I crept as quietly as I could into the house. It was only six A.M. Roosters I know are still sleeping! But not Olivia Mancuso O’Malley. Nope . . . not my mother. I should’ve known. I remembered my first real date.
At sixteen, I was finally allowed to go alone to the movies with a boy. Jeremy Dion. He was eighteen, but we didn’t tell my parents that. We went to the drive-in movies in his bright yellow, hatchback car. Naturally, we didn’t tell them that either. He pulled his car into the parking space backwards, with the rear of the car facing the screen, so we could “watch” the movie lying down. Smooth, huh? He had a whole set up in the back of his car. He opened the hatchback and put down blankets and pillows. A huge bong had its own seat in the back, too. Even though Jeremy was a pock-faced boy, the sort that Marie and I warned each other about, he actually was very sweet and funny, and I was very horny. I knew what I was in for that night, and I was totally prepared. At least I thought I was.
When Jeremy started to kiss me, I became acutely aware that he was wearing Aqua Velva. I recognized the fragrance, because it was the same aftershave my grandfather wore. Apparently, Jeremy bathed in it. It was disconcerting, to say the least. As Jeremy plunged his tongue deeper into my mouth, all I could see before me was Grandpa Reginald. It didn’t take long before Jeremy was exploring what was under my blouse. At sixteen, I was considered small busted. I was not as endowed as most of my friends. And I also had boy hips. What I wouldn’t do to have that all now! At the time I felt unwomanly. Definitely not sexy.
Even now, I am still considered thin. My breasts are still too small for my frame, and my tiny waist disappeared after my second daughter, Lily was born. These days I spend way too much money trying to get rid of the gray hairs. Another reason I’m a red head at the moment. No middleman. I buy a box, smear on the goo and in minutes I’m good to go. Back then, though, I was definitely a blonde. Jeremy’s favorite. And this night I was the blonde of choice.
We lit up his bong. I was sufficiently stoned after a few hits. I just hoped that I wouldn’t start to laugh uncontrollably for no apparent reason. As soon as Jeremy was high, he mounted me as if I were a bitch in heat. Okay, at that point I was. We began rolling around. He on top of me. Me on top of him.
I could feel how hard he was through his button fly jeans. His erection caught me off guard. Until that point, I had never had a hard penis between my legs. When Marie and I fooled around, there was never penetration. A lot of rubbing and tongues but nothing like this! I could’ve cared less that his breath smelled like pizza, that he was panting and drooling like a bloodhound, and that he reeked of my grandpa. I just knew that he had to be inside me quick!
I began tugging at his pants, he with mine. The sounds he made convinced me that if I didn’t get him soon, his tidy whities would be the recipient of what I wanted so badly. When he finally thrust himself inside me, I screamed. I was not prepared for the searing pain that I felt. Something about my scream got him even more riled up, and he came before I knew what had happened. To make matters worse, all I could hear in my head was “Is that all there is?” The song stayed in my head for about three days. I felt totally used and abused, but I realized that I had experienced some rite of passage. I was no longer a little girl. I felt that I could conquer the world. I was woman!
• • •
As I quietly let myself into my mother’s house, after my night with Dwight, I relived that night with Jeremy. My mother was sitting in the same wingback chair with the same expression on her face. She had been up all night waiting for me. “Where were you all night?” she growled.
I thought about telling her to jump in the lake. I’m a middle aged, divorced woman . . . but that would be too mean. I just said “None of your business!”
She stood and glared at me. I excused myself, saying that I had to shower, and headed for the stairs.
She stopped me in my tracks about half way up. “Just wait till I tell your father you were out all night, young lady.”
I turned to face her, and realized for the first time what was really happening to my mother. She looked so frail standing there. So hurt. It was as if I were sixteen again . . . for both of us.
“Oh, Mom . . .” was all I could say as I walked back down the stairs toward her. I wrapped her in my arms and felt her body let down. I think if I hadn’t been holding her, she would have disintegrated. She began to cry softly at first and then she sobbed. Her body jerked and rocked in my arms.
As I held her firmly, tears welled up in my own eyes. This was only the second time I had seen my mother cry like this. The first time was after she had learned about Rachel. I wondered why she would be crying that way now.
“It was you . . .” she said ever so faintly, “you and Henry.” She continued to sob.
“What about us, Mom?” I asked, still holding her up.
“She wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for the two of you!” She released herself from my grip and walked away.
