Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  Everything in Grant’s home is arranged with artistic flair, yet it’s also homey with soft rugs and attractive curtains, all in calming colors. The kitchen table is covered with a huge, thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. Only the edges have been assembled thus far, so it could be a picture of anything.

  I snicker. “Puzzle person, are you?” I ask, bending over and trying to see what he’s working on.

  “I find listening to music while doing puzzles very relaxing.”

  “Neat. What’s this one of?”

  “What else?” He grins and holds up the cover of the jigsaw puzzle box. “Monet’s Garden.”

  We both laugh.

  The doorbell rings, our baby accessories have arrived. We spend the next hour organizing the nursery, bedding, cupboards and storage. Grant makes a number of phone calls, but I don’t listen in. My bedroom is directly across the hallway from Grant’s bedroom.

  Convenient… and tempting.

  Grant gets out a tool set and assembles Briley’s crib. I shower, unpack my things and start to prepare dinner, or supper, as Grant likes to call it.

  Just as I finished cooking, around 5 p.m., the child welfare workers arrive with Briley. Everything’s already been cleared legally, so they do a basic inspection to check that Grant has appropriate and safe accommodations. With a smile of relief, they hand me the baby and leave.

  I sit down with Briley. “How are you, gorgeous one?” I coo.

  Instantly and naturally, the mother in me bonds with the most adorable baby in the entire universe. He has a round, hairless head, bright brown eyes and fat kissable cheeks. My God, he’s absolutely perfect and he smells divine.

  Briley smiles at me, a smile of the sweetest love imaginable.

  With all of the innocence and inexperience a baby is born with, the one thing they know and can fully express is pure, unadulterated love.

  All of the bliss, delight and happiness I once experienced with my baby brother comes flooding back to me, slamming into me in waves of euphoria. Timmy is gone. Losing him broke my heart, but Briley is here now.

  The surge of love swelling inside momentarily overwhelms me. My eyes sting and my throat burns. I can share the love I had for my brother with this adorable child. Timmy wouldn’t mind.

  Timmy loved everyone.

  My heart is full, my chest rises and falls heavily. I can’t stop smiling as silent tears of loss, remembrance and joy course down my cheeks.

  “Are you all right?” Grant asks. His gaze dark with concern as he offers me a box of tissues.

  “Thank you,” I say, as I take a few.

  My breath hitches as I wipe my tears and blow my runny nose. “I’m just happy.” I look up at Grant’s furrowed brow, his uneasy expression and faint smile. I must look a mess or like a nut case. Probably both.

  “I love babies,” I admit, in helpless explanation.

  Briley and I instantly get on like old friends, with him smiling at me, holding my fingers, and trying to chew on my face. I giggle, laugh and make stupid sounds.

  Mitten jumps up next to us. I introduce him, so he can join in the fun. Mitten eyes me intently while I explain about babies. I tell my cat how important Briley is, how he’s like a kitten and how it’ll be Mitten’s job to make sure he’s OK.

  People don’t think animals understand, but I believe they do.

  I once considered a career in childcare, but I wasn’t sure I could do it at the time. My brother’s death still seemed too fresh. It seems I haven’t forgotten a thing.

  Grant slouches down on the couch beside us. We all sit companionably together for a while, playing with Briley without needing to talk.

  “Would you like to hold him?” I ask.

  “No.” There’s a hint of anxiety in his expression.

  “Do babies scare you? Are you afraid of dropping him or something?”

  He shakes his head. “I freak out at the idea of having kids. I’m afraid I’d be a terrible dad—mainly because I had such an awful role model as my own father.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t know your dad was a jerk. See? This is how we do it. We just keep talking and chipping away. Pretty soon we’ll both understand each other really well.”

  “Miss Sweet and Positive,” he says, eyeing me with a cynical smirk. “I remember when I first met you. I figured you must’ve come right out of the Disney Channel.”

