Rewriting Us

Then she jumped up, and grabbed me. She planted smooches all over my face. It was exciting to feel her wet hard body pressed against me, making my shorts and t-shirt damp. But the way she kissed me sent ice water into my guts. It was how a girl kissed a beloved dog. This wasn't how a woman thanks her ma...

Then she laid a solid closed mouth kiss on my lips. It was drawn out, and I struggled with the urge to wrap my arms around her to stretch it even more. But she released me, and jumped away from me. She grinned and bounced up and down, and then threw herself at me again. More kisses, some landing on the mouth again. Most of the lip-to-lip smooches seemed a few seconds longer than the others, but I couldn't be sure.

Fuck! How long has it been since she got a nice gift? But even as the question passed through my mind, I realized that it had been too long. Over the last years of their marriage Dad had given apology gifts for working instead of filling his role as husband and father. But they were never personal. His gifts had been more extravagant than mine, but they'd had nothing to do with celebrating the woman. His last gift had been a week at an exclusive spa. On the face of things it sounds great. But, as I watched her examining the small thin scarf, I remembered that the trip had only been for her. Dad would be too busy to go away for a whole week. It was a gift, but it was also an attempt to send her away. My gift was the flowers she cherished, and was meant to bind us closer together. She would wear it, and think of me. I would see her wearing it, and be brought back to these days.

The shock of her kisses and the shock of the realization painted my face, and my mother could see it. She smiled wide again, stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and wrinkled her nose.

She giggled like a teenage girl before asking, "You okay, Don?" There was no concern on her face; only pure entertainment.

"Fine!" I barked, louder and higher pitched than intended. "I didn't expect that in return for the gift." We both laughed. "But it's great, of course."

"Not expecting it is why you got it," she said in a voice that was both play and mystery. Her eyes twinkled, and she smiled like a teacher happy to be surprised by a student who had exceeded expectations.

"Well there is something I want in return: Join me on a picnic... for research purposes. And wear the scarf."

DEMOLISHING PART II

Chapter 6

The designers of Courtiers Place Mall spent a fortune on architects, landscapers and city planners. They sought a small-village-of-artisans feel mixed with a few of the big box stores that pulled in a profit. This meant sinking the whole mall deep amid green hills and narrow roads reaching in from the main thoroughfare of the city. They buried parking garages beneath the hills so they could offer views on the west side of the wannabe-exclusive shopping mecca; manicured grass in gentle slopes. There was a small artificial pond and enough space for night time concerts, Frisbee or just watching the sun set.

It was the perfect place for our afternoon picnic. No hipsters wanted to be seen near a high-end mainstream mall. The dolled-up runway hopefuls didn't want to get grass stains on their fancy threads. It was too early for a concert, and plenty of people didn't even realize that the space was there in the daytime. The lush grass around the pond was there for us alone. The space sported a few not-actually-random trees for shade. I figured no one we knew would have the interest or opportunity to see us there. Besides, so what if they did? It was just a family picnic, right?

The main idea was to enjoy ourselves. As an added incentive I offered a few rewritten scenes as well as some new pages for Mom to read and discuss with me. Meanwhile I would also observe my mother up close. I could write my own picnic scene later.

If I was observant and lucky, I might gather an insight or an idea about how to build on the chemistry that seemed to be bubbling up between us too.

In fact Mom was sitting in front of me, leaning back against my chest. She was reading the new pages.

"I like how they are heating up, Don," she said without turning to face me.

"Yeah?" I responded, wishing she was talking about us.

"Yeahhhh. I'm glad you got rid of that red shirt business, and had him give her a pair of sandals. It's sweet. It fits her and them."

I smiled, and turned my face up to the sparks of sunshine that broke through the canopy of the tree that was sheltering us. "Yeah. It's for her, but it's about both of them because..."

"...Because of the walks they go on, 'with hands and fingers touching.' You may want to work on the note he put in the box, though. It was a bit corny."

"You think, 'Now we'll always be able to walk together,' is corny?"

