by Molloy, Ruby
There’s a small vibration beneath my feet and I know Mason is here, watching. His hand encompasses mine, drawing me away from the wall and into his embrace. My arms snap around him, clinging to him as if I’m drowning, as if he’s my life-saver. “I love you,” I say.
My words are quiet, maybe too quiet. I’m not sure he’s heard until his arms tighten and his chin dips down to my temple, searching a path to my mouth. His kiss is tender, giving instead of taking.
He lathers up my shower gel, his hands gentle as they smooth the soapy suds over my body, gliding over my breasts, stomach, and the juncture of my thighs. The scent of lemon fills the bathroom, and when it’s my turn, I soap his buttocks and thighs, teasing him as he grows hard, and his cock is tight against his stomach. Hands soapy, I lather him with long strokes that swirl around the head, my thumb smoothing across the tip. His mouth is on mine again, not so gentle this time as his thumb dispenses its own magic against my nipple. Still sensitive from my earlier orgasms I cry out when his other hand slips between my thighs, his finger rubbing softly as if he knows the smallest pressure would be too much. Falling to my knees, I take him in my mouth, my hands reaching round to the backs of his thighs, tightening as I take more. His hands cup my head, holding me in place as he curses and jerks against me. I pull back, my tongue flattening against the head, swirling against the tip before sucking and pushing my mouth back over him. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop, and the sounds he emits tells me he feels the same. I reach up to lightly squeeze his balls and they’re tight against his body, more so when his cock reaches the back of my throat.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come!”
His hands are still in my hair and though there’s no pressure, he’s a guy and I know he doesn’t want me to back off. I give him what he wants, sucking and swallowing as he comes in my mouth, his roar filling the bathroom. His legs are shaking and his hands are now resting on the shower wall, his strength gone. Rising to my feet I see his lashes are splayed thick against his cheeks and when his lids finally drift open they’re too low for me to read his expression. His thumb reaches for my mouth, riding along my plump bottom lip as he says, “Christ, your mouth.”
I smile, watching his eyelids rise, seeing my smile reflected in his eyes, wondering how I got so lucky. Because with everything that’s gone on in my life, I know I’ve turned a corner. This guy loves me. This guy, who’s beautiful and intelligent, and just the right side of wild, is in love with me, Frankie Finnegan, and I know it doesn’t get any better than this.
He turns off the shower and collects two towels, passing one to me. I clutch it to my chest, watching him towel off, following the droplets as they fall from his hair and splatter against the tiles. He grins when he catches me watching, standing proud and naked, and most definitely cocky. Yeah, Mason Zannuto is cocky as hell.
We doze the afternoon away, hands sweeping across skin, reaffirming our connection as the world outside catches up with the eternal dusk of my room. Mason makes loves to me again, or at least it started out that way, but when the passion ignites it’s not so gentle, both of us groaning and gasping as it spins out of control.
I’m laying on my stomach, my right hand on his chest. Mason is on his back, his arm hooked behind his head while my fingertips roll across his skin until he stills them with his hand.
“You want to get up, get something to eat?” he asks.
I’m hungry. I can feel my stomach shrinking as I’m lying here, groaning as it begs for food. “I could make us something to eat,” I offer.
He lifts his head. “Yeah, like what?”
“Um, I don’t know. I have some pasta.”
“How about a takeaway instead. Pizza and chicken wings, how does that grab you?”
The way my stomach’s screeching, that sounds just fine. I dress in shorts and t-shirt while Mason tugs his jeans on, leaving his t-shirt on the floor. It’s still hot and the humidity has me perspiring from the effort of dressing.
We spend the evening eating, watching movies and snuggling on the sofa. Later lying on my side in bed with his chest up against my back, and his arm heavy against my stomach, I think today might have been the best day of my life.
