Only See You

by JD Chambers

  I clear my throat and sing-song, “Stalling.” Parker makes a face, but continues.

  “I guess at one point, I had tried to tell someone I needed to go to the bathroom, but they were all so busy that I couldn’t get anyone’s attention. So I took off my diaper in the middle of the living room and started smacking my own rear, shouting ‘bottom.’”

  I absolutely refrain from making gushing noises over the thought of adorable baby Parker. Right.

  “Only I couldn’t say ‘bottom’ properly, and it came out ‘boomboom.’ Thus, my nickname was born.”

  “You know, later at the hotel, I’ll totally do the rear smacking for you, BoomBoom,” I say with a wink.

  “I will leave you here, in Guthrie, Oklahoma, at the mercy of my insane family, and drive myself back to Fort Collins. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

  I push out my bottom lip, but his steely resolve doesn’t budge. “You’re no fun.”

  “I told you my story. Now you owe me one of your own. What happened with your job?”

  I sigh and shake my head, as if that will keep the weight of my words from sticking to me.

  “Redneck client wanted me to be all man or he wouldn’t work with me. I refused, and the boss sided with where the money is. Pretty simple.”

  “You know that’s illegal, right?” Parker says with his mouth gaping. “At least it is in Colorado.”

  “It’s happened before; I’m sure it will happen again. Besides, there are tons of ways that he can get around it. Say I was refusing to work or being subordinate. It would take time and money that I don’t have, and I probably wouldn’t get anywhere anyway.”

  Parker frowns around a piece of bacon. This one’s less judgy, more sympathetic. Moody Oklahoma bacon. “That’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not. But it’s the way things are,” I say.

  “If you need any help looking for work, let me know. Not sure what I can do, but I’ll help however I can.”

  “Thanks.” I sip at my coffee, which tastes more bitter than before.

  Parker slaps down cash to cover our meal despite my protests to pay half.

  “Let me celebrate another first here,” he says, and when I look confused, adds, “Our first date.”

  I’m surprised I can make it back to the car; he’s turned me into mush.

  The drive from the diner to his parents’ house is less than five minutes. Seeing the neighborhood for the first time during the day, I’m once again thankful for growing up in Colorado. The wide-open spaces stretch for miles of nothing but dry, pointless plots of land unless you’re going to farm or ranch, which these people aren’t.

  We drove past many similar stretches of land on the way here yesterday, plots where animals grazed and the land was being put to use. Not this neighborhood with its mini-mansions. I’m sure there’s not a bit of work on these properties actually done by the residents themselves. It looks like someplace my father would live if he lived in Oklahoma.

  “You hate it,” Parker says as we turn onto the street that leads to his parents’ house.

  “It’s just different from what I’m used to,” I say, even though yeah, I definitely hate it.

  “It’s okay. I couldn’t wait to get out of here, either. Not because I hate it or my family, but I had so much I wanted to do and see.”

  “And did you?”

  Expensive cars fill the driveway and spill onto the side of the street. Parker parks as close as possible.

  “Not yet,” he says, looking over at me with a thoughtful smile. “But I think I’m finally headed in the right direction.”

  “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” I ask while simultaneously brushing a hand down the leg of my slacks. I’m dressed extremely conservatively for the party, tailored straight-legged slacks, heeled boots, and a cashmere wrap top. The grass is so long and dry that it keeps scratching my legs and I can’t take two steps without feeling the urge to swipe at them, which Parker of course notices.

  “You’ll get used to it. At least it’s winter, so there are no stickers. My ankles and feet were always torn up as a kid, running around barefoot every spring.” Parker must see the horror on my face, because he quickly returns to the previous subject. “Iceland. I’ve always been fascinated by it, and the Northern Lights and the ice and volcanoes. It looks so magical and untouched. Like actual fairy tales should take place there.”

