The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (44 page)

Then Lena comes in with more chips, cookies, and beer. “We don’t need to do this.”

“Don’t unchain me, or I’ll rip your fucking throat out! Bring me more fucking fries!”

“I can’t . . .”

“Show some fucking balls, Lena! I kept you here for six fucking weeks! FOOD PLEASE!”

“Tell me, Lucy. Just tell me!”

“I can’t. Now be a fucking woman and feed me.”

But all that shit she gave me, it really was addictive. I never realized how much before: it took the best part of a year to get clean. I secretly binged for over six months, unable to pass a fast-food joint or avoid sneaking a candy bar. It wasn’t easy, and now I can see how hard I was on her, and some of my other clients. I guess I bullied them, and trying to drive the weakness out their systems was a twisted way of trying to drive the doubt from my own.

I don’t like looking at the last entry. At what we call
the conversation
, the one I could have had with Lena to avoid all this weight gain, junk food, captive shit, but which I couldn’t indulge in until I’d popped the target on that scale. It was my perverse kind of penance.

But I scroll ahead to it: the final blog in the journal,
the conversation
.

I’m already craving starch and stodge; it had been more than an hour since I’d devoured the two large orders of fries Lena brought back from a Burger King drive-through. I washed them down with a sugary chocolate milkshake. It made me want more fries. Salt, sugar, fat, carbs. There really was no end to this.

I sent her back out twenty minutes ago. Where the fuck is she?

The welcome distant snap of the elevator door, and Lena comes with my shit. It isn’t food. I can barely look at the swell of my gut over the waistband of my pants. She’s sitting with a carton of salad and couscous as the Big Mac sweats on my lap like a carcinogenic turd in a bun, looking up at me. I’m on the cusp of 200 lbs. It suddenly dawns on me that I can’t eat this. And I realize it’s time. “I’m ready to have the conversation,” I tell her.

Lena sits down beside me, and then tries to pull me to her, but I’m rigid as I hear a hollow voice coming from deep inside me, so she backs away, giving me space. “It was a Sunday back in Weymouth, and I had been at my friend Lizzie’s house, listening to some music and hanging out. I was walking home up North Street. As I was getting under the bridge, I became aware of some boys walking behind me, whispering, occasionally laughing. The way their voices dropped in conspiracy, I knew they were planning something. But I didn’t look back. I quickened my step, and carried on up the street.”

“Oh, Lucy . . .” Lena soothes, squeezing my shoulder.

“At that point I made a big mistake. Turned right and cut through Abigail Adams Green, a small space full of trees and shrubs, which was a shortcut to my house in Altura Road. A second group of them were waiting there for me. Clint Austin, the leader, approached and glowered at me. He said he wanted that kiss he’d asked me for earlier in class. His friends surrounded me. I didn’t know what to say. What do you say?”

A tighter squeeze from Lena.

“Then suddenly I was on my back; somebody crouched behind me and a solid push from Austin sent me tumbling onto the grass. Before I knew it, two boys were pulling me by my arms, dragging me along the ground, into the shrubs. There was a hand clamped over my mouth as my skirt was pulled up, my panties yanked down, and Austin, measle-faced, green eyes circled black, was violently spitting on me then forcing himself into me, in a horrible, sharp, tearing motion. I bled for days afterward. I turned my head to the side and felt little, other than a numbness. I heard cheering, yes yes yes, then I opened my eyes and saw Austin looking at me in rage and fear, as if he’d been trapped, coerced into this too. Then the cruel smile reappeared and he started saying things I couldn’t quite understand. But he hated girls. I knew and understood that he hated girls.”

“Oh my God, Lucy . . . that’s so horrible . . .”

“I wasn’t going to cry or plead. I was a Brennan. I sneered back at him, and I saw his fear reappear. Then another voice cannoning across the park, dispersing the kids like a starter pistol at the track. Dad’s face towering above me, Clint Austin off me, terrified, running away. Austin’s anger now supplanted by the deeper rage of him, my fucking father.”

“Didn’t you ever try to talk to Tom? Why didn’t he realize?”

“Cause I fucking faked it!” I scream in her stiff face, squeezing her hand by way of apology, as she recoils. “I couldn’t come up short again. I had to dig in, to suck it up, I couldn’t be the victim. I’d rather be the slut than the victim. So we walked as I waited for his blow, the one that never came. But I was fake. Fake. Fake. Fake.”

