by Kate Gilead
Turns out, Brenda was right all along. My family will accept the right man for me…as long as he is a man. As long as he stands up for himself, and for me.
I feel bad now for thinking any less of them.
Meanwhile, things with Mark just keep getting better.
My honey. My soul mate.
My very own Motorhead.
Going home to him every night is more satisfying than I ever dreamed living with a man could be.
Some weeks he’s on nights, some on days, but we’ve quickly fallen into a routine. It’s easy and natural and works really well. He’s become my rock, and I like to think I’m his.
When I get home, we usually cook something together, and then I go through the day’s paperwork and get it all into the system. He marvels at how easy it is for me, and what a relief it is for that burden to be lifted from his shoulders.
And I find out how scary-smart people with dyslexia really are! Just because their brains don’t process words the same way as the rest of us, does not mean they’re stupid or slow. A lot of them have adapted so well, I wonder if they’re not better off than some of the rest of us.
Seems that they develop near-supernatural powers of focus and concentration to compensate, using tricks of memory, cognition and even, ways of recognizing the shapes of letters or whole words so that they can make sense of the alphabet. It’s incredibly clever in ways I’d never have dreamed of. Mark uses a bag of little tricks, one of which, he calls ‘mnemonics’, plus a near-photographic memory, just for a couple examples.
Nevertheless, it’s always a strain on their energy. He tells me that dyslexics not only perform these mental gymnastics, but they usually do it all in secret as well, never letting anyone know how hard it is for them to do what the rest of take for granted: Which is, just read, without having to think about it.
Mark Mollenkamp is nothing short of amazing. I am stunned and thrilled and feel almost superstitiously fortunate to have met him and somehow, gained his affection.
Most nights, we make time to make love. Sometimes a quickie, sometimes a longer session, and some nights, exhausted from the day, we just play around or caress each other and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
We learn how to massage the tension out of each other’s neck and shoulders, and how much we both enjoy the light touch of the other’s fingertips, tracing patterns on bare skin as we lay in bed together, or sprawl on the couch, absent-mindedly touching each other.
And we are getting used to each other, to the rhythms of each other’s bodies…how to touch each other…where to kiss, where to lick, where to add pressure and where to ease off.
I learn to tease, nibble and lick the underside of his glans, loving every moan and shiver my attentions elicit. I learn exactly how hard to squeeze his cock…which is, to my astonishment, a lot harder than I thought!
We both learn how it pleases me when he strokes himself into me from behind, discovering to our mutual delight a new, sweet spot inside me that it seems he can only reach with his cock. Hitting that spot makes me lose control…makes my mouth go slack nearly to the point of drooling, as my eyes roll up and uncontrolled, animal grunts come from my throat with every thrust. Oh god, the pleasure is out of this world!
Whether we have a full-on session or whether it’s just play, our lovemaking helps us both sleep, and I can attest that it drains the day’s stress from my body like nothing else.
And falling asleep next to Mark’s massive, calm and reassuring presence is like having a Superhero to protect me, all of my own.
It is an enormously busy time in my life. I’ve never been so occupied, or had so much to think about.
No matter our problems and stresses, though, I am beyond grateful to have Mark in my life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marie
I’m laying in bed, looking up at the mobile hanging directly above. Thirty brightly-colored, origami herons fly there, each tethered at the end of a piece of fishing line.
Kazuko and I made that mobile one rainy afternoon, just the two of us. Amidst giggling and singing and stories of her girlhood in Japan, told in her heavily-accented English, we carefully cut the birds out of sheets of multi-colored construction paper and she showed me how to fold them.
It’s one of my best memories. A warm, cozy afternoon of love and fun, shared between a little girl and her wise old Auntie.
Now, the herons drift lazily in their perpetual flight, their folded wings casting slow-motion shadows on the ceiling above.
Hello Kitty peers down at me from a poster on the wall, while my Hello Kitty combination clock-and-telephone tick-tocks on my bedside table, right next to my Hello Kitty lamp.