  Who’d have ever guessed that Parker the perfectionist engineer would turn out to be a closet romantic? It makes my heart so happy I can’t even tease him about it. It’s too pure and good to be tarnished.

  “You’re looking at me funny,” he says as we finally reach the front of the house.

  “I’m looking at you like you’re amazing,” I say, and push the front door open before I can embarrass myself further.

  Lively music comes from the living room, which is filled with middle-aged folks in casual party attire. Parker’s dad stands by the fireplace, surrounded by other men of a similar age, but it’s clear he’s the center of attention. I don’t see Parker’s mom anywhere, but his aunt Sharon flits from the kitchen to a table against an adjacent wall that’s filled with goodies, depositing another tray of mini quiches.

  “Maybe we should see if your aunt needs some help, BoomBoom,” I say and smile sweetly at the glare I’m granted.

  We weave through guests and into the kitchen. Sharon has rolled up the sleeves of her lovely floral blouse, and stabs bits of mozzarella and basil and cherry tomatoes with long skewers.

  “Sharon, do you need help?” Parker asks.

  “Oh, thank god you’re here,” Sharon says and gives Parker a hug with just her elbows since her hands are still occupied. “Actually, Mal, can you help me out with this, and Parker, can you go check on your mom? She’s supposed to be getting ready.”

  “Reporting for duty,” I say, and wash my hands before picking up a skewer and starting to stab the cheese and veg.

  “You know,” Parker says over my shoulder, “If you were to do the tomatoes first, then the stick wouldn’t have residue from the mozzarella, and it would go much smoother.”

  “And then no one would want to eat them because you’d get all the cheese at once and no tomato to break it up. Not everything needs to be designed for efficiency, hon. Besides,” I say, holding up the perfectly pretty skewer. “This is much more visually pleasing.”

  Parker cocks a brow, but leaves me to it after I give him a reassuring smile.

  “You look exhausted, Sharon.” Now that I’ve taken over the hors d'oeuvres, she’s moved on to punch. “Parker said his mom was a party genius. What happened?”

  Sharon’s sigh fills the whole kitchen. “I have no idea. Usually Betty prepares everything ahead of time so there isn’t so much to do the day of. But this time, nothing was ready. I’ve run around all morning trying to prepare the hors d’oeuvres, set up tables and decorations, and gone to the store to get the cake, since one tiny pie will not serve this many people. She spent all morning on Ralph’s pie and that’s it. By one thirty, I finally made her go shower because she was still in her sweats. And then as the first guest was about to arrive, she asked me yet again what time the party was starting. I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off ever since.”

  Sharon says all this with such steely focus on the damn punch bowl that I know she either knows something that we don’t, or she suspects it.

  “You don’t live here, right?”

  “I’m in Tucson. Had I known she needed so much help, I would have come down sooner.”

  “Do you think …”

  This is something I’ve been pondering since meeting Mrs. McWilliams last night. Her repeated questions, memory gaps, being stuck in the past in so many ways. It doesn’t seem like usual forgetfulness, or some passive-aggressive punishment like Parker seems to think. I’m certainly not an expert, but it seems like there’s something more going on here. I hadn’t brought it up to Parker, though, because
– again – not an expert, and I didn’t want to needlessly worry him.

  I’m still debating whether or not to bring it up with Sharon, when Parker and Mrs. McWilliams storm into the kitchen.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so angry with me,” Mrs. McWilliams says. “I just asked if Shelby was in the kitchen.”

  She surveys the kitchen, obviously disappointed not to find Shelby here, but sticks on me.

  “Hello,” she says, approaching me with a Martha Stewart hostess smile, “I’m Betty McWilliams. Are you a friend of Ralph’s?”

  12

  Parker

  “What are you talking about, Mom? You met Mal yesterday. You don’t get to be rude to them just because Shelby isn’t here.”

  I’m causing a scene, I know, but I don’t get this game she’s playing. Or why she’s even doing it. So she’s upset about Shelby. That’s no reason to take it out on a perfectly nice person that she’s barely met.