“No, Lucy,” Lena says, “not you. Never you.”

“When I got home I showered and washed and scrubbed myself. I said nothing. I had to face him in class the next day. At first he had a scared, sheepish expression, and avoided me, perhaps fearing retribution from my father. When he realized that wouldn’t be forthcoming, the arrogance returned. I was routinely called a slut, a whore, a nympho, by the members of his gang, who put it around that I had consented to sex with a multitude of the boys.”

“That’s awful . . .”

“I got no fucking respite at home. I had a lecture from Mom. When Dad looked at me, all I could see was the bitter disappointment in his eyes.”

“A few months later the same gang, led by Austin, attacked and raped another girl, Crystal Summersby. This was in Beals Park, not far from the same spot. They ambushed her and her friend on their way home from the Coffee Express in Bridge Street and dragged them off the path that went through the green, into the trees. They threatened her terrified friend with the same if she said anything. At the trial, Crystal said she could see the white spire of the church she went to with her family. And they did this, because
I
said nothing. Me, the Julia Tuttle Causeway hero, stood by, fucking mute, ensuring this vile prick was free to do what he did to the other girls. I was a fucking fake!”

“No, you were just a scared kid!”

“The real hero was Crystal Summersby, and her friend, who came forward and had the sick bastard sent to juvie.”

“You were a child, Lucy! You should have had someone there for you!”

“There was nobody.” I feel Lena’s hand moving slowly up and down my back. “So I learned to fend for myself. I immersed myself in the tae kwon do, karate, and kickboxing, planning a reception for this asshole on his release, but his family had moved away and I never heard of him again.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I didn’t come forward because I could never be cast as a victim. But that’s what I was. But I resolved: never, ever again. You have to stand up. You have to come forward.”

“Yes. You taught me that.
You
.” She points at me. “Lucy Brennan.”

My hand grips her smaller one and she presses back. “I now need to tell Dad this real story. You’re the only person I’ve properly explained it to. When I . . . you know, with Jerry . . .” I lower my voice and instinctively look around the empty apartment, and Lena does too, “. . . that was me done. It was like exorcising a ghost. I was ready to be wrapped in chains, to let anybody do what they wanted. I was ready to voluntarily surrender . . .” and I squeeze her in a hug, drinking in her beautiful, reassuring scent, “. . . and I’m just so glad it’s been to you and not the police . . .”

I look into Lena’s jade-green eyes, feel her cool lips on mine. I can’t resist as I feel her slipping off my cuffs.

It’s done.

We kiss for a bit, and a mountain of passion starts to bubble in me. My fingers are pushing aside cloth and working Lena, showing her where the fuck I’m coming from. As she starts to get aroused, I stick my other fist into my own pants, knuckles grinding my clit like a fighter trying to open up an opponent’s scar. I come straightaway as Lena gasps, but I keep working my wrists at maximum force against my pubic bone and hers. I only briefly see Lena’s eyes roll heavenward as she growls like a savage and kicks her legs out like a swimmer, before I feel my own eyeballs curving toward the sky. “Fuck . . .”

I spread my legs to better enjoy the delicious throb, a sensation so gorgeous that I feel my teeth nipping my bottom lip in appreciation. “Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck . . .”

“Fuck . . .” Lena gasps, as I unravel my limbs, pushing my damp hair from my face. “That was so gooooood . . .”

“I know, right?”

God, I get myself so goddamn horny reading that last part. But I had to reward myself after that confession, by reliving that
post-conversation
moment in the blog. The crux of it all, though, was that I was finally the most free I had ever been,
and
I had Lena. Then all I had to do was lose the blubber. And I did. Then came the pregnancy, and back on it went, though I’m getting it off again.

Once Lena and I decided we wanted a kid, there was never any doubt as to who would be inseminated and carry it for the term. Lena’s art career was taking off again, with a massive renewal of interest in her sculpture, especially
The New Man
, and, of course, the photography exhibition, so she really had to work. — It took me so long to get to this point, she’d argued, — whereas you’re an expert, you’ll be able to get back in shape in no time.

It sounded plausible, but it hasn’t quite worked out that way. But I’m not complaining—well, not much. I guess we’re all great self-justifiers. I know I’d have been just as fulfilled in a career, though in a different fashion. But as a mom, in many ways, I’m at my happiest now. It isn’t all roses, though, nothing is, and I do get a little tired out with Nelson. He needs a lot of attention, and sometimes Lena can’t help that much, as she’s working most days in her studio.