I’m laying under my Hello Kitty bedspread…and surrounded by assorted Hello Kitty art, clothing, accessories and kitsch. I’m comforted by its familiarity.
But comfort is followed by confusion.
It’s my childhood bedroom. But…I’m grown now…aren’t I?
Except for my pink tote bag and one or two other things, all that Hello Kitty stuff is long gone, replaced by grown-up items.
Isn’t it?
Am I a grown-up now…or am I still a child?
Creak…creeeaaaak….creak.
I sit up and gaze in wonder at the (long-gone) rocking chair in the corner of my room.
Kazuko sits there, her form hazy and indistinct.
Like the herons, she seems to be drifting, into and out of my vision. Her image is a sort of a cloudy blur. But there’s no mistaking who it is. I feel her love clearly, even though I can’t quite keep her in focus.
“Marie-chan,” she whispers, and her voice seems to be coming from everywhere, including inside my very heart. Her soft, thickly accented voice goes up in inflection, telling me how pleased she is to see me. “Suzumushi! My Cricket!”
My heart fills with so much joy, it hurts. “Aunt Kazuko! Auntie…auntie!” Now, tears fill my eyes. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you so much!”
“I’m with my ancestors,” she whispers.
And just like that, the joy in my heart dies, replaced with a surge of grief.
I tip my head back and let out a sob. But why? Why does this make me so sad?
Part of me knows the answer, but when I reach for it, it flutters just out of reach, like a tethered bird.
“Don’t cry, Cricket,” Kazuko soothes. “Don’t cry! Auntie happy here! So happy! Auntie never far from you! Now, you listen Auntie, oh-kay? I came tell you…”
Zzzzpppttt.
Her voice disappears in a burst of static and her form wavers, disappears, and then returns. “Don’t follow…” she says, then…
Zssszzzppzzzzt.
“Kazuko! Kazuko? I can’t hear you! Are you in Japan? When are you coming back?” The sadness threatens to overwhelm me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”
“Cricket….”
Zsszzpptt.
“…careful!” Her voice comes back even as her form fades out, then back in, and then all the way out, dwindling away into a speck.
“…Important…listen me… don’t follow…”
Zzzpppttt
“…don’t follow…”
Her fragmented words float back to me, but they do me no good.
I don’t understand what she means.
I wake up with a start, my cheeks wet with tears.
Reality starts seeping back into my consciousness.
It’s 2017, not 2001. I’m not six years old anymore. And Kazuko has been gone for years, just like that little-girl bedroom.
Yet, fresh grief rises in my soul, as if Kazuko died only yesterday.Wiping my eyes and sniffling, I let myself feel it, but only for a moment.
Because today…today’s the big day. The First Annual Maple Mills Charity Automobile Race.
It’s also the day before my twenty-second birthday.
Best thing of all….the very best of all….!!! Tommy, Gavi
n and I finished the audit just yesterday. It is done, finally. Completely and entirely done, and the results sent to my Dad in a zip file, waiting for his analysis.
I hope I never have to think about it again.
Mark is already up. I hear the shop door open and voices drifting up the stairs. That’ll be Abraham, Freddy and Mason, Mark’s crew and sponsor. We’re all going to go out for breakfast and then head to the track together.
Fear, anticipation, nausea and determination wash through me. For a moment, I lay in bed, staving off the oncoming rush of reality.
What a strange dream that was. What was Kazuko saying?
Don’t follow…?
Huh?
Don’t follow what? My dreams? My heart? The Yellow Brick Road?
Footsteps come up the stairs. Mark’s hulking form fills the doorway. He looks in at me, smiling.
“Wake-y wake-y, Miss Marie,” he says softly. He’s wearing his horrible burgundy racing suit already. “The crew’s here. Time to get up, sweetheart.”
So I do.
The sense of grief from the dream fades in the rush and bustle of getting ready to go.