I stood, frozen, stunned. After all these years, there it was. She blamed my brother and me for Rachel’s death. It wasn’t bad enough that he and I had blamed ourselves almost our entire lives. Now it was out in the open. However delusional she was, the picture was very clear.
It was my turn. I collapsed in a heap on the floor. I couldn’t believe that I had that much bottled inside of me. I must have been on the hallway floor crying for half an hour. My entire body felt like putty. Now I knew where I stood in this family. How I was viewed by the one person I tried to please my whole life. There it was. I was a murderer.
• • •
It rained that day. It rained so hard the driver had the windshield wipers going full tilt. The sound reminded me of a heartbeat Da Thump, da thump, da thump, da thump. Our outfits matched. Henry wore overall shorts, and I was dressed in a jumper dress. They were black and had silver embossed fleur de lys on the bibs. I felt so grown up to be wearing black. We were never allowed to wear black. I was pleased with my brand new, black patent leather Mary Janes. I couldn’t stop looking at them so shiny and new, with the smallest of heels. Yes, a heel.
I sat between my parents. My father kept putting his hand on my legs in a feeble attempt to stop me from swinging them. My mother sat staring out the car window. She wore large Jackie Kennedy glasses all the time. It didn’t matter if we were home or at the market, she did not take them off for days. Henry sat across from us, in his own seat playing with his toy soldiers.
The limo slowed down, and we pulled into a driveway. I could see the sign that read ‘funeral home’. A sea of umbrellas filled the parking lot. I couldn’t see who had shown up, but I remember thinking it was the entire city. Grandpa Reginald, a fire captain, was my only living grandparent. He and some of his crew had arrived in their uniforms and fire trucks. Everything looked so official.
Our driver took us to the back of the building where a kind looking older woman waited for us in the doorway. The driver got out first and opened a gigantic umbrella.
“You guys go in first,” my dad said to Henry and me.
“But dad, I . . .”
“Please Henry just do as I say!” There was that low stern voice again.
Henry and I climbed out of the car under the awaiting umbrella. Just as we were walking toward the older woman, I stepped directly into a puddle. A big, muddy, puddle. “My shoes!” I cried out. Henry started to laugh. “It’s not funny, Henry,” I yelled at him. The driver picked me up with his free arm while managing to keep all three of us dry, and he carried me to the open door. “There you go princess,” he said as he lowered me down.
I looked at my new shoes. “They’re ruined!” My white socks were splattered with mud and my shoes would never be the same.
“Come over here sweetheart,” the older woman said. She put me in a chair and removed my shoes and socks. “Let me see what I can do,” she said before disappearing into another room.
I didn’t know why it was taking so long for my parents to come in. When Henry called my name from another room, I didn’t consider waiting where I was. Bare-footed, I stepped onto fading carpet.
“Sarah, look at this,” Henry called out. I followed his voice into the chapel. No one had been brought into this part of the building yet. The pews looked freshly polished. Candles burned next to an array of beautiful flowers. Henry was standing next to Rachel’s open casket. It sent chills up my spine.
“Henry, get away from there!” I snapped at him.
“No, look, Sarah, she’s sleeping!”
I couldn’t help myself. It was like the pull of gravity. I couldn’t resist looking, even though I really, really didn’t want to. Since Henry was so young, his fascination with what he was seeing made sense. The casket was so tiny. It looked like a toy. The cherry wood was so highly polished you could see your reflection in the casket. As I approached, my heart raced, and for the first time in my eight years on earth, I began to sweat. I felt little beads forming just above my lip. I could hear the whooshing sound of my heart pumping in my ears. When I got to the coffin, I closed my eyes. I was so afraid to open them. Of course, I finally did.
I looked at Rachel, so beautiful, lying there. She did look as if she was sleeping. Her blonde ringlets were a golden halo around her tiny head. I touched her lips, which looked much redder than they were in real life. I thought “It might be make-up.” I stood there waiting for her to open her eyes. I was convinced that she would.
The noise in my head got louder and louder, and the perspiration heavier. I started to feel nauseated. I became aware of the music in the chapel. “Amazing Grace” was being piped through the speakers. I heard Henry ask, “What’s wrong?” Everything in the room began to spin around. Then it all went black. And so began a series of fainting episodes that continue to this day.
