Look Don’t Touch

by Tess Oliver

  I was looking at a picture of my mom.

  25

  I twisted the throttle and wound through traffic on the highway. I was still digesting the possibility that my dad had a thread of decency running through his otherwise icy soul. But then, how decent was a man who kept the identity of a kid's mother hidden, even though the woman was still part of his life?

  As I turned my motorcycle toward the off-ramp, I saw Shay's car heading toward the highway. She was heading out again on her usual errand. Our sessions had been put on hold since the news of my dad's death. She had kept herself busy with online job applications and books while I tended to my dad's final requests and instructions. He had left instructions with Sheffield to send out notices to a handful of people about the graveside service. And in the evening, when there was nothing more to do but relax, Shay and I sat together watching movies and talking. Shay was a great listener. I felt like I could tell her anything and never get an ounce of unwanted opinion or judgment.

  I turned the motorcycle up the road, but curiosity got the best of me. Or maybe it was a major case of jealousy, something I seemed to be grappling with a lot lately. I circled around and rode fast down the street to catch up to her car. My helmet and visor were tinted black. I was sure Shay would never recognize me. Her car was turtle slow and seriously out of alignment, I noted, as I pulled into the lane behind her. Twice, as we passed an exit, I told myself just to pull off. What she did in her spare time was none of my business and she'd be gone soon, out of my life for good, it seemed. Finding out the truth might be worse than not knowing at all, I reminded myself at the third exit. But I kept the motorcycle moving forward. Sometimes I was my own worst enemy. I almost wondered if it would be a relief to know that she was seeing someone. It would quickly and sharply sever the emotional attachment I was feeling toward her. I could get on with life, never having to think about her again.

  Who the fuck was I kidding?

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered a conversation with Rocky, the owner of Fantasm. He'd mentioned that he thought Shay was supporting someone besides herself. It would explain how a woman who made three or four hundred dollars in tips on the dance floor each night would somehow end up living in her car. But if she was seeing someone, even the same creep who she'd referred to as a big mistake, why the hell was she homeless?

  Shay's car had a hard time on the curvy roads leading out of the canyon to the interstate highway. If this was the trip she was taking every other day, it was a wonder her car had survived. It was definitely a long, arduous journey for an old car.

  The farther we went, the more I convinced myself that she would only take a big drive like this for someone important, someone she badly wanted to see. Now my mind grappled with how I'd react if I found out she'd been disappearing for a few hours every other day to meet a man, her man.

  We traveled toward San Fernando. She finally moved toward an off-ramp. It was a nice part of the valley, a commercial area with banks and medical buildings. I stayed several cars behind and nearly missed seeing her turn into a parking lot. The sign out front was for an assisted living home. It was four small buildings that looked like cozy houses, and there was a park-like stretch of lawn around it.

  I went past the facility and circled back. I parked in the bank lot across the street. Stupidly, I listed the possible reasons for her to visit an assisted living facility. A handsome doctor or nurse or possibly a maintenance man who was about to take his lunch but was waiting for his extremely hot girlfriend to arrive to eat with him.

  As I brainstormed myself into a jealous stupor, a flicker of movement across the street pulled my attention to the lush grounds outside of the building. I had my answer. It seemed I was an even bigger asshole than I'd given myself credit for.

  Shay pushed a woman in a wheelchair outside toward a large shade tree. The woman was hunched over, and her body flopped around some as the wheels of the chair rolled onto the grass. She could have been a hundred, or she could have been sixty. It seemed her life had been drained away by some major event like a stroke or an accident. Shay had mentioned her grandmother, the woman who never wanted her but took her in anyhow, was still alive. But she'd never said more than that except it was obvious she disliked her grandmother immensely. And yet, it seemed she was living in a car to make sure her invalid grandmother had a nice place to live and be cared for.

  I started up the motorcycle. And in conclusion, I thought wryly, I'm a suspicious, obsessive jerk, and the pedestal I'd been building in my head for Shay wasn't nearly high enough.

  26

  Somehow a business meeting before my dad's funeral seemed entirely appropriate. He would have liked it. I'd been struggling with the proposal for the scientists with the lightweight metal, wanting to make sure I went in with exactly what they wanted. Then I decided to take a different route. I went in with very little in the way of numbers. I brought them a list of the ways I could help them get their product into production and into the marketplace. I let them tell me the numbers that worked for them. They were thrilled to have the money ball in their court, and in the end, their suggestion was more than reasonable. We were both fledgling companies, after all.

  I walked inside my house. The scent of soap drifted down the hallway. I followed it and the sound of Shay humming to the master bath. I knocked lightly and then pushed open the door.

  Shay's shoulders and breasts were dotted with mounds of bubbles as she looked up from the soak tub. She lifted a fluffy bunch of bubbles on her palm. "I think I put in just a touch too much bubble bath."

  I sat on the edge of the tub. "You're right. This is too many bubbles." I swept my hand through the warm water, temporarily clearing the surface and giving me a clear view of her naked body. "That's better."