Suiting up myself; then greeting Mark’s amiable crew; then off to breakfast with all its chatter and banter and joking wagers both for Mark to win (Mason and Abraham) and for Mark to lose (Freddy); and then it’s off to the track to prepare.
Once at the track, I go straight to our garage bay, refusing to look into the stadium seating area.
I’ll have to face that crowd––with all their eyes and noise and the TV crews and the thousands of iPhone cameras––soon enough.
Right now they’re being entertained by the mattress races. The announcer is calling out the positions in old-time style, the spectacle keeping the audience well and properly entertained, by the sounds of it.
Please God don’t let me humiliate myself… or, worse, hurt someone this day. Please don’t let Mark get hurt either.
Amen.
In our bay, Callum, Tommy and I are soon joined by Gavin, who’s volunteered to help crew if needed. As if we could keep him away!
I ask them where Dad is. None of my brothers know.
My heart pangs, but the show must go on.
Now, guests arrive at the track and visit our bay in a steady stream, to wish us luck before taking their seats in the stands.
First, it’s Mom and a gaggle of her friends. She folds me into her arms for a hug and I ask her in a whisper where my father is. She shakes her head and shrugs. “He’s around here somewhere, that’s all I know. Now, listen…it’s okay to be scared. You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say, and squeeze her tightly.
She smooths my hair back and wishes me luck.
Mom and her friends leave just as Hamish and his high-school-sweetheart wife, Megan, arrive with some of their friends.
After they leave, I no sooner finish replying to a good-luck text from Bryce in California when Brenda and Rob show up along with Amanda, Nick, and of course Jenny and her boss-slash-beau, Blake.
More excited chatter, laughter and joking follows.
Before they leave, my girls all gather me in a hug circle, Amanda and Jennifer whispering words of encouragement, with only Brenda staying silent this time.
But her heartfelt hug conveys everything she needs to say, no words required.
No one stays for long, but all the banter, laughter and good will helps my anxiety stay at somewhat-manageable levels.
My friend Samantha sends me a short video of her with Mason’s baby son Drew. She waves his chubby fist at the camera while he smiles and gurgles and kicks his legs determinedly. What a sunny little guy he is, so adorable! Of course, a race track is no place for babies, so they’re staying home and wishing us all good luck by video.
The morning passes quickly, too quickly. Our race, the Main Event, is coming up right after lunch.
I go over to Mark’s bay and hang with him and his crew while they eat, and then Mark and I take a little stroll by ourselves.
We find a shady spot behind a trailer in the parking lot. He takes me in his arms. I cling to him and try to control my breathing.
“Hey…hey. You okay, Marie?” His big warm hands caress my back, pressing me against him as if to give me his strength.
I nod, my face buried in his chest.
But a profound shiver goes through my body.
I’m frankly terrified.
Kissing the top of my head, he squeezes me tightly and rocks me a little. “You can do this, Marie. You can do this. But…now, listen carefully, okay…you don’t have to. You don’t have to do this. You know that, right? You don’t have to. It’s not too late and no one will think the less of you.”
I shake my head, unable to speak. They will think less of me if I leave them in the lurch.
I do have to do this.
Despite Mark’s reassurance, I most certainly do have to go through with it.
“Sweetheart…my girl…” His voice is so kind and loving, I fight the rise of tears again and thankfully, they retreat. “You have the respect and esteem of everyone who knows you. Don’t you know that? We all…everyone loves you, girl. It’s okay to be scared. You do not have to go through with this race.”
I take a deep breath and find my voice. “I’m okay, Mark.” I look up at him and smile to prove it. “I’ll be fine. In less than half an hour, it’ll be over.”
He looks deeply into my eyes, his own blue orbs shining their concern.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. For two more heartbeats, we just look at each other. Then the five-minute warning buzzer sounds, calling drivers to their vehicles.
My heart leaps in my chest, and immediately starts pounding so hard, it’s as if I’m being torn apart by lions.
Oh God. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.