"It is corny beyond being a matter of opinion. That note is objectively corny. The only way you could have made it cornier is if he'd written it on a heart shaped tortilla..."

"Hey!"

"...And the tortilla was wrapped around an actual ear of corn."

"Ouch!" I felt her giggle against my chest, and I had to laugh with her. "How about, 'Future walks: Guaranteed.'?"

"With a microwave popcorn sack as a gift bag?"

I began to jab at her ribs.

"Heeheeyow! Okay! Okay. It's an improvement, but you should keep working on it. Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes, thank you," I yielded. "But you also see how it indicates them as a pair? Like the pair of sandals? Separate, but working best together?"

"Yeah, I guess I saw that." She shuffled the pages until she reached the last page. "I mean, this is intriguing, how he comes to her house and finds the one sandal on the porch swing seat. It's clear he should come inside and bring it to her."

"I wasn't too sure how obvious to be about that."

"No, I think you nailed it. You could even stop there. It's obvious she wants him."

"Yeah, but it's too fast. I'm going to insert a new scene before this one. They'll talk about the gift...a little more build up between them and establishing the gift as a sign of their connection. And I'm going to stick in a picnic too because all the other scenes have been in or around their neighborhood. That's why we're here, so I can see and think about how you act at a picnic." She was staring off at the pond. She was half listening. Her right hand was resting on my knee, and her left was picking at the new scarf I'd given her. I don't know if she realized she was doing it. "So, thanks for coming here with me."

She turned to look at me with one eye. To turn any further would have required removing her back from my chest, and neither of us wanted that. "Well thanks again for the scarf!"

"No problem. It looks great on you. With a reaction like you had yesterday I'm already brainstorming what to get you next."

We laughed together for a moment before my mother's expression turned serious. She curled herself forward, separating us, and turned to face me. She was still close, in my personal space, and looking at me like I look at the monitor when I'm trying to figure out the next passage.

She looked down at the few inches of earth and grass between us and then back up into my eyes. She cleared her throat, and then said, "Listen, Donovan. I like how much you help in the house now, and I love the scarf. And you have been so attentive and loving. But it makes me wonder... is this all only about the book?"

For three heartbeats I stared at my mother's beautiful face. She could have been a world class poker player. She wouldn't offer a twitch of hint at what she was hoping I would answer.

The wind held off, it seemed to be in respect for the importance of this moment. This could blow up in my face either way. I could affirm my mother's suspicions and risk her outrage. I could deny any importance beyond the book and risk her never knowing; risk neither of us ever knowing.

I thought of Bono's advice, and answered, "No. It's also about you and me. I think we've become much closer working on this project, right?"

The corners of her mouth curved up a degree, and she replied, "Yeah."

"Well I'm glad for it. You are an amazing woman." Her smile increased and opened. "I'm learning so much from you. And I don't mind telling you that being close like we've become is about the best thing I could have hoped for. I am seeing you in all sorts of new ways."

"Me too, but..."

"But nothing, Mom. It's wonderful. I hope we can always be this close." Or much closer still.

She turned to her right, my left, in the general direction of the mall and the civilized world that would never understand my dreams. "But, Don, I'm not sure you and I...Oh shit!"

I turned to see what she was looking at. If it had been a friend of the family, we'd have greeted them and asked what they were up to. If it had been a mall employee, we'd have smiled and explained nothing. If it had been Mom's friend Lucy (who was both a family friend and a mall employee) we would have joined her for lunch. It would have been no problem.

But it was none of those. It was Bono, lurching our way with a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

My breathing had stopped. Is this what it's like when you swallow your tongue? Have I swallowed my own tongue just now?

"Oh fuck, Don, I don't want to talk to this guy. Not like this. Not here. Not now."

My lungs kicked back into action, and I looked from her to the man in black. Bono was smiling and waving at us on the approach. I looked back at Mom, and saw my horror in her own face. I could breathe, but all my words had drained out of me into the shady grass.

"Okay, hold still," my mother said with dread in her blue eyes. As if from far away my brain registered that her hand was back on my thigh, but it came as information, not as a direct sensory experience. She glanced at the approaching love guru and then back at me.

