In the Mix (17 page)

Because the moment I get you alone at the party, I’m going to make sure there’s nothing slight about the soreness of your pussy.

No.

If you bother to wear panties, you won’t be wearing them after I’m done.

It’s not happening.

Dress. No panties. I’m taking what’s mine.

I’m not yours!

The hell you aren’t!

I won’t come to the party, then.

You will come to the party and you will COME at that party!

NO I WON’T! GOODBYE!

You’re going to do this to Linz?

Please stop . . .

You better show up tomorrow.

Or?

Don’t test me.

I will be there tomorrow but . . .

But what?

Don’t bring drunk Kyle . . . he creeps me out.

You do realize you are saying this to drunk Kyle, right?

Yeah, but that’s ok.

Why is that ok?

Though drunk Kyle can still text in a grammatically correct fashion, he won’t remember doing it.

He will remember.

No he won’t. Stop speaking in 3
rd
person.

You’re speaking in 3
rd
person.

Where?

Where what?

Go to bed . . . you’re drunk.

You’re beautiful.

Question?

Yes?

I want to know what those abbreviations meant.

Ooo . . . has it been driving you crazy?

Yes, like most things you do.

What do I get?

You’re gonna get my foot up your ass in a moment!

Tell me!

Say something dirty to me and I will.

Something dirty to me.

You’re impossible.

. . .

L.L.Y.P. = Love licking your pussy.

I.T.L.P. = It tastes like peaches.

Sweet, I should be a hit at the Farmer’s Market then!

I’m sure you could sell your line of bullshit there, too.

In the manure section.

Yeah, I got the point. Lol.

I do love it, though. And I can’t wait to taste you again.

Bye . . .

Tomorrow?

Today.

It’s 3 am.

I’ll be waiting.

You had to close out with one more creepy line, didn’t you?

So I creep . . . yeah . . .

Shut-up, Left-smirk

LOL . . . I get it!

Congrats! Go to bed now, Asshat!

Sweet talker.

Night, beautiful . . .

Night.

“That was a long conversation,” Mom says and shakes her head. Don’t worry; I left all of the sex talk out. “Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure! Because the last bit you gave me was so successful!” I reply snidely. She stays silent like she always does when I get short with her. “Please tell me,” I soften my tone.

“Don’t text when you’re drunk.”

“You are a wise woman, Mother.” I let my head drop to my folded arms in defeat . . . again.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a few hours before the party?” She rubs my back.

“I came early to help you.”

“Help me do what, taste test all of the food?” She laughs.

“Well, that’s my job.” I lift my head and smile warmly at her.

“I don’t recall ever giving you that job. You took on the role of taste tester all on your own.”

“I’m good at it.” I shrug.

“You’re greedy, that’s all! You want to make sure you get to have all of your favorites before anyone even walks through that door.” She gives me that look that tells me she’s got my number. You know that “knowing” look all mothers give their kids. “Now march your butt up those stairs; you look like hell.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I rub my face and do as I’m told.

“Morning, Dolly,” Dad says softly from behind me before planting a kiss on the top of my head. My dad has called me “Dolly” since I was a toddler. Apparently, I wanted him to carry me everywhere. I, of course, carried my doll everywhere with me, as well. So, one day he started calling me Dolly. When I asked him why, he told me that since he carried me everywhere like I carried my doll, then I was his dolly. It stuck and he’s the only one I don’t mind being called a pet name by. He’s my dad—an awesome one to boot—why would I mind?

“Morning, Dad. Mom up?” I lean back.

“She’s getting dressed. I’m going to take her to Charley’s to spend some time with the kids and get her mind off of things. Thanks for staying last night, honey. Mom really needed you.” He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“Did you hear any of our conversation?”

“I heard most of it. I’m glad she got it out.” He takes a seat next to me and lets out a big sigh. “You know, you’re the only one she can really talk like that to. Everyone else treats her . . . well, you know. I do it, too. I need to take a page out of your book, Dolly.” He shakes his head and looks down. I hate seeing my dad so defeated. I hate seeing them both this way. I know exactly what he’s talking about with my mom. Everyone walks on eggshells around her. I do, too—to a point. But when it’s time, I step up to the plate to listen to her speak candidly about her condition. No one else can manage to do it. They don’t know what to say. It’s not always about saying anything; it’s about listening.
Twerps.
Last night was pretty bad, though. I’ve never seen her like this. I replayed our conversation over and over again, all night. I hope what I said and what I didn’t say helped.

We had just sat down on the couch, getting ready to watch
The Little Princess
with Shirley Temple. My mom loves Shirley and that is the only movie of hers I really like, so we compromised. I had just brought some popcorn up to my mouth when she said, “I’m scared, Carissa.” I turned my head her way, placing the popcorn in my mouth. I studied her and chewed. Mom looked as weary as she sounded. Her face was a little paler than usual, green eyes that were drowning in tears, and her chin quivering. I put the bowl on the coffee table. I had a feeling this was going to happen. She had been asking me to stay over for a few days.

“Have you seen the doctor, Mom?” I asked as I turned, on the couch, to face her.