And now the announcer’s smooth, glib, broadcaster-voice begins its carnival call. “Aaaaand nowwww, Laayyydees and Gennts! The race we’ve aaalllll been waiting fow-ah!!! Heeeee-ah it comes, folks….Maple Mills Speedway welcomes y’aalll tooooo the Fiiiirst Annual Maple Mills Charity Automobile Race Maiinnn Eeeee-vent!!”
The announcer’s patter fades into the roaring cheers of the crowd.
It’s time to take our positions…but just for a second, I cling to Mark even harder.
Oh God! Please help me.
I’m so scared!
Without a word, Mark takes my face in his hands and for one split second, he stares fiercely into my eyes.
Then he crushes my lips with his own. It’s a deep, searing kiss, and through it, I hear him, clearly and proudly and unashamedly proclaiming what he has not yet said to me in words.
Love.
Of course it is, what else? Love, real love, along with every good wish of his enormous heart.
Somehow with his kiss and all its unspoken meaning, he manages to transfer some of his own courage straight to the depths of my being, where I can almost feel it flowing into my spine, beating back my fear and giving me strength to go on.
Then we run back into the garage building, our hands locked together, until we have no choice but to let go.
I run straight to my car, which Tommy has waiting by the big doors leading out to the track. He’s standing by the open door, with Gavin and Callum close by. Wearing matching shirts and headsets in place, they’re all looking at me closely, their loving concern written on their faces, crowding around as I climb into the cockpit.
My heart is pounding so loud, it’s drowning out the screaming of the crowd, as well as the words of my brothers as they help me strap in.
Like a well-oiled machine, Callum and Tommy check everything once, twice, three times, calling out the steps as Gavin checks them off on a clipboard.
Tommy is saying something, but it’s as if I can only hear him from a distance. His words are oddly elongated or stretched, as if time itself is slowing down.
“Maaaah-rrriiieeee? Yoooouuu oohhhh-kkkaaaayyyy?”
I nod.
Someone hands me my helmet. I pull it on and adjust it as I’ve done dozens of times, my movements mechanical, informed by my training.
My car, the Wee Marie, is running smoothly, and my ear automatically tries to tune into the sound, searching for it among the roaring and rustling of the crowd.
Ahhh…there it is. I hear it!
I hear it, and I feel it, in my feet, my legs and yep, even my butt, its low humming making itself felt in my very bones.
It sounds and feels perfect. Wonderful, and exhilarating, the rumble of that V8 engine evokes a fast drive on a fresh-paved, deserted road, top down and the wind whipping my hair.
Speed.
Thrills.
Freedom.
My love of driving, extinguished these past weeks over worry and stress and too much work, sends a sweet, tender shoot into my soul.
Ohhh…yeah, baby. Yeah! Come on. Bring it…take me to that happy place.
My being tunes in with that rumbling V8, and…yes! Yes! That tendril takes root, and grows! Oh, thank you God, thank you so much, here it comes…that Zen felling flows up my spine from the driver’s seat, flooding my brain with endorphins and beating back the paralyzing fear.
My limbs operate themselves, and I perform all my driver’s checks seamlessly and without hesitation.
As if by magic, my hearing stays in tune with the rumbling of the engine, now drowning out the terrifying, beast-like roaring of the crowd.
In my helmet, the comm system crackles and shrieks, sending a shard of pain into my ears before falling silent. I grimace and shake my head, tapping the side of my helmet.
“Whaaaaat’s wrooonnnggg?” Tommy’s voice is still strangely elongated, and I can’t hear him from inside my helmet like I’m supposed to.
Focused now on getting my car into its starting position, I tap my helmet again in irritation.
“Shhiiiittt,” Tommy says, in that draggy, far-away voice. “Issss yourrrr headsetttt busssttteed agaaaaain?”
I raise my hand and thump my helmet, hard, eliciting another sharp crack from the comm system, and then…just like that, I can hear Callum’s deep, calm voice in my ears. Thank God it sounds normal.