  Mal rests a hand on Mom’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’m terrible with names and faces too. I had the same art teacher all through high school, and still, once in senior year, had a total brain fart as to what her name was. Right in front of her.” They shake their head, and Mom’s expression turns from shocked to grateful. They’re totally camping it up, but for some weird reason it seems to reassure her rather than put her off. I’ve never been more grateful to Mal for volunteering to come here.

  “It happens to me all the time now,” she says and clasps onto their hand with her own. As I look at their two hands together, I realize how gnarled and bony hers have gotten. When did my mom get old? “I’m so sorry that I forgot you. Of course I remember now. Such a kind young man.”

  I start to protest her noun usage, but I haven’t even gotten half a syllable out before Mal shakes their head at me.

  I can’t understand why Mal isn’t more upset, especially since her focus has only put them in the spotlight, taking it from me and my divorce. I know that was the idea, but I didn’t intend for it to be such a negative spotlight or for them to have to endure people purposely using the wrong words around them.

  A touch to my elbow has me spinning around to my dad, standing in the kitchen doorway with his back to the party.

  “Parker, we really need to have that talk now,” Dad says.

  “Oh, but your party, Ralph,” Mom says. “I was just about to bring out your pie.”

  Dad crosses the kitchen and places a kiss in my mother’s hair. “I think our guests can hold off on dessert for ten minutes. I promise I won’t be long.”

  Mom smiles up at him like a lovesick teenager, and I’m struck by how I’ve never really seen these little displays of affection from them before. Maybe it’s yet another new thing since I left home.

  Dad leads me down the hall to his study, far enough away to muffle the sound of the party crowd. He sits behind his desk, and I take one of the low wooden chairs in front. When I was younger, this was how I knew I was in trouble, being seated in front of Dad’s desk with him judging me from behind the mass of ornate, heavy wood and glass. I’m not entirely sure I’m not in trouble now.

  “I didn’t want to tell you this over the phone or by email. I thought it would be better if I told you in person, but I obviously waited too long, and I’m sorry.”

  Dad has his hands folded on his desk in front of him and his voice, so stern only a minute ago, has now lowered to something soft and almost broken.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your mother has early-onset Alzheimer’s.” Dad’s voice cracks on the last word.

  I feel like my throat has suddenly swollen, and there’s no getting a breath or a swallow to go through. It’s too thick and hot, the skin around my neck prickling with heat so much that I try to rub it away.

  “She was diagnosed with it last spring.”

  “What?” My voice finally makes a reappearance at that startling fact. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I was trying to find the right time. Then you and Shelby found out you were going to have a baby, and at first, I didn’t want to ruin your excitement. I thought you’d be coming to visit so we could congratulate you in person, so I held off. And then, well, after you two split, you avoided us like the plague.”

  “So you’re blaming me for not knowing sooner?”

  “No. Jesus, Parker, stop making everything about you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to live with someone you have loved for almost four decades and watch that beautiful, lively person turn into someone timid and forgetful and lost somewhere in time?”

  I’m trying to wrap my head around all of this, thinking back to each conversation we’ve had. The repeated questions. The way she asked for Shelby but then didn’t even seem to notice she wasn’t here last night. The made-up stories she told Sharon. God, it was all the Alzheimer’s.

  “Does it always progress this fast? The last time I spoke to her, she seemed perfectly normal.”

  “Everyone’s different.” Dad scrubs his hands across his face. For the first time I see the exhaustion, the defeat in his eyes. “And if you aren’t around her all the time, she covers it up pretty well. Honestly, until you showed up, things were pretty normal. But I think seeing you this weekend has confused her.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. If there’s anything I can do …”

  At that, he sits up straighter, chasing away his internal demons with renewed determination. “Actually, yes, there is. I’d like for you to move back.”

  “What?”