“Yes . . . I’m no longer in remission,” she choked on her words. “I can’t do this again,” she softly cried. “I just can’t. I don’t have anything left in me.” She wiped at her eyes with the tissue I gave her.

“Mom, don’t talk like that. You kicked it’s ass before, you’ll do it again.” I tried to encourage.

“You can only kick MS’s ass so long before you’re too old, tired, and weak. Then, it kicks your ass. This is it, Ceese, I’m not going to make it through this round—I can feel it down deep in my soul. I’m not ready . . .” she trailed off, shaking her head before the shaking transferred to her shoulders as she sobbed silently.

I grabbed my mom into a fierce hug, “I want to scream at you right now for talking like this. Goddamn it, Mom.” I didn’t though, because sometimes we just need to say what our fears are. Everyone thinks it’s bravery not to show that you are scared. Fuck that shit! I think when you are a strong person, like my mom, it’s much braver to say what scares the hell out of you. It’s also therapeutic. If you acknowledge your shit then you can move onto the other phases like anger and acceptance. How can you form a positive plan of action if you won’t acknowledge the very thing that needs a positive plan of action? “Ok, you’re scared,” I said as I pulled back from her, “Now tell me what pisses you off.”

“That Goddamn wheelchair! I swore to Christ I would never sit my fat ass in it again!” she said angrily, balling her hands into fists.

“Uh, Shannon?” Dad interrupted us from the doorway. “I happen to think you have a lovely bottom, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink. Mom chuckled and waved nonsense at him.

“Alright, Dad, I love you, but go away.” I ordered.

“Ok, Dolly. I’ll be in the den if you girls need me.” He blew us a kiss and went on his merry way.

“So, we call Tom Kruse, the scooter guy.” I said and we laughed.

“Poor bastard! Everyone must get so excited to meet him until they do and realize it’s not the actor.”

“Yeah, but just think about how many scooters he sells with that name. I’m not sure I really feel bad for him or his suffering ego.” I shrugged, firing up the iPad to look at what Tom had to offer.

“Now would you look at those? They are hideous!” She pointed and tapped at the iPad angrily.

“Quit it, Ma! You’re going to end up ordering something by tapping the screen like that!” I pulled it out of her reach. “Now,” I continued, “look at this red one. It has a basket and side view mirrors!” I said in an exaggerated, excited manner.

She held up her hands as if she was driving a motorcycle then started sounding off the backing up beeping sound. “Move out of my way, asshole, before I run you over! Can’t you see how fast I’m going?” she yelled out, looking in her pretend side mirror. I held my stomach, laughing.

“Wait! Do the beeping sound again and I’ll be the robotic alert voice thingy.” I laughed.

“Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .”

“Approaching douchebag in plaid shorts and hideous shirt in five . . . four . . . three. Immediate impact on douchebag in two . . .”

“Beep! Beep! Beep!” Mom fell back, laughing harder.

“Holy shit! Besides the obvious stuffed Toto dog, you need to put a foghorn in your basket. As you’re beeping, you should press that and make people jump!” I was getting so excited, I wanted a matching scooter just to hang and fuck with people all day. I mean, is that not right up my alley?

“I could also just ‘accidently’ drive in reverse and run into people, claiming innocence,” she added thoughtfully.

“We can take you to amusement parks and get to the front of the line.”

“When my shakes get really bad, we can tell them I’m seizing and you need to get me through to exit. Then once we’re up by the ride, we’ll be cool as a cucumber and get on the ride, ahead of all the other gimpy bastards.” She points her finger in the air at her clever thought.

“What if you get called out?” I widen my eyes in horror (not really, cuz’ we’ve done that before).

“I’ll do what I did the last time—slap my bicep, uncoordinatingly, while flipping them off.” She imitated the action, reminding me of that day, the day I
actually
pissed myself. Luckily, I was in my bathing suit. I almost pissed myself again, right there. I had to run to the bathroom.

“FYI, Mom,” I said when I came back to the couch, “I don’t think uncoordinatingly is an actual word.”

“Well . . . let’s look around and see if there are any Shannon O’Brien’s who give a flying fuck.” she suggested and turned her neck to look around the room. “Nope, I don’t see a single one.” She waved her hand around.

I love my mom.

She simply rocks.

She took back her somber look. “I’m afraid I’ll never get to see you truly be happy, Carissa Catherine. That breaks my heart the most.” Her tears formed once again. I’ll admit it; mine did, too.

“I’ve met someone, Mom.” I don’t know why I said that.

“You have?” Her face lit up. Ok . . . maybe that’s why.

“I’m scared.” That, too. Who doesn’t need their mama when they are scared?

“That’s when you know it’s the real deal.” She smiled.

“What?”

“When you’re scared, that’s the real deal. There are two reasons why you’re scared,” she said before I could interrupt again. “First reason is that you’re afraid that it’s not going to work out and you’re going to get hurt. Second reason is you’re afraid that he’s the right one and your life will change. It will no longer revolve around you; you’ll need to make room for this other person. That thought is terrifying; to have someone consume as much of your life as you do.”

“Mom,” my voice shook.

“Don’t fight it, honey. He’s not part of your past, don’t force him there.”

“What do you mean?”