I shut my laptop and I’m watching that Michelle bitch in her crappy weight-and-date show. Lena comes in with a big frown on her face. — What’s up?

— Nothing . . . in fact, it’s pretty damn good news, she says, forcing some cheer into her expression, as she hands me a copy of a bill of sale.

I look at the bottom-line figure and hear my own gasp of disbelief. Then I throw my arms around her. — Jesus fuck almighty!

— They’ll be coming to take him away next week, she says glumly, like she’s talking about Nelson.

— Oh, right . . . I try to inject concern into my voice. I never get this crazy artist thing about selling their work. I’d just think about the money and get on with knocking out the next piece of shit.

She reads my mind. — I know, she smiles, kissing me, giving me a scent of her fresh sweat, — I gotta let go. Mom and Dad up yet?

— Haven’t seen them, I drop my voice, — but I’ve heard grumblings from the guest suite. I feel my mouth tighten, as I cup my ear. — And gurgling noises tell me Nelson’s awake.

Lena goes to shower and change and I start to get myself and Nelson ready for the short drive to the airport. The Sorensons join us for breakfast bagels and orange juice. It’s strange how different they are from how I pictured them during that clandestine email correspondence (which they still believe was with their daughter). I’d envisioned Todd as a tall, thin man, but he’s short and squat, with a gray-blond crew cut and a deep-lined face. He says very little. Molly talks for them both: wasteful, inconsequential chatter. She has a steel-wool permed mop, and hawkish features, with a double chin, fleshy arms, and a ton of cellulite. We eat while discussing mundane stuff, Molly going on about some kind of dream she had about yesterday’s Thanksgiving. — I think it came from being in a house surrounded by water . . .

I never, ever thought that my father would move down here, but he bought the house from a fading basketball star Miami Heat traded to Cleveland, or some other Rust Belt franchise on its last legs. I confess to sometimes feeling aggrieved that Mona’s living in that level of luxury and she’s almost certain to be Dad’s main or even sole beneficiary, especially when their kid arrives. I can’t exactly complain though; I like living up here with Lena, and she’s let me put my own touches to the house, like splashing a little color on those walls.

We get into the 4X4 which we bought when Nelson came along. Lena is driving, and I’m sitting with Nelson and Molly in the back, the Sorensons’ considerable, largely redundant luggage behind us. Molly’s gamely trying to distract Nelson from the squealing pig toy he loves. Todd is looking uncomfortable in the front; I see his creased face in the mirror as he blinks in the unaccustomed sunlight like a black bear disturbed in its hibernation. The day is described, as always, as “unseasonably hot” on a local radio station. It’s the high or mid-eighties, depending on which phone app you open, with an angled golden light blinding me at the intersections, even through my Ray-Bans.

— Oh, for cute, Molly says to Nelson, as the pig wheezes breathlessly again.

It’s bad manners, but when an email from my mom pops onto my iPhone, I’m happy to open it, and escape from the Sorenson banalities into the more familiar Brennan ones.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Happy Thanksgiving

Lucy,

Didn’t want to phone you as I knew you were at you-know-who’s, and I’ve made my feelings plain enough about that lunatic and his controlling ways. If you and Lena ever consider having a second child: DO NOT LET THAT IDIOT HAVE ANY INVOLVEMENT WITH IT!

It’s beyond me that you think you owe that old fool some control in your life because he caught you fooling with some boys in the bushes of Abbie Adams Green. Yes, we were both worried about you back then. But you never disappointed us, honey—the promiscuity was all about you as a young girl acting up, because our marriage and our family was crumbling and breaking up. But do not let him pull that Catholic guilt-trip shit on you! Your mistakes are your own (and we all make those—hell, I married the asshole), so don’t allow him to dictate your life!

Enough. I’m ranting.

I’m still loving Toronto. The Canadians would never have a national holiday that celebrates land theft and genocide. I was saying to Lieb the other day, this is the future for you and Lena—not to be treated like second-class citizens as in the US. And to think I was a Republican for years—though that was mainly to annoy your father. The real-estate market is booming, and we have a great standard of living and free universal health care. All I miss is the Miami weather. It’s so
cold
outside! Even Boston is temperate in comparison.