“Sarah? . . . Sarah . . . Dear God!” I heard my father’s voice, swirling around in my head. When I finally opened my eyes, I was in an office, lying on a couch, my father bending over me with tears in his eyes. The kind lady who had helped with my shoes, put a damp cloth on my forehead. A huge clap of thunder outside caused me to bolt upright. I hated thunder. “You fainted, sweetheart,” my father said.
“Where are my shoes?” was all I could reply.
The services had already begun without my father and me. When we walked into the chapel, the entire room went quiet.
I detected whispers . . . “She fainted” “Those poor children” “That’s Sarah . . . the eldest.”
The woman had cleaned up my shoes as best as she could but the socks were a lost cause. I had to wear my shoes without the socks which made them just a bit too big. As I walked, they slid off the back of my heels.
My mother did not look at me. I felt like an eight-year-old loser. I sat down next to Henry, aware that he felt it was his fault that I had fainted. At that moment, I understood he and I would feel responsible for so much in our lives.
The minister seemed to talk for days. I heard a lot of blowing noses and an occasional outburst of sobbing. I looked around and realized just how many people had come. Mrs. Robeck, the principal of our school, Tony and Jessie, the owners of the pizza parlor we frequented, Doctor Martin, the pediatrician. Even the paperboy sat in a pew next to his mother. I couldn’t help wondering if they would have come for my funeral. At the end of the service, everyone got up and began to head out toward the parking lot. The cemetery was just above it on the hillside.
We stayed in the chapel so that we could say goodbye before they closed the lid of the coffin. My father went first. He looked inside Rachel’s final resting place and just stared. He looked like a marble statue I had seen in a museum once. He didn’t move. Then it was my mother’s turn. She walked up, bent over, and kissed Rachel’s forehead. I felt we should salute or something. She then told Henry and me to come over and kiss our sister good-bye. Henry went because he was told to. He was always a good little boy. I began to feel nauseated again. Bile came up in my throat.
Before I realized what I was doing, I took off running. I ran through the chapel, out the door, into the pouring rain, and began scaling the hillside behind the chapel. Tears flooded my face. Rain flooded my now too-big shoes, my ears, my mouth. I felt like I was suffocating. As I climbed higher and higher, I found myself imagining that I was getting closer to Rachel. I was doing what the minister said . . . I was “moving toward heaven.”
I kept thinking “I’m coming, Rachel. I’ll find you soon.”
When I reached the top of the incline, all I saw were gravestones. I was now covered in mud. My heart ached so much I thought it would burst from my chest. I remember falling to my knees and saying over and over, “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.”
Half the town had followed me up to this place. Concerned parents, teachers, neighbors, townspeople, saw me running and came after me. Though they were obviously concerned for my well-being, they terrified me. All the people who had run after me looked demonic. They, too, were covered in mud. Rain fell off their noses and foreheads. They were out of breath, as I was, from running up the steep, muddy hill. They panted and as they exhaled, the breath they expelled resembled ghosts. They called my name, but the howling wind made them sound like ghouls.
I don’t remember exactly who reached me first. I think it was Tim, my father’s assistant at the college. Whoever it was picked me up from the muddy ground where I had collapsed. He carried me up a winding path to what would be my sister’s ultimate resting place.
The hearse and my parents weren’t far behind. The tiny coffin that held my sister was carried by some of my parent’s friends. There were so many umbrellas.
The minister said some final words and what used to be Rachel was lowered into the ground. My father made a noise that I hope never to experience again in my life. Like a coyote bringing home his kill, he lifted his head and began to howl. He wailed into the storm as the dirt and mud were pushed on top of my sister’s beautiful casket.
I realize now that it is normal to have a gathering after someone dies. At the time, I thought it strange that everyone was eating and drinking and some people were laughing about things that had nothing to do with what had just taken place. My mother was AWOL from the beautifully catered event at our house. She was upstairs and we were told she was not to be disturbed.
My brother and I sat in the TV room and watched cartoons. My father made the rounds, thanking everyone for coming. Once everyone had left, my mother materialized and headed straight for the vodka. My father told us we should go to bed, but my mother nixed the idea. She wanted us to sit and listen to her talk about how beautiful and radiant Rachel had been. We sat watching mother get more and more drunk as our father tried, unsuccessfully, to defuse the potentially explosive situation.