  “Taking care of your mother is more than I can manage on my own, and I need the help. She’s doing well enough, but I’m gone for work all the time, and I have to travel for conferences. That way, you’d get to spend more time with her and it would hopefully lessen the confusion like what we’re seeing this weekend. When I thought you and Shelby were going to have a baby, I would have never dreamed of it. But now, you have nothing keeping you in Colorado. You can find a job anywhere, and we need you here.”

  Nothing keeping me in Colorado. My mind races around a dozen different things that contradict that statement, but they all lead to one thing. Mal.

  “I don’t know. I’ll need to think about it.”

  Dad nods, and pushes back from the desk to his feet. “I understand. Take some time to get it all planned out. I know that’s important to you. But don’t wait too long.”

  He claps my shoulder and leads me out into the hallway. The time for arguing or even discussing his plan is over. Back at the party, he smiles and laughs with his friends as if nothing has changed, but I’m completely off-kilter, watching it all from the hallway like it’s an out-of-body experience. A warm body radiates at my side, and Mal’s concerned eyes are my undoing and my salvation. I reach for them and they wrap around me like a homemade quilt, full of love and comfort. I don’t care who at this fucking party sees us.

  “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

  I shake my head. “I’d like to spend a little more time with my mom, if that’s okay.”

  Mal smiles and rubs a hand along my back. “Of course. That’s why I’m here. It’s not for the scenery, I can assure you, unless of course you count.”

  I don’t know how it happened so quickly, craving their touch, but I do. I instinctively shift to feel more of them against me. I thread our fingers together as I brave the rest of the house and the crowd. We might get some dirty looks. We might not. I’ll never know.

  Mal and I find Mom and spend the next few hours accepting any task she assigns us, working by her side. Several times she forgets and asks about Shelby, but it doesn’t carry the sting it did before. Now I just tell her that Shelby couldn’t make it. Over and over, but the lie works. If she notices how close Mal and I are, her mind must create alternative acceptable excuses, because she never mentions a thing. I do know Dad would say something if he had even a hint of what was going on between us, but he’s too busy playing man-of-the-hour to notice.

  I want to know if Sharon knows about t
he Alzheimer’s. I want to know if Mom even does. But then again, I don’t. Part of me wants to continue living in a world where everything her mind conjures is real, because that’s easier and less painful.

  By the time Mal and I leave the house, I’m emotionally threadbare.

  “Can we just grab something to take back to the hotel? I don’t feel like being out in public,” I ask them, and of course they readily agree.

  We kick back onto the hotel bed with our fast food haul and watch mindless cartoons. Our limbs wander so that some part of Mal constantly touches me, not for sex, but for comfort. It reminds me I’m not totally alone.

  “She has Alzheimer’s,” I finally say, even though I think Mal has already guessed.

  Mal nods and quietly sets about cleaning up the wrappers and trash. They switch off the TV with one hand and take mine in the other, leading me into the bathroom. Mal starts water running for a shower, then carefully undresses me. It’s not erotic or urgent. They’re taking care of me, and I sag with the relief of it.

  In the shower, Mal takes their time washing my body. Small circles of rough cloth rub against my skin until I’m sure my whole body shines with a rosy glow. They gently kiss each clean surface after rinsing away the bubbles, and I wobble in place, overcome with emotion.

  When we return to bed, Mal asks me to stretch out. They straddle my naked thighs, and my previously relaxed prick takes notice. They raise my fingertips to their mouth and begin to work their way up, feasting on my skin. My damp skin erupts in goosebumps, but every place their lips linger leaves a trail of fire until my entire body has been rendered to ash. They shift lower to torment my chest. Flicks of tongue at my nipples send sparks of pleasure directly to my balls. My leaking cock jumps in the air, thrusting futilely against nothing.

  Mal’s tongue continues its upward trek along the tendon in my neck until they’re tracing the shell of my ear in tiny kitten laps.