She leaned in.

All my senses returned, as her face approached, tilted and blurred. She arched her neck so that her head hovered above my shoulder, both our faces hidden from Bono's view. Her nose was pointed at my cheek, nearly rubbing against it. I felt her breath on my neck as she whispered, "I learned about this trick in an acting class back in college. From that guy's perspective, it looks like we're making out, but we don't even have to touch...noses."

Pulled by invisible strings from my heart to my temples, my head turned to face her. So warm against her body, so close to her face, there was no choice; no more will to tell half-truths and trick and attempt a seduction. My mother was deep in my personal space, pretending at an illusion of what my body and soul cried out to have in reality. I felt the game evaporate. My chest thudded and I had a feeling like the heat and strength was seeping out of me into the tree trunk against my back.

I looked into her marvelous blue eyes, and saw the glint of child-like joy at the trick she was playing to scare Bono away. The muscles in my face felt funny. The mask - the image of the cocky know-it-all - was falling away. She watched me transition from shock and anxiety to raw, starved desire. And as she watched me, I saw her eyes soften in concern, then round in comprehension; shock at the proximity she'd put us in and what it was really doing.

I reached up with my free hand, and stroked her sun-kissed hair. She shivered at the contact. I could have played it up as part of her ruse. Fuck that. I couldn't be this close and pretend anymore. She saw something of this in my expression. Her eyelids fluttered slightly. Her mouth opened, struck dumb. Then her eyes lost their focus, and we fell into it like rain into the ocean.

I felt her lips on mine like fire. Her tongue went into my mouth after the second peck. She leaned into me, and my arms went into automatic; squeezing her tight. All the times I'd dreamed of tasting her and holding her, there was no conscious choice in the matter.

Bono? Bono who?

I kissed her back with a burning focus. It went on. Her hand was on the back of my neck. My fingers were in her golden hair. We separated only to kiss again with our heads tilted in the other direction. I could hear her heaving breaths through her nose so our mouths could stay connected. Her breasts pressed against my chest, and the contact reminded me of the pillow fight on the couch at home.

But we aren't home now. We're out on the grass!

And that's what opened my eyes. I couldn't see anything beyond her smooth skin and blond hair. Acting on instincts that kept my ancestors from getting snuck up on and eaten, I broke the kiss, and scanned for exactly one second.

Her eyes were closed. To my left, Bono's black clad back was retreating.

That's all I could get before I felt my mother's mouth on my face. She was coming in for more; demanding more. I turned back to her, and our kiss almost knocked her over.

I've got to tell her, said a voice. That voice was an asshole. I wasn't going to stop kissing my mother. Not now. Not ever. Not telling her is like lying to her. It's enough! No more of these lies between us! No more half-truths. Tell her so you can kiss her again tomorrow.

Man, fuck that voice! But it was true enough, and I didn't want her to think I'd tricked her. I broke our kiss again.

"He's gone," I said in a gasp.

Then I kissed her again, deep.

She kissed me back. Then a second time with a wide open mouth. A third.

But then she pushed me away, hard. I saw tears in her eyes. Then she ran.

Chapter 7

After taking two steps away from me, Mom stopped and dug into her purse. She threw the car keys at my feet then turned toward the mall. I called out to her. She turned back to me and said she'd get a ride from her friend Lucy.

I drove home in a fog. My thoughts spun, yin-yang without the balance. I was thinking about what happened, what it meant, but then what had happened immediately after and what that meant. But then again...

The mental circle ran on automatic, and as I pulled into the driveway another thought emerged from the stirring soup. Bono was going to be looking for a chance to high-five me next time I saw him. The thought made me want to punch him in his fucking face. It was an unfair daydream. Twice now, in pure ignorance, he'd moved my mother and me forward.

I entered the house, worried and heartsick. I sat in a rarely used chair in the living room and stared at the wall, wondering if I ought to be angry at Mom for running off like she had. But the only anger I found within was unfocused and grief driven. What a sticky, prickly and twisted trap our desires had brought us to. I wasn't opposed to the existence and observance of social taboos, including sexual ones. Consent is a cornerstone for any sexual engagement, for example. Anyone unable to give full consent should go untouched. But I'd given and received consent with plenty of women my age, and Mom was no virgin.