Mother asked us to wait and disappeared into the other room. She returned, carrying the outfits we’d just worn for the funeral. In an impromptu ritual, she babbled words from the Bible and tossed our clothes into the fireplace. All of us sat staring at the burning clothing. My father used a poker to prevent embers from escaping. We sat until the last piece of anything recognizable had been incinerated. “Okay, you two, off to bed,” my mother said as if nothing had just happened. And for the next few months, she behaved as if nothing had happened.
• • •
I discovered that the ability to forget was still with her. Though no longer sobbing, I remained in a heap on the floor. My mother came back into the hallway as she had done so many times before and behaved as if nothing had happened between us a few minutes prior.
“Sarah? What are you doing on the floor? You’ll get dirty,” she scolded.
“Oh, nothing, Mother,” I responded from the floor. “I just realized what you’ve thought of me the last thirty or so years and thought I’d have a good cry!” Of course, I didn’t actually say that. I just told her that I had lost a contact lens, assuming she probably wouldn’t remember that I don’t wear contact lenses.
“Well then, why not go get yourself ready for a nice lunch,” she suggested in a cheerful tone. She disappeared into the kitchen and out the back door to visit Manuel. I heard giggling in the garden a short time later. The last thing I wanted to do was investigate as I wouldn’t be able to handle the shock of anymore geriatric romping.
Since I had barely slept the night before, I decided to try and get some rest. I would figure out what to do with my mother and myself for the rest of the day later.
I could smell his cologne before I actually saw him.
I must have been sleeping so soundly. I had no idea how he got into my room. But there he was, standing over me with a colossal hard on inside his pants. I couldn’t speak . . . nor did I want to at that moment. Instead of asking all the obvious questions like “How the hell did you get in here?” I did what any cock loving woman would do. I pulled down his pants and began licking and sucking his dick. He moaned as I pulled down the bed sheet, exposing the tiny tank top and thong I was wearing. My nipples were so hard he couldn’t resist pinching them. His hand slipped into my panties where he found my wet pussy. He backed away from my mouth and ripped my panties off. His face was between my legs before I could catch my breath. His tongue was soft and hot. He knew every crevice that needed to be discovered. I used to beg my husband to try to think in Hebrew. To write backwards with his tongue . . . spell something! Anything! He was clueless. But Roberto—Latin lover that he was—knew how to make a woman shudder with ecstasy.
I closed my laptop. I was sure that if I e-mailed what I had been working on to my agent, she’d stop pressuring me for a little while. I never did get the nap in. It was beginning to get dark, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet. I decided to go downstairs to see if Mother had returned from the alien ship. My stomach growled as I went to the fridge for a snack. I couldn’t believe the eclectic array inside my mother’s Sub Zero. Everything from jalapeños to Swiss chocolate to bologna. My mother hates bologna. Clearly I was going to have to do some shopping soon. I pulled out the jar of martini olives, which I opened as I sat at the kitchen table, and popped one into my mouth. I loved the salty tang of martini olives. My father always allowed me to take one from his martini glass when I was little. They had the slightest taste of vodka that made me feel grown up eating them. He taught us kids how to mix drinks by the time we were around five years old. We were little party tricks for guests. Sometimes I would take the olives and put them on my fingers, then pretend I was doing magic, as I slipped them into my mouth, making them disappear. I would get a rounding applause from our inebriated guests, and I felt special.
“Sarah Jean? Mr. Hollis would like a scotch and soda with a twist of lime, please.” My father would chuckle as he watched me carefully pour a jigger of scotch and top it off with the soda. We weren’t allowed to use a knife to cut the lemons or limes. Our mother would make sure they were prepared beforehand. We were like a Lilliputian lounge act. When our parents socialized and became more intoxicated, I would play with the olives and my brother would steal the booze. During one dinner party, I found Henry passed out in the middle of the stairway. He had found the cherry brandy and consumed most of it. He was six at the time.
I heard my mother’s voice from outside. Pulling back the café curtain, I saw my mother and Manuel in the garden. Olivia’s garden. She was tending to it as Manuel looked on. She was bent down just inside the white arbor that was heavy with climbing roses. We used to call this “The Secret Garden,” because mother would often disappear into it for hours. She had an extensive array of herbs that she used in her cooking. Her hydrangeas were in full bloom, the flowers a stunning sky blue. The snapdragons stood proudly erect. I found myself smiling, realizing that this was one part of mother’s life that remained the same.