♥ EIGHTEEN ♥
Fifteen
Frankie
Lightning highlights the veins in my eyelids and the subsequent low boom sets off car alarms on the streets below. Snuggling beneath the feather duvet, I roll to my back, wishing Mason wasn’t working. Seems like we’re barely together these last few weeks, even though I’ve been staying at his most of the time. Another strobe of light fills the cavernous bedroom, highlighting the padlocked trunk in the corner. I’m curious about its contents, though I’ve yet to remember to broach this with Mason. I’m growing to like his apartment, with its acres of polished floor and smooth, white walls. I’m here so often now I’ve finally figured out how to operate his TV. I shop at the local deli on the corner and I know that Mason’s cleaner visits twice a week and his name is Colin. He is somewhere in his forties, is of Indian descent and suffers from OCD. He knocks three times before he lets himself into the apartment and he completes each chore in the same order, spending way too long on each task because everything has to be just so. I know that he lost his previous job because his dickhead employer didn’t like how long it took him to complete his work. I like that Mason doesn’t mind if Colin spends ten minutes arranging and rearranging a bathroom towel and that he doesn’t stare when Colin wipes his feet five times on the way out.
My toiletries, scant as they are, now sit alongside his Mason’s products. I like that when we’re apart I know he’s only on the other side of town and though our working hours don’t exactly match, we see each other regularly and I know that when he returns from work this morning he’ll wake me with soft caresses and open-mouthed kisses. Desire for Mason makes me restless and I twist my legs beneath the duvet, my eyes open. My phone’s LED is flashing on and off, illuminating my pillow. I pick it up from the bedside cabinet and see I have a missed call. I’m about to check my log when it rings. “Hello?”
“Hello. Am I speaking to Francesca Finnegan?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Francesca. My name is Tabitha, I’m a Ward Nurse at St Agnes’ Hospital. Your mother, Stephanie, gave me your phone number and asked me to call you. You may not be aware that she’s been on our ward for a while now and I’m afraid her condition is quite poorly. She hasn’t wanted visitors but since her condition is deteriorating quite rapidly she has asked me to contact you.”
“She has?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to break this to you over the phone, Francesca, but your mother has end stage cirrhosis of the liver. You may want to get here as soon as possible ...”
“She’s dying?”
“I’m sorry to break it to you over the phone, but I’m afraid so. She’s on the Yarrow Ward at St Agnes if you would like to come in as soon as you can. As I say, her condition is really quite poorly.”
“Did she ask to see her mum? Her name’s Ivy.”
“I’m sorry, no, she didn’t mention her mother.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I stare at my phone, focusing on the backlit icons as they blur into a kaleidoscope of colours. I should be moving. I should be getting dressed, or doing something, anything, but my mind is playing tricks, bringing sorrow where there should be none. My memories of her are not happy ones. How can they be anything else when she only ever showed up if she needed money? She’d be drunk and obnoxious, and she’d scare the crap out of me. There’s one partially happy memory from when I was seven years old. She wasn’t meant to come near us, but she showed up unexpectedly on Christmas Day and I think Ivy felt sorry for her. We sat down to Christmas dinner, my mother getting drunk on the bottles of sherry she’d supposedly brought for Ivy. I was too young to see what was happening. She was kind to me, combing my hair and telling me how pretty I was, how one day I was going
to be a princess. I went to bed dreaming about castles and a mum with long blonde hair. She was gone next morning―along with Ivy’s purse.
Rummaging through drawers for clothes, I take time out to call Mason. It goes to voicemail and I tell him about my mum, that she’s in hospital and it’s not good, saying all of this while pulling on my denim shorts and a faded blue t-shirt. I hang up and find my blue flip-flops where I abandoned them last night, slipping my toes between their rubber posts. I need to call Ivy, but I have no idea how I’m going to tell her. In the end I realise I need to give her the news in person.
Outside, the storm has passed, but it’s still hot and humid. The roads are empty, though I can see a few devoted clubbers making their way home; girls with their shoes dangling from their fingers, guys balancing take outs in their hands, some lurching sideways as drink takes its toll.
When I reach Ivy’s house I park and brace myself as I walk up the garden path. It takes several knocks and plenty of waiting in between before she finally reaches the door.