  She leaned back and rested her arms on the edge of the tub, lifting her breasts for me to see. "How did the meeting go?"

  I nodded. "Great. I think they'll be my first client."

  "So your new approach worked?"

  "It did." I'd found myself talking to Shay about every aspect of my life, things I never would have talked to other people about, but it seemed natural. And I liked it. I liked talking to her. I liked having her there to hear my thoughts. Just as much as I enjoyed hearing hers. I never confessed to her that I followed her the day she went to visit her grandmother. It would only upset her. It would prove to her that I was a controlling idiot, something I was going to work hard to change.

  She shifted in the tub, looking around for her towel. "You should probably get ready for the funeral. I'll clear out of your bathroom."

  "There's time and frankly, this is nice, watching you bathe." I picked up the sponge floating in the tub and filled it with water. I drained it over her shoulder and watched the warm, soapy water cascade over her skin.

  "You know, I was thinking—" She relaxed back and let the warm water pour over her. "I can come with you to the funeral."

  I looked at her.

  "You know, in case you need a friend. Never mind. I know you don't need me to go. I just wanted you to know that if you needed me—"

  "Yes," I said far too quickly. "I mean yes, I'd like you to go. If you don't mind. It will be very small. It's what my dad wanted."

  Whenever she smiled, even faintly, a small line creased the side of her mouth. I'd grown used to seeing it.

  "Do you think that woman"—she shook her head—"Your mom will be there?"

  I stared down into the prisms of light created on the surface of the bubbles. I'd asked myself the same question a hundred times. "I don't know."

  Shay pushed to standing in the bath and I allowed myself the brief luxury of watching the bubbles slip down her wet skin. Then I walked over and grabbed the towel off the hook.

  She gazed at me with expressive brown eyes as I reached behind her with the towel. I pulled it shut around her, taking care not to touch her skin. But it no longer had anything to do with losing a million dollars. This was new. I was afraid to touch he
r. My feelings for her grew stronger each day and I was sure a touch, one simple touch was going to take me over the edge. None of this was what I'd expected when I came up with this crazy plan. Shay wasn't what I'd expected.

  The warmth from the hot bath radiated off of her skin as I pinched the towel closed around her. She seemed stunned by my actions. Frankly, I was too. It had started out as a polite gesture with a towel, but it left me short of breath and realizing just how badly I wanted to take care of her. When I'd first told her the details of the two week plan, she'd asked what the consequences would be if I fell in love with her. Knowing that I was a cold-hearted jerk without the ability to fall in love or form an emotional attachment, I'd brushed it off.

  Shay tucked the towel tightly around her. "I'll get dressed." She stopped halfway to the door. "Uh, I think I have a dress that will work for the occasion. The stuff in the closet might be sort of inappropriate for a funeral."

  "Anything is fine, Shay."

  "Nash"—she paused again—"I got the house in Alta Dena. I can move in next week."

  I nodded. "That's good." I tried to show an ounce of enthusiasm, but it just wasn't working. "I know you were hoping to get that place."

  "Yes. It'll be perfect for me." She walked out.

  27

  Jack clapped me on the shoulder. "Thought I was going to be late," he said as he leaned past me and waved hello to Shay. "Wow, you said it would be small, but my sister had more people at her hamster's funeral. Is this really what he wanted?"

  I looked at him. "This is bigger than he wanted. You and Shay are technically my guests, not his."

  The cemetery had gone through the trouble of setting up a row of chairs along the grave, but they were empty. James Sheffield and a few business acquaintances, who I hardly knew, were standing around on the sloped green lawn talking amongst themselves. This was not going to be one of those funerals with hugs and handkerchiefs and charming anecdotes about the deceased. Just like the way he lived, Dad was leaving the world outside of the emotional bubble, a bubble he thought kept people from reaching their potential.

  Dad's austere oak coffin sat on hoists, waiting to be lowered to his resting place. He'd asked for no flowers, but it seemed the funeral home had draped the coffin anyway. A man with a small book of verses and a badge that showed he worked for the cemetery greeted us as we reached Dad's eternal resting spot, a large, deep hole in the ground.

  "Mr. Archer?" The man put out his hand. "I'm Stewart Brinks, your dad left specific instructions." He pulled out a piece of folded paper and cleared his throat. "I want no ceremony, and I don't need any kind words because they'll be—" He cleared his throat again and lowered his voice. "Bullshit. And I won't hear them anyhow. My son can let them know when he's ready for the grave workers to drop me in. These are my final instructions. David Nash Archer."

  "Well, that's right to the point," Jack said.

  "I'm going to head back to the funeral home," Brinks said. "I brought a book of prayer just in case you wanted to say a few words or maybe you'd like me to read some?"

  "No, thank you. I'd like to stick to his instructions."

  I walked up to the side of the grave. It was still impossible to think that my dad was inside. I'd spent nearly as much time fearing him as admiring him. He was the most complex person in the world, yet he was as predictable as the sun. The few other visitors who had gathered, probably more to see that he was really gone than to pay respects, watched and waited for me to speak.

