29. IMPOSSIBLE
DOMINIC
My dream has a soundtrack. Feet shuffling over floorboards in Grandma’s slippers. It doesn’t match the action movie I’ve got going in my dream, in which I’m chasing Leon down a narrow alleyway with a loaded M16.
When I open my mouth to scream insults at him, my voice is not my own but the creaking of our front door. Even from within my sleep-haze, I know this makes no sense.
I fight my way free, emerging from the inane storyline, and drag in a sharp breath as I grasp on to reality.
That was our front door creaking. And the slippers were my grandmother’s. I shoot out of bed, tug my jeans on, and whip a sweater out of the closet. In the hallway, the crisp nighttime breeze from the outdoors reaches me through the den.
“Shit,” I mutter. To be sure that I’m right, I peer into Grandma’s bedroom. Her sheets are in disarray and the room empty. The en-suite light shines white under the door, giving me hope, until all I find is the nightgown she wore when she said goodnight.
What surprises me is the scent of perfume. Its tendrils leave a reeking trail from the bathroom through the entire house. I feel my face crinkle into a frown while I debate whether to call my uncle or not. A swift glance at my watch reveals that it’s four a.m.
In case I need assistance, I shove my phone in my pocket. I stride out the wide-open door and survey the quiet street we live on without finding any sign of life. No cars, no neighbors, no Grandma. I clamp onto my neck with one hand, thinking. How far can an old woman in slippers get?
I inhale the air around me, absently wondering if I can go by the perfume stench. I can’t.
My guess is as good as any as to where she’s heading, so I’ll go with my first instinct—downtown and the Shell station. I could take the car, but what good would come of driving when she’s on foot? She could be taking one of the walkways. I launch into a fast jog in an attempt to catch up with her.
I reach downtown quickly, a picturesque area, conserved the way it was in the olden days. The two-story wooden houses used to be where people lived. Now, most have been converted into shops, many with the owners living upstairs.
Fifteen minutes later I’ve detoured through park paths and side alleys without as much as a glimpse of my grandmother, and I’m approaching the southern part of town by the time Alan calls.
“Son. You awake?” His voice is gruff with sleep. He must have received some sort of news, and I pray the hospital didn’t call him. Fuck, why didn’t I check with them first? Frustrated, I rake a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, I’m out searching for Grandma—she took off. I got up a minute too late.” I press two fingers over the bridge of my nose. “Someone called you, huh? The gas station owner?” I ask, because I don’t want to assume it’s the ER.
“No. Vicky Kramer. Remember her from the theater? She owns a business herself now. 51, that clothing store.”
“Okay—and?” Yes, Vicky worked the ticket booth. I don’t catch the connection, though, with her being closer to Alan’s age than my grandmother’s.
“Mom was born in that house,” Alan says, “and Vicky woke up to her banging on the front door. Where are you now?”
With my uncle on the phone, I run down Churchill Street, then take a left onto Greenville. 51 is five stores down, the night clear enough for me to detect any movement around me. “I’m here, but I see no one else,” I inform him.
My uncle’s blue Volvo whirrs quietly toward me from the opposite end of the street and comes to a halt by the little lady’s childhood home.
“Because Vicky took Mom upstairs. She’s still confused, so Vicky made her tea to keep her busy while they wait for us.”
I fill my lungs with air in an effort to calm myself as Alan gets out of the car. A single light greets us from the upstairs apartment.
We find Grandma in the kitchen. She wears a puzzled smile above the rim of the teacup, and it’s clear that she doesn’t recognize us.
“Hi, sweetie,” Alan whispers. His voice cracks with emotion, mirroring my own feelings. I swallow as Grandma’s gaze floats through her son and stills on Vicky.
“Can I go to bed, Mom? I’m tired.”
As far as I can tell, Vicky’s only similarity to old pictures of my great-grandmother is the short, curly hair. Vicky’s mouth opens and closes, unable to decide on an answer.
“How about we take a drive first,” Alan answers for her, and I notice how he avoids calling his mother “Mom.”
“I don’t want to,” Grandma whines, her voice that of a little girl’s.
My uncle shows no surprise.
“Pearl, listen, okay?” Alan is the adult speaking to a small child. Her chin trembles, and I instinctively want to stop him from forcing the issue. I don’t, though, because I understand what he’s doing. He’s been in this situation before and knows what works. And here I’ve given him an “F” in human interaction.
By the time we’ve returned to the house, Grandma’s five-year-old self is retreating. She rubs her hands, staring from one to the other, knees pressed together in her seat on the couch. She speaks with her own voice again when she asks “Why are we awake? Are we waiting for someone?”
“No, Little Lady,” I say. “We went for a walk, but you’re right—we should get some shuteye now.”