“Who is it?”
I can see her dark eyes peering at me through the semi-opaque glass. “It’s Frankie.”
“Frankie?” She pulls the chain free and opens the door. “Do you know what time it is? It’s six in the morning.”
Her long hair is flowing loose down her back and she’s wearing a pink nightgown that reaches the floor. She backs up as I enter her tiny hallway and I close the door behind me.
Now that I’m here, I’m not sure I know how to break the news. Despite her round cheeks and rotund body she looks small and fragile, her eyes growing solemn as I watch.
“Ivy, you want to take a seat?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Please, Ivy, I think it’s best if you’re seated when I tell you.”
“Oh dear Lord!” Ivy hastens over to her favourite chair, appearing childlike once she’s seated, her hands crossed in her lap, her dark eyes peering up at me, filled with questions.
“I took a call this morning from St Agnes’ Hospital. Mum’s sick. Very sick. She has liver failure and it doesn’t sound good. She wants to see us.” Ivy doesn’t need to know that last part is a lie. I want to spare her that, at least.
Her eyes water and she twitches her nose. “In that case I need to get dressed.”
I watch her leave the room, her round head bobbing as she walks. I hear her shuffling around, drawers opening and closing, and I know she’s ready when the smell of her floral perfume invades the living room.
“Right, let’s go!” She’s standing in the hall, the bag on her wrist matching her navy sandals. She looks like she’s heading to the church fete and I wonder how she can appear so calm. “Come on, Frankie.” Her command is softly spoken, not the usual snappy tone I expect of her. I do as she says, waiting while she locks up. Walking down her garden she stoops to pick some pink and mauve flowers from the border, grasping them in a hand that’s mottled with brown spots. I reach the car ahead of her and hold the door open while she climbs into Myrtle. That’s when I notice a label sitting between her shoulders. Her cardigan is inside out. I guess she’s not so unaffected after all.
We’re mostly silent on the journey. The grey sky morphs into a deep, clear blue and though it’s still early it’s already hot. Parking as close to the entrance as I can, we make our way to reception and follow the yellow stripe that will take us to my mother’s ward. A nurse is waiting for us and she shows us to my mother’s room, updating us on her condition.
The sickly sweet smell of sickness hits us as we enter and it seems as if all sounds have been deliberately muted in respect of the dying. My mother’s room contains a bed, two seats and machines with wires and tubes that reach out to her like tentacles. Her appearance is so altered from when last I saw her, I think there may have been a mistake. Her skin is yellow, her scrawny limbs incongruous against her swollen stomach and bloated face.
Ivy’s steps falter, and it seems she ages on the journey from door to chair. She clutches her bag to her chest when she sits, her mouth drawn tight, her eyes bright with moisture. It’s a heartbreaking sight, more so because I’m not sure my mother deserves her pity.
“Stephanie,” Ivy says. My mother’s name is sweet and sensible, a complete misrepresentation of her true nature. There’s no response, only the rattle of her breath, as if her lungs are cellophane. It’s a grotesque noise, but the silences in between are worse and I spend each second wondering whether another breath will follow.
Ivy sits in a low, blue chair, close to my mother’s head. I’m too anxious and restless to sit. I stand at the base of her bed, staring at my mother, wondering if she even knows we’re here. And if she does, does she care? A low moan gurgles from her throat and her eyelids rise to reveal yellow-tinted eyes that gradually focus on me. My limbs are shaking and fear cools my skin.
“Frankie?”
My name is almost unintelligible, her dry lips barely parting when she mutters my name. Her face slackens before she closes her eyes once again.
Ivy and I spend the day at her bedside, me pacing, Ivy sitting, as my mother’s breathing becomes increasingly shallow, each lull in between longer. I spend the time wondering how our lives might have been if she hadn’t been an alcoholic. Would she have been a good mother? Would she have waited at the school gates for me, the way Ivy always did? Or was she always a tyrant and the alcohol only brought out what had always been there?