  “Why?” I ask with a chuckle, while bouncing Briley on my knee.

  “Because you took one look at my scars and said, ‘You have a nice face!’” He laughs. “I’ll never forget it. You also said, ‘Those scars don’t bother me. It’s what’s inside that counts.’”

  “But that’s true!” I protest.

  Grant laughs so hard his chest and shoulders heave. I can’t help but laugh myself, seeing him so happy and carefree. The sound of our amusement fills the room, echoing off the walls and beguiling the baby.

  “What?” I snicker at the disbelieving look he’s giving me. “I do love your face. I think you’re really handsome.”

  This brings a new wave of gleeful, unrestrained laughter to Grant. I swear it’s as though someone is tickling him, he finds my comment so funny. I love seeing him like this.

  The man is way too serious. He needs to laugh more often.

  Shaking his head, he grins and says nothing. It takes a few minutes for us to calm down. When we do, he’s soon as comfortable sitting here with me, as I am with him.

  “Thanks for coming to help me with Briley, Renata,” he says. “I’d be lost without you.”

  Smiling, I tilt my head and study him for a moment.

  Grant is still lost. I know his problem. When people shut themselves off from painful emotions, they have difficulty experiencing good feelings too. There’s a numb sort of emptiness inside. Grant’s had it for so long, feeling that way seems normal to him.

  The man still has a long way to go.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I say. “No joke. Hey, you haven’t been so worried about your scars lately. I’ve noticed.”

  A wealth of thoughts flash behind his blue-grey eyes, something I can’t quite read. Resignation perhaps, or sadness. Maybe a new sense of understanding? He’s more relaxed somehow, but maybe it’s not in a good way. It’s as if he’s given in—or maybe he’s given up.

  That thought alarms me.

  “Are you OK, Grant? Is something wrong?”

  “Not really,” he says, and the genuine smile in his eyes makes me think I must’ve imagined it. “Everything’s as it should be. You’re right, you know. I’ve kind of forgotten about my scars. In the scheme of things, they’re honestly no big deal.”

  Chapter 8.

  “Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch—all trigger associations. To change your feelings regarding any subject, you must change the associations connected with it.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  While Renata cooks, I try to call Alex, but he’s in rehab and isn’t allowed contact. I leave a message for him, asking the staff to tell Alex that Briley is here and he’s well.

  I then phone my mother, who goes on and on in a way only she is capable. Mother firmly blames Sky for corrupting Alex and “forcing him” to try drugs. Alex is a blameless victim in this scenario.

  “No Wilkinson has ever had an addiction!” my mother complains bitterly. “Drugs, stealing—all types of crime—this Godless kind of behavior always comes from the lower classes. That Sky is a bad influence.”

  “Yeah, yeah, gotta go. Talk later,” I say and hang up.

  Never underestimate the power of denial.

  Who would’ve thought a quote from a popular movie would be so right? My mom doesn’t know anything and she’s in denial about everything else. I didn’t even tell her I have her grandson, Briley, with me. The longer I put that off, the better it will be for all involved.

  The woman keeps her head buried in the sand. Despite our family’s history
with alcohol and drug addiction, my mother's the only one who isn’t involved in substance abuse. Her addiction seems to be to denial in epic proportions.

  If the woman ever takes her blinders off, she might implode with the weight and force of what's been going on around her for so many years.

  At this point, the most crucial thing is that the police haven’t arrested Alex for our father's murder. I still have time. And anyway, it might not happen. What’s that saying? Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

  “Supper’s ready,” Renata calls out. “Do you want a soda, water or juice?”

  “Apple juice would be great,” I call back.

  I follow the aroma emanating from the kitchen as my mouth waters in anticipation. I walk into an extraordinarily domestic scene. The baby's sitting in his high chair. Renata’s dressed in a t-shirt and cut-offs and supper's set out on the table.

  “I could get used to this,” I say.