She blinks, mystified. Her lips part around a question she ends up suppressing, maybe because she guesses the truth—how she took that stroll on her own accord and we chased her down.
Alan and I relax at the kitchen table after she retreats to her bedroom. It’s a quiet sort of companionship we don’t share often. He takes a sip of the coffee he just warmed up, and I shudder a little; reheated caffeine isn’t one of my vices.
“She’s gone to 51 before, huh?” I inquire.
“Couple of times.” He nods. His gaze rises from the spoon he swirls in the cup, and I meet it, trying to remember if the bags he sports under his eyes are new.
“Believe me. I’d rather not ‘put her away’ either, Dominic, but she’s not safe at home anymore. I’m not saying we need to move her into the old folk’s home, but there’s an assisted living facility—”
“Shit, Alan,” I say, raising my voice, “I just want to get done with my studies, and I’ll be back for good. We need a temporary solution since I can’t trust you with her. We’ve never relied on you for anything anyway. While you were out on that boat, sailing the Seven Seas, living the life, I used to wonder what took you so long, and then who the hell starts on a college degree—too far away from their family to be of any support—at thirty-five?”
A twinge of hurt runs through his gaze, though we both know I’m right. When Gramps got sick, I was old enough to console Grandma. I helped her with the funeral arrangements while Alan roamed Indian ports. The Philippines. Alaska.
My poor grandmother. I’m the only one she can rely on, and that’s how it’s been since my grandfather died.
“Well, I’m here now,” he says. “And as opposed to your mother, I’m done messing around.”
“You’re bringing her up?” I shake my head, incredulous. My runaway mother gave birth to me at eighteen, and her first and only maternal act was to dump me with her folks as soon as I was born.
Alan has the decency to look contrite. “Guess she’s on my mind. She checked in about ‘her inheritance’ again the other day.”
Over the years, I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen her scrawny, haggard self. She means nothing to me, just as I mean nothing to her. “Did you tell her she still has a mother? That no one will be doling out money any time soon?”
“Yep.” Alan’s voice is soft when he reverts back to our earlier conversation. “Think about what you’re suggesting, Dominic. Even if you moved back in with your grandmother, you couldn’t be with her day and night.
“I’ve researched the assisted living facility. Visited. It’s a beautiful and safe community where everyone has their own bungalow apartment. The tenants even share a swimming pool.”
“Oh, my, a swimming pool?” I use my fingers to screw the corners of my lips up in a fake smile. “Gee, why didn’t you say so earlier? Sure as hell makes up for lost, um, freedom!”
I can’t believe that someone with a loving mother who’s taken care of them their whole lives can be so callous. The anger boils in me, but I don’t have time to rant on before he speaks again.
“One of Mom’s childhood friends, Shirley McIntosh, moved in two months ago. I haven’t told Mom yet, but she’s been having the same problems as Mom, with a… spotted memory. She loves being there.”
“Says who? Her kids who don’t give a damn?”
“Oh, they care all right. This place isn’t cheap. Even with the insurance, there’s a good chunk to pay on top.” He pulls in a deep breath. His shoulders heave upward, giving off every sign that he’s about to say something I won’t like. “Dominic, Mom’s on the waitlist there.”
“What?” I get out of my seat so fast the chair tumbles backward and crashes to the floor. “You put her on a waitlist without even consulting me?”
The memory of her all dolled up flashes over my inner screen. Judging by her clothes last night, she must have been on her way to attend an elegant party, or the theater, but by the time we found her, she’d transformed into a five-year-old. As if Alan remembers too, he replies.
“Please. She got up during the night, Dominic—she’s not safe here anymore. This is not a rebuke, but even you didn’t hear her leave. They have twenty-four-hour care at Sunrise, and—”
“Sunrise?” I bark. “More like Sundown!”
“Let’s just check it out, okay? Yes, Mom’s on the list, but I won’t do this without your consent, son. Because you’re right—you are the one who’s always been there for her. Just keep in mind that we can’t afford an in-home caregiver twenty-four seven, while with Dad’s retirement plan, we have an in with Sunrise.”
“Enough, Alan. I’ll work more, send money for a nurse,” I say, my brain overloading with the notion. By now, I realize that I’m dreaming: how the hell can I work more and still graduate this year? I’m already at Elysium every spare hour I have. “I—fuck!”
Alan rises from his chair. He’s always been this remote, silent, uncaring figure in my life, and yet here he is, placing a strong hand on my neck. “We’ll figure this out, son,” he says gruffly. “We’ll figure this out.”
PANDORA
Dominic’s been gone for weeks, and I don’t answer his calls. Still, he never leaves twenty-four hours between trying. He must be psychic, because when the phone rings, it’s always seconds before I do something stupid.
In those moments, my phone goes off with “Perfect,” some song I Googled drunk one night just for the title. Now, the ringtone screams from my purse, causing Leon’s eyes to narrow into a squint.