There was a knock at the door. My mother either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it as she kept busy with the roses. I went to the front door barefooted. When I was a little girl, I always loved to answer the front door and would race my siblings to see who could get there first. I imagined finding someone on the other side with a fabulous present. Something that was just for me! A puppy? A fancy dress? A pony! My little body would pull and yank at the heavy door, hoping to find something special on the other side. As middle-aged me opened the door, I was surprised to see Terry Beckett, Marie’s little brother, standing under the eave on the front porch.
“Sarah, it’s good to see you again so soon,” he said with a big smile. He was carrying a briefcase and was wearing a tailored suit and tie.
“God, please don’t tell me you’ve become a Jehova’s witness!” I blurted out.
“God, no,” he laughed. He looked adorable, especially with a five o’ clock shadow. I must have been staring because he asked if he could come in as if I maybe wasn’t going to allow him inside.
“Of course. Please. I’m sorry,” I stammered. He brushed passed me, his body lightly rubbing against mine. Tiny hairs stood at the back of my neck. I was surprised at how handsome he had become. I guess I hadn’t really noticed the night before, but I could see that his eyes were the deepest brown, his jaw line wide, and distinguished looking. He asked if my mother was home, and I told him that she was gardening.
“Is there anything I could help you with?” I asked. I guided him into the living room where I motioned him to sit on the checked couch. He opened his briefcase and brought out a large file.
“I’m not sure if your mother has told you anything or how much I can reveal to you.”
“Well, I suppose I won’t be able to answer that until I know what you are talking about.”
“Are you aware that your mother owes quite a bit of money on this house?”
This was totally puzzling. I explained that my parents had been in this house for forty-five years. I assumed that they had owned it outright for years.
“Look, maybe I should talk to Olivia.”
“When is the last time you spoke to my mother?”
“About a month ago,” he replied.
“So you are aware that she is suffering from dementia? That’s why I’m here at the moment, to try to help her with things . . .”
Terry dropped his eyes.
“How much money we talkin’ about?” I braced myself.
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” I screamed. “How the holy hell is that possible?”
Sitting back in his seat Terry assumed the position a therapist would take. I had experienced being on the couch during analysis in my younger days. The way he stretched himself out before me he looked like the patient. Terry’s mouth was indeed moving but I was unable to hear anything he was saying. Beads of sweat formed themselves above my top lip and forehead. I only caught the essence of some of his sentences. Music began in my head and I began recalling a particular chapter in “The Therapy Couch”I had written a few years back.
Entry: September 20 1892. Patient Elizabeth Von R.
Day 12 of Elizabeth’s treatment.
It had occurred to me after her sister’s initial visit regarding Elizabeth, that her condition may be psychosomatic. That she had consciously put herself into the wheelchair. She described her last dream:
“I was in a ballroom. It was illuminated only by candlelight. I was very out of breath. But I stood alone on the giant dance floor. Helmut entered and we stood looking at one another for a long time. He had been riding and carried a large riding crop. His free arm wrapped around my waist and we begin to move. Swaying to unheard music. Our dance becomes more intimate and we begin to move faster. More in unison. He begins to flick me lightly with his riding crop. And I feel excited. I begin to moan and he hits me harder the next few times. I can feel him becoming hard inside his trousers. We twirl and twirl. I am becoming dizzy. Dizzy from the movement and dizzy from what I feel deep inside. Then I hear a woman’s voice call “Helmut.” I look, and it is my sister Marta. Helmut, her husband, breaks his grip from me but I cannot stop twirling. I spin and spin until I fall to the ground. I cannot move, and I am alone now. My wheelchair is on the other side of the room.”
It has been apparent to me that the feelings Elizabeth harbors for her brother-in-law are very deep. Although at twenty-three she is still a virgin and believes she is incapable of being married or having a fulfilling sexual relationship. I shall be experimenting with Freud’s theory of psychosexual development in an attempt to prove her wrong. I shall try hypnosis first.
Elizabeth’s Diary
I shall be seeing Doctor Van Damm again tomorrow. He believes he can help me and that I indeed can feel below my waist. I laughed in his face my last session. It isn’t as though I threw myself down those stairs three years ago. I slipped. He believes it was a deliberate accident because it was Marta’s wedding day and I wanted to ruin it for her. What a horrible, silly thing to believe. But if the doctor thinks I may be able to walk again I shall do whatever it takes to do so!!
