my head and split me in two. You would think everything inside me would feel dead, but it’s the opposite. Everything inside me is exposed nerves, all raw, tingling, unmistakable pain and agony. It’s emotional torture.
Her words are like salt poured in an open wound. “Come, children. We need to get to the airport. We have a flight to catch.”
I sniff back the tears and wipe my eyes before I turn to look at her. “Follow me to my house so I can pack their things.”
She shakes her head. It’s hard; I swear there’s no softness in this woman. “We don’t have time. I’ll buy them everything they need when we get home.”
Kira’s face loses all color. I’ve seen joy vanish temporarily from someone’s eyes when a happy moment passes, but I’ve never seen it flushed entirely out of someone before. Kira just lost her innocent joy. It’s gone, snatched away carelessly and thoughtlessly. “I need Pickles.” Trepidation is rising in her voice. “I can’t leave without Pickles.”
Miranda looks at me in confusion. She didn’t just see our daughter lose her innocence. She’s annoyed that her schedule’s being delayed. I explain, “She needs her stuffed cat. She can’t fall asleep without it, Miranda.”
Miranda shakes her head impatiently again. “We don’t have time to get it, Kira.” She says Kira’s name but she’s looking, she’s talking, to me. “We’ll get you another tomorrow.”
Kira screeches in horror, “I don’t want another one! I want Pickles!”
I struggle to kneel down on the ground, afraid I’ll never get up again, take Kira’s tiny hand in mine and kiss the back of it before I rub it to console her. “I’ll mail Pickles to you, darlin’. I’ll make sure you have her first thing in the morning. I promise.”
The tears continue to stream, but she quiets for several seconds as she thinks over my solution. “Okay, Daddy.”
I kiss her hand one more time and echo, “Okay.”
And then I hug my kids again. I kiss my kids again. I tell them I love them again, and then I tell them, “I’m sorry. So much more than sorry.” And I mean it with everything I am.
And then I watch them walk away with their mother.
And I feel myself die inside.
Everything wilts. Emotions, organs, thoughts, memories, hope…it all wilts. Like a leaf wilts due to lack of water or sunlight, they all turn in upon themselves until the edges are curled grotesquely and shriveled into something unrecognizable.
I walk home, partially because I fear driving would put others in danger—I’m enraged—and partially because I want to punish myself. I want my body to be forced into the action it rebels against. I want my muscles to struggle and my legs to protest. I want my head to throb angrily. I need to fight something, to fight someone, and since I’m the only one available, I’ll fight myself.
After checking my dresser drawers and finding them weed-free, I grab Kira’s stuffed cat from the couch and head right back out, down the stairs and to the post office three blocks away. I fall twice, even with my cane. There’s a hole in the knee of my pants, and I could care less. They’re khakis. I only wore them for the court related matters today because they’re conservative and look like something Middle America would wear, which should earn me brownie points in the parental department. It didn’t today, obviously. The palm of my left hand is also bleeding from the run-in with the rough concrete. But I get Pickles into a Priority Express box for overnight delivery five minutes before they close.
And then I walk out and sit on the bench outside. The sun sets before I rise again.
I stop at a convenience store and make an impulse buy that is driven by soul-searing anger, along with a stick of beef jerky, and a cheap bottle of wine. I shove the angry purchase in my pocket and eat the beef jerky, chasing it with swigs of red on the walk back home.
I’m buzzed by the time I round the corner in front of my apartment complex, and I don’t want to go upstairs. I’m too tired, so I sit under the tree, and I nurse the bottle until it’s empty. And then I fall asleep like a proper wino, on the ground under the canopy of Mother Nature. I hope Miranda’s private investigator is still watching because I’m putting on one helluva show tonight. I hoist my hand, middle finger raised, into the air before I let sleep pull me under just in case I have an unwelcome audience.
I’m awakened by the sound of Faith’s scooter pulling up in front of her apartment. When she kills the motor, the world goes quiet. I hear her keys jingle followed by her door opening and closing.
That’s when I struggle to my feet. My head is swimming in alcohol, and my legs don’t just feel numb, they feel like they’re made of lead.
Walking to her door is slow.
Knocking is clumsy.
She answers in her horrendous Rick’s BBQ t-shirt, and I can’t help but think how beautiful she is before I remember how much I’m supposed to hate her for her part in the Shit Father of the Year award I was presented earlier today. “Seamus, what’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I mutter as I stumble my way in. “Close your curtains.”
She shuts the door behind me, draws the curtains closed, and watches me cautiously. Her apartment is a studio, just one room, and there’s nowhere to sit except the futon cushion on the floor that has a blanket and pillow on it. I turn and glare at her remembering why I’m here. “Are you a prostitute?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but the shock I see in them is all the answer I need. It’s innocence. “No. Why would you ask that?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration; anger is rising in me. “Have you ever been a prostitute? Ever taken money for sex? I’m begging you to be honest with me right now, Faith. What remains of my sanity depends on it.”