“Dominic?” he asks like he doesn’t know.
“What’s it to you?” I ask back, eyeing the belt he just pulled off his black Levi’s. A silky lock of hair, so much softer than Leon will ever be, sways down, landing over one of his eyebrows. Everything about Leon is lovely, except…
Him.
Those beautiful lips I’ve learned the texture of. Smooth, supple, demanding. I seek them when I can’t stand myself anymore.
Like now.
They lift into a secretive smile, his pupils dilating with pleasure at my cold reply.
We both ignore the sound of my phone until it dies.
“Took you days to come back this time,” he informs me. The buckle remains in his fist as he whips the belt into the air and lets it hit his palm with a whack.
Since I saw the rapid flick of his hand, I don’t flinch. I might not have jumped anyway, because my instincts tell me not to show fear with Leon. “I was busy,” I say while he arches his brows.
“Too busy for me?” His voice is liquid silk, igniting me, pebbling my nipples. My body automatically prepares for pain and ecstasy. It’s as confused as I am.
I’m sitting on the edge of his bed. Tonight, he didn’t wait until after closing time to bring me upstairs. The music drums into the soles of my feet, and outside his window the crowd yells and laughs from the line. Leon has drawn the curtains, though, shutting us into our own, strange world.
“Are you ready to play?” he asks flicking his palm with the belt again.
“Definitely not the way you have in mind,” I reply. “I knew you were nuts, but really, macho-boy?” I roll my eyes even though my heart tries to leap out of my chest. How many times over the last month have I come here only to think, What is wrong with me?
Leon curls his digits around the belt and caresses the length of it as if it’s something else entirely. Those bright blue eyes travel the same path as his hands, a small smile crooking his lips at my reaction.
“You misunderstand, Pandora. Look at this cute wrist.” He hunches down in front of me, grasps my arm, and holds it up between us. With a swift, circular move, he’s got the belt tightened around my wrist.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he hoists my hand up by the belt, stretching me toward the ceiling, and gives me a once-over that starts at my fingertips and ends at my cleavage. “Now, how much prettier would you look tied to my bedpost?”
“Yeah, not gonna happen. But! We can strap you down instead. I won’t lie and tell you it’d turn me on, though,” I quip.
“Hot damn, Pandora,” he growls, pushing me down onto my back. Leon hikes me up on the bed and crawls up over me, belt forgotten. “You’re so fucking sassy, I want to make you scream.”
Pressing my shoulders into the mattress, he bites into my lip. I’m desperately trying to control my pulse. The adrenaline rages through my veins, urging me to get the hell away from him, but I stay. I stay.
“Get rid of the belt,” I mumble against his mouth, because I can’t reach it myself. Leon has me pinned to the bed. He rises up on one arm to do as I ask, causing the pressure of his hips to drive me down with renewed force.
Leon controls me. I can’t do anything—act on any of my impulses when he traps me like this. It’s great. Awful. Terrifying.
I swallow.
The belt buckle hits the floor with a metallic clang as he presses his crotch against my core. “You been good lately, Pandora?”
At his question, my reality shoots through me in a ribbon of gritty truths.
No. I haven’t been good.
We’re in December. My grades are dismal, but I fend Dad off with half-truths about delayed assignments and projects delivered in late. Once graded, they’ll change my GPA drastically, I told him, and he must have believed me; I got away with a warning instead of a visit.
“Mmm… not really,” I pant.
Since I stopped taking Dominic’s calls, I’ve attended classes every other day at the most. On the opposite days, I oversleep because I party—or because my insomnia keeps me awake. The only thing I don’t slack on is my workout regimen and the massage sessions with Dominic’s classmate, Amber.
Mom nags, wanting me to change to a certified physiotherapy practice, but Dominic was right; Amber is excellent. Almost as great as him.
“Yeah? How are classes going?” Leon husks out like he’s talking dirty. I wish I didn’t want to tell him, but I do—I need to confess.
“I’m failing,” I whisper as his fingers dig into the hem of my pants and tug downward in short, insistent jerks. He groans once I’m bare from the waist down, his hand digging in between us. He finds me there, moist, ready.
“You’re the worst student,” he whispers back, his other hand moving up to touch my face, gather my hair into a firm grip. His eyes are approving—oh, yes, he enjoys this.
Leon makes quick work of his own clothes. His gaze reverts to arctic as he surveys me from above, but he doesn’t hide the desire flickering behind the ice. “Shit, you’re such a mess, Pandora.”
When he sinks down over me again, his body is strong, so hard he stirs the panic in me. If Leon’s power went to his head, if he lost control over his impulses, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself.
“Don’t hurt me,” I breathe and claw into his shoulders when he pushes into me.