  Renata grins. “Me too.” She chuckles as she places a spoonful of something that looks like paste into Briley’s mouth. “It feels like we’re married.”

  Our eyes lock for an instant that seems inexplicably timeless. I’m staggered by intense shock or something—damned if I know what it is. Desire’s a part of it, for sure, but this is something more. Longing, maybe.

  Whatever it is, it slams into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, almost knocking the breath out of me.

  What would it be like to have Renata in my life forever? To see her every day? Renata and her infinite capacity to see only the best in me? She has an aura of affection and humor I've been missing for as far back as I can remember.

  I wish I was married to her. I wish I was normal. But mostly, right now, I wish I didn’t have this shit with my father hanging over my head.

  I still can’t even conceive of sleeping with her. Fucking her fast and furiously? Hell yes. Actually sleeping? No way. In my imagination, I picture her staying here, but always in her own room.

  I sit down and take my first bite of her culinary creation. The mouthwatering taste makes me moan. “This is delicious. You’re like MacGyver in the kitchen! I can’t believe you whipped this up so quickly.”

  She giggles. “Told you I’m a good cook.”

  She’s so damned cute when she giggles shamelessly. Her blue eyes shine and her whole face lights up. It’s as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes my heart ache in a good way to see her like this—so happy and lighthearted.

  “You’re good at everything,” I say.

  The pale skin on her face and neck flushes and my brows rise in surprise. How could she be embarrassed? She’s bold and fearless in many ways. She's a confident sexual therapist, for fuck's sake. Doesn’t she realize how amazing she is?

  Renata quickly changes the subject. “Do you mind if we talk about our plans for tonight while we eat dinner?”

  “We have plans for tonight?” I ask.

  There’s a hint of mischief in her expression. “Grant, I’d like us to work on your sexual issues and have fun while doing it, remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah,” I say. My body instantly heats with equal parts of heart-stopping anxiety and cock-hardening desire.

  “Look at this,” she says, sliding a piece of paper with a simple line drawing toward me.

  I dip my bread in the stew and take a bite while studying her picture. Renata has drawn a triangle. She’s labeled one corner of it “Body.” Another corner is labeled “Mind” and the last corner is “Spirit.”

  I frown in trepidation. “This isn’t some new age thing, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. I promise,” she assures me with a laugh. Putting another spoonful of baby food into Briley’s mouth, she praises him and wipes his chin.

  “OK,” she says. “The way I see it, a person can improve themselves via the mind, the body or the spirit. If someone starts jogging or working out they boost their physical health—their body—and they feel better about themselves, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. Well, when someone works on their body, their thoughts and mental state—their mind—is also enhanced and their spirit tends to be lifted as well.”

  Her blonde head bends down as she draws on the paper, showing how the triangle increases in size. “If one side of the triangle progresses, the others benefit along with it. They're also enhanced. What I’m trying to illustrate is the interconnection. By working on any one of these areas, you obtain results that change these other areas of your life for the better.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “I’ve known heroin addicts who recovered completely after finding God,” she says. “No joke. These weren't temporary fixes, either. These were bona fide “come to Jesus,” moments. That’s an example of how improving the spirit also improves the health of the body and the mind.”

  I nod.

  “So, in your case, you’ve been doing a massive crap load of ‘mind’ stuff with André, right? With him, you've thought about, talked though and discussed details of difficult memories.”

  “Yes,” I say ruefully. As much as André has helped me, it’s been a tough road.

  “There you are.” Renata points Briley’s spoon at me. “André couldn’t even attempt to help you through the body, could he? I mean you were abused by a man, so therefore he couldn’t cure you with sex.”

  Wincing, I swallow my last bite. “Certainly not.” I look down at the triangle and grin. “And I’m not religious. I think I see where you’re going with this.”

  “I’m just trying to explain. See, you can tell me the same stuff from your past that you told André and that’s fine. You’ll do that anyway when the time is right. But what I want to do is work through the body part of this triangle. We’re going to focus on healing via the body, not the mind.”