She shakes her head and takes a step so that she’s standing directly in front of me. “No. What’s going on, Seamus?”
I believe her. She’s just another pawn in Miranda’s game. Any ill feelings I felt toward her disappear, but the anger is still bubbling within me, like a volcano preparing to erupt.
I reach out and run my fingertips along her cheek. A light touch and the restraint is physically taxing. Smashing things would relieve stress and anxiety; softness only makes it roil. When I get to her mouth, I switch to my thumb and increase pressure. Her bottom lip drags under my touch.
“Seamus?” she whispers my name. Her chest is rising and falling visibly now, and my mind is too fucked up to tell if it’s fear or lust filling her lungs so purposefully.
I lower my forehead until it’s resting against hers. My hand moves to the back of her neck. It’s a gentle movement, caressing the skin there.
Her hands are on my chest now. She’s not pushing me away. She’s fanning her fingers apart and then squeezing them together tightly. It’s the blatant, repetitive motion of someone restraining herself. Stalling until she’s given permission.
“I need to forget it all for a few hours, Faith. Make me forget who I am.”
I see a flash of understanding in her eyes. Sadness emerging. Demons of her own. Empathy. Agreement. She needs this too.
Our lips crush together. There’s desperation in the union that makes kissing impossible. It’s a battle to purge the hurt and assuage it simultaneously. Confusion reigns supreme in the clash. Tenderness is lacking. It’s feasting and biting and sucking.
Buttons are torn from my shirt in an effort to remove it quickly. The swift release of my zipper sounds like a cannon in the silent, small room.
“I hate this shirt. It’s fucking cheesy,” I tell her as I rip it over her head.
“I hate these pants.
Khakis are fucking boring,” she counters, as she pulls down my pants and boxers in one swift jerk to my ankles.
There’s a temporary truce in the war as we stand, looking each other up and down. She wasn’t wearing any panties. We’re both naked—physically and emotionally.
“I hate her,” I hiss.
“I know,” she says, willingly absorbing the venom.
“I need to get this hate out. I’m so full of it I can’t breathe.” The hate and anger is so intense I swear I can see it, touch it, smell it. It’s driving me insane.
“Give me your hate, Seamus,” she whispers. “And I’ll give you mine.”
“Deal,” I say the word against her lips.
And just like that, we’re at each other again. Mouths and hands are greedy. There’s no trading of affection, no taking turns. We’re just two people vying for their own bodily pleasure as if it’s a hazard instead of gratification. Stimulation, touch, is reckless and rough. And though the wine has freed all my inhibitions, I feel like a different person. We’re feeding each other, off of each other. My mouth is moving its way across her chest. Her teeth are skirting the hard edge of my ear. My hands are mapping out her body like they’re memorizing the path to the Promised Land. She’s touched every inch of me from the waist up and currently has a firm grip on me below the belt. Pulling the pin out of a grenade is how this all going to end, one giant, mutual explosion between the two of us.
“I need to lie down.” My legs are unsteady and everything rushing through me isn’t helping.
I grab my pants from the floor and pull my angry purchase, a box of condoms, out of the pocket and tear one end open. Pulling a strip from inside, I let the box fall like an afterthought before moving to her bed on the floor.
I’m on my back when she curls up next to me on the mattress, watching intently as I tear the packet open and sheath myself. When I roll on my side, she presses up against me. Her eyes and fingertips are slowly and affectionately tracing the features of my face. Calling on connection. Urgency is gone. What has been, up to this point, animalistic, just turned intimate. And the intimacy governs my hate, taking control and diluting it with Faith’s innate goodness until all that remains is the need to pour love into this woman. The need to show her how she deserves to be loved.
And over the next hour, I learn something important.
Love is an act.
What we just did. The way our bodies and minds partnered to please each other—to put the other first—was making love. I’m in awe as I lie here beneath her, her body still trembling from aftershocks, my body slack from my release only a moment ago.
The kissing.
The careful attention shown.
The connection.
The words spoken.
The pace.
The quiet assurances.
The rhythm.
The climax.
Every last detail was an act of love.
I’ve never been given this gift.
I’ve never given this gift, not like this.
Which makes me treasure it even more because even though we’re not in love, the transfer of love was so damn real.
I smile at her when she looks at me. “You took my hate and turned it into love.”
She smiles back. “Gladly. You took mine, too, Seamus.” It’s her soft place to land voice.
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart and initiate an embrace.
We wrap each other up in a tangle of limbs.
The hug lasts hours.
It endures deep sleep and emerges intact on the other side.
“Morning, neighbor.” I know she’s smiling before I open my eyes.
“Morning, neighbor.” I’m smiling, too, until my hangover announces its intention to ruin my day. My stomach is queasy, and my head is ferociously reminding me that it doesn’t like wine.
After I use her bathroom and dress, I sit down on the corner of Faith’s bed. She’s wearing the horrendous BBQ t-shirt again. I stare at the letters when I speak. I stare so hard that after a few seconds they’re not letters any longer. “Miranda took my kids. They’re gone.” My voice is hollow, like my heart.