Searching my bag for my phone, I come up empty. I check again, but there’s no phone. Mentally retracing my steps from this morning, I think I may have left it on Mason’s bed. I don’t know my own number off by heart and I sure as hell don’t know Mason’s or anyone else’s. I’m just glad I left a message so he knows where I am.
Ivy stays in her chair while I go fetch us drinks and a snack. The flowers she picked are still in her hand, as if she’s waiting for my mother to wake so she can give them to her. She doesn’t get that chance. My mother dies twelve minutes after five. We linger for a few, respectful minutes and Ivy bows her head, possibly offering up a silent prayer. Neither of us is crying.
There’s a cafe on the premises and I leave Ivy in search a quiet table while I go fetch cake and coffee. I give us both an extra spoonful of sugar, as if the additional sweetness will somehow make everything seem better.
“We lost her a long time ago,” Ivy says.
“Will you tell me? Now that’s she’s gone?”
Ivy knows what I’m asking. I want to know who my father is. I want to know what happened, and why his name is never mentioned.
It seems this is her tipping point. Her eyes brim with moisture and her teeth bite into her deflated bottom lip. “I’m sorry child, I can’t.”
I stare into her sorrowful eyes, angry that she won’t give me this when I’ve waited so long. “I’m twenty one years old, Ivy. My mother is dead and I don’t know if you’re all the family I have left. For all I know, I have a father, maybe step-brothers and sisters. Surely I have a right to know?! You can’t deny me this, Ivy. Not now.”
I don’t even know if she’s listening. She’s staring at the hedges outside, her gaze travelling its length. “Stephanie was always a pretty girl; pale blonde hair and a frame not much bigger than yours. Boys started calling on her when she was fourteen. Your gramps would instil the fear of God into them and they’d run back down the garden path quicker than a rat down a burrow. But Stephanie was having none of it. She’d find ways of sneaking out, climbing through windows or going out the front door once we were tucked up in bed. Your gramps was still working at the time and we’d get up at the break of dawn and find her missing.
Then we started getting phone calls from school, asking if everything was okay because Stephanie had been off sick for so long. We found out she’d been forging letters, saying she was too poorly to come to school. After that I walked her to school myself, with her cursing me every step of the way. She fell pregnant at sixteen. She wouldn’t say who the father was, just that he w
as someone from school.”
I gasp in shock, but Ivy’s already shaking her head as if she knows where my mind is heading. “She had an abortion. Her choice. We would have supported her and the baby, but she was adamant she was too young to be a mother and deep down I knew she was right. She stayed in school, went to university and got a job with the local council. She seemed to have put her wild ways behind her, though there was one boyfriend after another, always younger than her. But the age difference got bigger the older she got. Still, when we found out ... We didn’t know ...”
Ivy trails off and I don’t know what’s coming but I feel sick and my hands are clammy.
“You’re sure you want me to continue?” she asks and I nod even though I think I may have changed my mind.
“It was the reporters that told us. Just like those boys used to do, they turned up uninvited on our doorstep, their cameras and microphones in their hands, asking how we felt, knowing our daughter ...” Ivy lifts her cup and takes a sip of tea, pausing to wipe her mouth with a tissue. “She’d been having sex with her friend’s son; a fifteen year old boy, half her age. It came to light when his parents read a text she’d sent him. It was big news, all over the TV and papers, and it didn’t die down until after the court case. She was sentenced to three years in prison.”
Ivy pauses again and I know the punch line is coming. Nausea rolls through my stomach and I swallow back the excess saliva, wishing I’d never asked the question.
“You were born a month later.”
I’m trying to grasp the full horror of the story. My father was a child, a child my mother sexually assaulted and most probably scarred for life. Saliva fills my mouth and I rush for the bathroom, my chair tipping back, smacking onto the floor. Heads turn as I run for the toilets, my hand pressed over my mouth. I don’t make it in time. Vomit spills onto the seat and surrounding tiles as my stomach releases its contents. I dry heave over the bowl until the spasms pass.