  “How do you do that?” I ask warily.

  “Your body has strong negative memories associated with sex. We don’t need to talk about them or even think about them at this point. Tonight, we’re going to make new, fun memories for you and your body on the subject of sex.”

  I stare at her for a few beats, saying nothing.

  What can I say? I’ve told her my problems. She knows I can’t touch her without feeling dirty, empty and ashamed afterwards. What would it be like to be free to touch and be touched? To hold and be held?

  Despair abruptly grips me in a killer choke hold. I feel so damaged. How could someone like me ever achieve any semblance of ‘normal?’

  “Don’t worry about it, Grant,” she says after reading the misery that must show in my face. “You’ll get there. Trust me. I’m a professional!”

  Renata laughs, as if she finds her title of ‘professional’ vastly amusing. “C’mon! You’re getting stuck in those dark thoughts again, aren’t you?”

  Defeated by the truth, I sigh heavily.

  Renata slaps the table with her hand. “Well, stop it,” she says.

  Surprised by the noise, Briley jumps and looks alarmed. Renata spends a few moments reassuring him, praising him and generally giving him tons of attention.

  She’ll be an incredible mother someday.

  Turning toward me she says, “Have a little faith, Grant. We want to feel, not think. Body—not mind. Sure, we’ll talk, too. But mainly, I figure—to hell with it! Let’s you and I have some fun.”

  Renata’s eyes are bright. Her cheerful, stress-free enthusiasm is contagious. I chuckle because she’s happy and her idea is so far out in left field. This unconventional plan isn’t quite what I expected.

  “OK,” I smile at her. “You’re the therapist. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “After tonight, when you think of sex, you’re going to think, ‘Oh yeah, baby! I love sex!’ OK? That’s the plan.”

  I nod but say nothing. I'm not sold on her idea yet, it sounds impossible to me. When I think of sex, I figure it’s something I’m better off living without.

  “There’s only one thing we will not be doing tonight,
” she adds.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re not going to get serious about anything.”

  Chapter 9.

  “Your mind is your garden, your thoughts are your seeds. You can grow flowers, or you can grow weeds.”

  — Unknown

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  I open the downstairs door and let Mitten out, shaking my head with misgivings the whole time. He’s gone outside to explore. I hope I still have my Koi fish in the morning.

  I walk up the stairs in time to see Renata back carefully and quietly out of the nursery. Eyes bright, she sees me and raises a finger to her lips in a silent ‘shush.’ She leaves the door ajar.

  Briley’s apparently fallen asleep in his crib.

  “C’mon,” she says and tiptoes off.

  I follow Renata into my bedroom. She studies the layout for a moment, then moves my leather wingback chair so it’s now beside the bedside table, facing my bed.

  “That’s your chair,” she tells me with a smile. “I’ll sit here,” she adds sitting down on my bed.

  Edgy and nervous, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I sit directly across from her, our knees are only inches apart. A muscle twitches near my eye as the pressure of facing my fear grows.

  I avoid intimacy.

  I always have.

  Just the thought of that kind of closeness unnerves me, hitting every trigger I have. It dredges up a cocktail of troubling memories from my past: desire, lust, shame, panic, revulsion, guilt, and helplessness. The list is endless and all of it, even the memory of pleasure—especially the memories of pleasure—are negative.

  I battle my sexual urges and shun relationships.

  What do I end up with? A despairing, hollow sense of numbness inside. Clearly avoidance doesn’t work. My problems haven’t gone away.

  André says a person can only accept the love they feel they deserve. He’s helped me face the truth. Self-sufficient as I like to imagine I am, I’m actually lonely.

  All the same old shit rolls through my mind: I love sex; I hate sex. This is wrong; this is right. I’m good; I’m bad, and my personal favorite, ‘I’m a monster.’ Is it any wonder I’ve given up on the idea of intimacy?