  I took a deep breath, thinking how little there was to say to these people. To me they were mostly strangers. They were all acquaintances through business. I was the only person in the world who truly knew my dad, but even I didn't know everything.

  Jack stood nearby for support. Shay stood right next to me, close enough that if my little finger moved out it would graze her hand. "Good afternoon, everyone," I said to bring everyone's attention to the casket. "Thank you for coming to pay your respects. As you know, my dad was not big on ceremony or tradition. He wanted this simple graveside moment for the few people he considered important enough to see him off. If anyone would like to say something, please feel free to speak." There was some mumbling among the visitors, but it seemed there wasn't much to say about a man who never opened up or cultivated a friendship with the people around him.

  "Nash," Shay whispered. "Look."

  My eyes were drawn across the mosaic of headstones to the road running past the hillside. A woman in a wide brimmed black hat and black dress made her way across the vast stretch of lawn in heels. As she lifted her head to scout out the easiest path to the gravesite, the sun illuminated her face beneath the brim of the hat.

  A jolt of something similar to adrenaline shot through me and my body tensed.

  "Is that her?" Shay asked quietly.

  Jack leaned in. "Is that who? Did I miss something? Who is that lady?"

  I swallowed to relieve the dryness in my throat. "That's Lydia Odenkirk, my mom."

  Jack fell into a rare moment of silence, but it only lasted a second. "No fucking way. So Jane Doe does exist?"

  The woman, my mom, drew nearer, close enough that I could see the laugh lines crinkling around her green eyes, my green eyes.

  "Are you all right?" Shay asked.

  "I'm not sure."

  Then, without warning, Shay's warm fingers reached out and she laced them through mine. I curled my fingers around hers and squeezed.

  Lydia Odenkirk reached the grave. The other visitors watched her with curious interest as she walked past everyone to place a red rose on the casket. Her eyes swept around and landed on Jack for a second but then moved to me. She stared at me for a long moment.

  We were total strangers, but an introduction seemed unnecessary.

  "Did you want to say something, Lydia?" It was the first time I'd spoken to my mother. When I was little, I'd imagined talking to her a lot.

  A light smile crossed her face. It was a good smile. Something else I'd imagined a lot too, and it didn't disappoint. "There's so much to say about him that it's impossible to start." Her voice was different than I imagined, deeper, more confident. She stepped up to the casket and placed her hand on it. "So I'll just say good-bye, David. And give yourself a break for a change. It's all right to relax sometimes."

  She knew him too. It seemed there had been more to their relationship than a contract for a baby. Just like the contract I had with the woman holding my hand. Fuck, I was my dad's son through and through. I never wanted to be anything like him, but growing up with only him as my role model had sculpted me into his image.

  I nodded to the cemetery workers that it was time to lower the casket. Lydia walked over to stand next to me as Dad's coffin disappeared into the hole. I could feel her looking at the side of my face but hadn't worked up the courage to look at her yet.

  "David, you're even more handsome than your pictures."

  I turned to look at her. She was as real as she was imaginary, as familiar as she was a total stranger. "You had pictures? I guess I did too." I pointed to my head. "Only mine were up here. And cookie dough, I always imagined you would smell like cookie dough."

  Her laugh was musical, quiet, mom like. "I do like to eat cookies, but I'm a terrible baker." Lydia leaned over to see the woman standing next to me. "Hello."

  Shay reached out her hand. "Hello, I'm Shay, a friend of David's."

  "A beautiful friend," Lydia noted. "I wanted to thank you. Mr. Sheffield called this morning to let me know. You're far too generous. The stipend would have been more than enough. And I'm not entirely sure your father would have approved."

  "Well, unfortunately for him, he no longer has control."

  Lydia's smile softened some as she stared at me from beneath the brim of her hat. "I thought about you all the time, David. I hope it wasn't too terrible, all alone with him. I'd signed the contract to have his baby, but as I carried you, I grew more and more attached." There was a hint of a tremor in her voice. "I tried to back
out of the contract, but I was dirt poor and your dad had the best lawyers money could buy." She adjusted the brim of her hat. "I'm sorry. This isn't the time or place—" I noticed every time she looked at me, she took a long moment to really look at me. Trying to find a resemblance maybe, or looking to see just how much of my dad was in me. More than I wanted there to be, that was for sure.

  Lydia reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. "This is my name and phone number. I would love it if we could meet for lunch. I want to hear all about your life, David."

  "Nash," I corrected. "Everyone calls me Nash. And I'd like that too." I tucked the paper into my coat pocket.

  Then Lydia unexpectedly hugged me. It was brief and more of a friendly hug between acquaintances than mother and son but then, thanks to my dad, that was exactly what we were—acquaintances. Strangers even, in a loose sense of the word. Two people who were connected by strands of DNA and nothing else. My father, DNA, had made sure of it. It should have made me hate him more, knowing that my mom had been nearby, holding my picture on occasion, thinking about me on occasion. But my hatred for the man had already reached its peak. It seemed all I could do now was learn more about him and figure out how to forgive him. All the while working hard not to become him.