But we'd started too close, I came from her. So we were forbidden the chance to enjoy one another. The smallest taste, even the idea, had driven her from me. This is why, in my novel, the neighbor had to know the protagonist from his childhood. I had to show that knowing me from the beginning - in my best times and at my worst - didn't have to preclude intimacy now that I was a man. If the kiss in the park was any indicator, I'd say our longstanding closeness made it better.

I stared at the wall for an hour before I found my resolve. I knew what I would do. I went to my room and turned on the computer. Two or three hours later she entered my room after a measured knock. I finished editing the sentence in front of me. Then turned 180 degrees to begin what I knew may be the beginning of the end.

"We need to talk," she said in a tone that sounded practiced.

"No problem," I answered in the calm that falls over me when I need to be careful. "I just finished part one... sort of."

Mom didn't want to stand in my doorway while we talked, and she wasn't going sit on my bed. I printed out my new pages, and we went down to the living room so we could sit on even terms. Twilight was looming, so we turned on the lamp near the couch and sat there facing each other.

My mother's breasts lifted and sank as she took a steadying breath. Then, "Lucy still had a few hours before she could take me home, and it's just as well. I needed time to think alone in the food court. I realized that we need to have a plain conversation because neither of us has been 100% straight-forward up to now."

"Fair enough."

We stared at each other for about 10 seconds in silence - a deep need for truth on both of our faces, but neither willing to begin.

Finally, she spoke. "It can't go on. It has to stop now."

"The book or what has been growing between us?"

She blinked in surprise at my outward calm and my candor. But she only took a beat before giving her reply. "The second for sure. I don't know about the book."

"Well I'm not going to stop working on the book. It would be a shame if you stopped helping me with it... a lesser book... but I am 95% finished with part one."

She registered surprise again. This was not what she expected. "And the other thing?"

"This would be easier if you could say it... say: the change in our relationship. The growing attraction. The desire, emotional and physical."

"Okay. What about this change that seems to be happening?"

Inside her acknowledgement elated me, but outside I held calm. "Well," I shrugged to acknowledge the uncertainty in all this. "If you can stop how you feel - how you have come to see me - then I guess that is up to you. But I have been looking at you as... more than just my mother... as a lovely desirable woman... for a long time. That just won't go away because it is the truth. You are beautiful and - yes - also sexy."

Her mouth hung open. "For a long time? How long? How did it happen?"

I recounted the story of how Sonny had given me a copy of Family Affair as a junior in high school. "I found the stories in it pretty shocking but intriguing. Some of the stories were better written than others. Some of the plot line categories were more interesting than others. But I couldn't deny that they were... stimulating. I searched for similar stories on the net, found a few sites with even more stories." Mom looked gob-smacked. I pressed on. "Despite what you may guess, I never connected it to you. But then I read a nonfiction piece by a writer calling herself SusanJillParker." I thought it best not to tell my mother that the title of the piece was "Mom is an Incestuous Slut Ch 1." But there was a passage I'd read in the text. I'd read it many times and had long ago committed it to memory. "In it she challenged readers who insist they do not want their mothers to give the idea an honest thought. She wrote , 'Yet, what if your mom was a real MILF, would you, could you, say no to her? Just imagine all the fun you could have without even leaving home... What if you were trapped in a cabin with your mother after an avalanche buried your only way out?...To keep warm, you had to sleep together while cuddling up against one another and holding one another. Answer me honestly, would you do more than just sleep together?'

"Maybe if you were not so beautiful I would have come through these questions still resolved. But you are beautiful and the questions started me thinking of and seeing you in a different light: As a woman..."

Her mouth still hung open. She held still, and her face was pale. Her head rocked from side to side.

"I won't stop believing one plus one is two," I insisted. "Or that up is not down or that the sun is hotter than an ice cube. And I won't stop seeing your beauty."