When she doesn’t say anything, I pry my gaze from the blur of color on her shirt and meet her eyes. They’ve turned to liquid, sliding down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “How?”
“Lies. She’s an evil bitch.”
“What kind of lies? You’re a great dad, Seamus.” Her voice is calm, but the tears are still flowing.
“Apparently, I’m a drug user who’s dating a prosti—” I cut myself off because I can’t say it. I don’t want to drag her into my nightmare.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out before she finishes for me. “Prostitute. She thinks because I’m a stripper, I’m a prostitute.”
I nod. “It’s worse. She’s has signed statements from men who claim they’ve paid for sex. With you.”
The tears are no longer silent. A hiccup sets off a deluge. “I’ve never, Seamus. You have to believe me. It takes everything in me to dance in front of strangers. Everything in me. It’s degrading and makes me feel like an object, rather than a human being. I could never have sex with a stranger.” She squats down in front of me and puts her hands on my knees. She’s looking at me through mascara smeared eyes. “Last night was only the second time I’ve had sex, but it was the only time it mattered. What I gave you last night was special. You have no idea how special. I wouldn’t do that with some random guy.”
I hold her face in my hands. “I know, Faith.” I do know. What happened between us last night was special. “I’m sure she paid people to write the statements. Or, hell, for all I know she wrote them. Like I said, she’s evil.” Faith’s so fragile, so pure; I still can’t erase the image of her topless on a stage from my mind. It doesn’t reconcile with the person I know. “Why do you do it? Strip, I mean. I know you said it’s part of your research, but there has to be more.”
“I need the money.” She sounds a little ashamed and a lot determined.
“Get a roommate,” I challenge.
She looks around the room. “Where are they going to sleep? Not too many roommates like to share a bed, Seamus. This space isn’t exactly conducive to more than one bed.”
I nod. “Move somewhere else and get a roommate?”
She shakes her head. “My lease is almost up, but for now, I need to be here.” She’s adamant.
“Why?”
“Research,” she says simply.
I shake my head at her evasiveness. “Research is not the answer to everything.”
She closes her eyes as if she’s frustrated. “It’s my everything. I’m trying to find my birth mother. I thought maybe I could save some money and pay someone to help me search. I need to figure out who I am.”
I scrub my hands over my face and mutter in agreement, “I need to forget who I am,” before I look at her and say, “And you need to keep searching for your mom. That’s important.”
“You know who you are, Seamus. Don’t forget. You need to fight for him. You need to fight for your kids. Get them back. They belong with you.”
I nod. And then I huff. “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Get them back.” I huff again and run my hands through my hair. “Short of driving to Seattle and kidnapping them, it feels impossible.” I look at her glare and correct myself, “It’s not impossible. I know that, but it’s daunting, you know? Like searching for your birth mother. Miranda has me by the balls. And she has money. I don’t. That makes the fight that much harder.”
She nods.
“I want them back now. I want to walk upstairs and see them sitting on the couch. Waiting another week to see them is too damn long, let alone Thanksgiving.” Tears are threatening now. “Jesus Christ, my life is so fucked up.”
She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry your children’s mother is the Antichrist,” I nod in agreement, “but you’ll figure the rest out.”
I nod.
“In the meantime, it sou
nds like my company is doing nothing to help your situation.” It’s an apology that comes before the apology…that comes before the delivery of bad news.
I narrow my eyes.
She smiles sweetly, but her eyes are already welling up. “I’m sorry, Seamus. We can’t be together, we both know it. You’ll never get your kids back if we are.” She looks up at the ceiling blinking rapidly, but it doesn’t dam the tears. They break free and roll down her cheeks. She’s still not looking at me. “You have no idea how much it hurts to say that. It fucking kills me.” She drops her chin and lines her eyes up with mine, and I feel the words in her stare. “I’ve moved around a lot in my life. I’ve met a lot of people. I like your heart, Seamus.” She cups my cheek, kisses me softly on the corner of my mouth, and whispers, “My heart really likes your heart.”
She’s right.
I don’t want her to be right.
But she is.
Goddammit.
I stand up with her help. And we have a long conversation with our eyes. I tell her everything my mouth can’t say because words are futile and don’t have a future beyond her front door.
And then I ask her for another hug.
The embrace is everything we just said with our eyes. Every promise we couldn’t make. I don’t want to let her go. Her t-shirt is balled up in my fists in a desperate attempt to wring every last bit of Faith out of this moment and take it with me when I walk out that door. Her tears have soaked the front of my shirt by the time we part. And when I walk out neither one of us says anything, because there’s nothing left to say.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
present
My desk phone rings as soon as I unlock my office door.
“This is Mr. McIntyre,” I answer.
“Seamus,” Janet clears her throat, “can you please come to the office to see me immediately. I’m sorry.” The way she says it makes me uncomfortable. I like Janet, but I’m beginning to hate it when she calls.
I walk slowly as if the bad news will diminish or disappear by the time I get there if I take my time.