The next morning it was raining. Elizabeth was being wheeled into Doctor Van Damm’s house by her sister Marta. The doctor’s assistant, Nurse Sutter, said that she would take Elizabeth and Marta should wait in the lounge. Nurse Sutter was a young and beautiful woman. Elizabeth had seen her before. She worked in the doctors “examination” room and Elizabeth had never been in that room before. She had always been in the doctor’s office on his couch during her analysis.
As the nurse opened the door to the new room, Elizabeth was caught off guard by how cold and sterile this room was. There was a large examination table in the middle of the room and a variety of medical devices and electrical apparatus. She hadn’t a clue what they could be used for. Elizabeth felt herself becoming nervous now. Sensing this, the nurse reassured her that all would be fine and that she would stay in the room with her.
Nurse Sutter helped Elizabeth onto the examination table and explained that she had to disrobe.
“I have to be naked?” Elizabeth asked nervously.
“Yes, Elizabeth, you do!” The nurse said as she began to unbutton Elizabeth’s blouse first, revealing the top of her slip. She motioned for Elizabeth to lie down and then began to unfasten the tiny hooks at the side of her skirt. Nurse Sutter folded everything neatly as she continued to take off more clothing.
“It is cold in here,” Elizabeth, now only in her slip and stockings, complained.
“It won’t be for too long now,” the nurse assured her, removing her slip.
Doctor van Damm entered the room in a white coat. He wore a suit and tie during therapy sessions. It was rather alarming for Elizabeth to see him this way.
“Good morning Elizabeth. Are you ready?” The doctor asked as he held her hand.
“I believe so.”
“Then let us begin.”
Nurse Sutter turned out the main light, leaving on only the soft light above the table.
“I want you to close your eyes now,” the doctor directed. “Imagine with each breath you are descending down a flight of stairs. With each breath you get deeper, and you will trust everything that I am saying and doing. Yes?”
Elizabeth nodded. Within a few minutes, Elizabeth was in a deep trance.
“I want to take you back, Elizabeth, to a time when you were a young girl. A teenager. The time your mother found you in the lake . . .”
Elizabeth began to moan.
“I went to the water. It was such a warm day.”
Doctor Van Damm and Nurse Sutton begin to touch Elizabeth’s head and neck slowly, with just their fingertips.
“Go on,” said the Doctor.
“I took all my clothes off as there was nobody around. The water was cool.”
“How did it feel on your body?” The doctor asked as his fingertips began to move down her body.
“I felt aroused.”
“Did you touch yourself?”
Elizabeth nodded.
Nurse Sutton opened a drawer that contained many different pieces of equipment. She pulled out a metal phallic shaped tool and plugged it into an outlet. She handed the primitive dildo to the doctor. He took the tool and placed it just above Elizabeth’s vagina. It vibrated slowly.
“Were you able to take yourself to orgasm?”
Elizabeth shook her head, no.
“My mother found me. She saw what I was doing and became very angry. She pulled me out of the water by my hair.”
“Then what did she do to you, Elizabeth?”
The doctor motioned to the nurse to grab something from the corner of the room. He put the vibrator now directly on Elizabeth’s vagina as the nurse walked back toward the doctor with a bamboo switch.
“My mother grabbed a long branch . . .” Elizabeth paused.
“She hit you with it, correct?”
She nodded.
“Like this?” The doctor said, indicating to Nurse Sutton to begin to hit Elizabeth on her legs with the switch.
“Yes!” Elizabeth moaned. “She kept hitting me.”
Elizabeth’s body began to sway and rock on the table as the doctor held the vibrator on her vagina. The nurse continued to lightly flog her legs, her stomach, her breasts.
“What happened as she was hitting you Elizabeth?”
She can’t take it any longer. Elizabeth cried out. “Oh God! Oh God!”
Her body violently jerked and shook. Her toes began to curl and her legs quaked as she was brought to an extreme climax.
Entry December 14 1892
Patient Elizabeth Von R
After the first of several psychosexual experiments my patient no longer used her wheelchair. We had broken through a deep rooted barrier that involved being in love with her brother-in-law and finding that she could only be satisfied sexually by being mistreated. Her guilt drove her to cause herself to have a violent accident, to avoid facing those demons.
Elizabeth’s Diary
I had another dream. Only I was awake. Helmut came to me in the night while Marta slept. I was sitting at my mirror, combing my hair. I saw his reflection in the mirror. He stood with just his undergarments on. I was in my nightgown. I stood, in front of him, which I hadn’t been able to do in years. He took down the straps of my nightgown which quickly fell to the floor, leaving me naked in front of him. He pulled me into his arms and we began to dance. We twirled until we found my bed. He kissed me passionately on the lips. I turned over presenting my virginal backside and he thrust himself immediately into my vagina as I screamed . . .
I was on the floor. I remembered Terry saying something about my father and a loan. Then the theme from Saturday Night Fever came into my head, and I was down for the count.
“Sarah!!?? You with me?”
I was staring up at the ceiling. “I am on the floor!”
“I think you fainted. Never seen anything like it. You started singing . . . something?”
“Bee Gees!”
“Yeah! And then your eyes rolled back into your head and . . .”
“Just help me up, please.” This was enough humiliation for one day—second time I found myself in a heap on the floor.
He propped me up against the couch and went to get me some water.
“Get outta here!!” Mother screamed from the kitchen. “Get out! Rape! Fire! Hellllppp!”
Terry ran back into the living room with my mother on his heels wielding a hydrangea stalk like a samurai sword. Manuel quietly appeared behind my mother embracing her in a gentle but firm bear hug.
“Olivia, we must put your flower in agua before it dies,” he whispered in her ear.
I learned a lot in that moment about the two of them. My mother completely transformed in an instant, from a killer banshee to Doris Day. She turned her head towards him. “You are right, Manuel. It needs a beautiful vase.” Ignoring me on the floor she headed back toward the kitchen then stopped and looked back at Terry. “Oh, hi Terry . . . my you’ve grown so.”
While she was leaving the room, she told Manuel that she’d known Terry since the day he was born and that his sister and I were such good friends.
“I know, mija, I know,” I heard Manuel respond.
Terry leaned in and gave me a hand, finally, peeling me off the floor.
“See what I mean?” I asked.
He nodded, aware of my mother’s condition. He said we should talk at another time. He would discuss the situation further with his father and partners.
I led him to the door. He turned and asked if I’d like to have dinner. “We could catch up on the last twenty years of being strangers, and I could fill you in a little bit more regarding your mother.”
It was funny that looking at big/little Terry made butterflies swirl in my stomach. “Sure,” I said, hoping to sound nonchalant.
“Great . . . see you at seven.” He spun on his heels and went down the front steps.
“Wait,” I called out. “Tonight? You mean tonight?”
He shrugged his shoulders and yelled back “Why wait?” He was in his sports car and down the driveway in a jiffy, leaving me wondering what was up with these younger men.
Later that evening, in a dismal attempt at being cool, I slipped on my way too-high heels and sauntered into the Stone Manor Hotel again. Hadn’t been there in years and I was back two nights in a row. Wouldn’t you know it Terry was sitting at a table with my waiter serving him. The heel of my foot slipped out of my six-inch fuck-me pumps just as I entered the dining room. Everyone, including the moose head on the wall saw me stumble. I looked back over my shoulder at the imaginary person, who had obviously pushed me and held my head high as if nothing had happened.
“Sarah!” They said in unison as I approached. Then looked at each other uncomfortably.
I tried to sit down before the gentlemen could fight over who would pull the chair out for me, but to no avail. Terry stood, just as my waiter reached for my chair and pulled it out for me. I made a strange gurgling noise in my throat, because words didn’t seem to want to come out. I tried to will my skin from turning too pink and blotchy.
“Glad you could make it,” Terry said, sitting back down.
“Nice to see you again, Sarah,” my waiter said as he placed my napkin firmly between my legs. I watched him walk away in his crisp white jeans knowing that he was sans underwear.
Dinner was a constant battle of wills. I was trying to give Terry my undivided attention but was unable to stop looking at Dwight. I felt as if I had multiple personalities with an additional co-dependent personality thrown in, who was all about making sure neither guy knew what was really happening. Terry was being extremely attentive, but I couldn’t help thinking about what I knew was in Dwight’s jeans. It didn’t help that the outline of his substantial cock was visible. What was wrong with me?
I tried talking business. After all, that’s what brought me to this dinner in the first place. Alright, maybe the chemistry I felt earlier had a little to do with it. More than that, I had to find out what had happened to the house and what it meant for my mother. Sitting opposite Terry, I was so conscious of the little boy who would sneak into his sister’s room because he heard noises.