12. Kellen
Twelve
Kellen
Against my better judgement, I agree to go along with Orla and my brother and his boys for a family run.
They’ve all been very busy with new projects at work and we haven’t had dinner at my house for a few weeks, so I’m eager to spend time with them.
I just doubt it’s a good idea for my joints to run on the paved trails they prefer for the weekend morning long runs.
“Doesn’t this kill your knees,” I ask my brother, who is practically sprinting five miles into our route.
I’m starting to feel a cramp in my foot and my knees aren’t exactly sore, but they don’t like this impact.
My brother is three years older and should be more rickety than me, but he’s bouncing along like an impala while the kids fall in behind us.
“I’ve got these gel inserts in my shoes,” he says, pointing at a designer sneaker that looks like something a professional athlete would wear to a nightclub. I grunt a response and slow up a bit, wondering if that will help.
“You still living that hermit life?” Orla nudges me with her shoulder and grins, tucking her long hair back out of her face.
“Hardly,” I tell her. “You know exactly what I’ve been up to at work, madam.” Orla is consulting on the electrical grid inspection program that Liam got started. They’re helping to write up proprietary protocols as Beltane looks to expand beyond the Allegheny region.
She pouts at me. “I can’t decide if I want you to pick me to go on site visits in Tennessee or if I think you should go so you can spice up your routine a little.”
I grin at that. “We haven’t been to the Smokies in a long time.
” That was one of the last family trips we took together, before Helen was too sick to travel.
I remember how the air felt crisp there, the sunsets magical as I watched them with both my girls.
And then, as has been happening more frequently lately, I feel a pang in my chest and a lump in my throat.
I miss Helen. I miss doing things with her and talking about nature together.
Orla nods. “If we go again, I’d want to actually camp this time.”
“What do you mean?”
She balks, flicking her hair again. “We stayed in a lame cabin with electricity,” she scoffs. “Mom hated camping and you always said cabins were a compromise.”
“Your mother didn’t hate camping.” Did she? I seem to remember camping frequently.
Orla laughs. “Um, yes. She did. She liked the views and hated the bugs. Remember?”
As Orla says it, I do remember Helen saying that. “Well, anyway, it’s been a long time since I stayed in either a cabin or a tent,” I tell her. “You’re right.”
“So plan a camping trip,” Orla says. “Shake the mildew off the tent. Lie on the ground until your hips ache.”
“Who will go with me, though?” I look around at Liam and his pregnant girlfriend. Zack’s girlfriend Nicole is decidedly not interested in nature. Maybe Cal or my brother feel like checking out the leaves some weekend.
“Well, I’m out, because you’re going to send me to Appalachia, and Uncle Mick is going to be there to woo those power company guys.”
Right. My brother is the face of the operation, the guy who is good with the customers. When I don’t say anything for a spell, Orla glances over at me. “What about your neighbor?”
“Who? Mr. Beckas?” The Greek couple next door to me are in their late 80s. They’re the type of Greek neighbors who roast a lamb in their back yard on Orthodox Easter, and they always share. But they don’t strike me as interested in camping.
Orla rolls her eyes at me. “Elizabeth, silly. God, Dad, you’re 50, not 100.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I try not to focus on my foot, which is starting to really throb now.
“It means you should ask Elizabeth if she wants to go camping. Take her to see the hemlock grove in Laurel Hill.” Asking Beth to go on a hike to see the ancient hemlock forest sounds like a nice idea, actually.
It’s such a mysterious, supernatural type of place.
I bet she’d really enjoy the energy there.
But then Orla says, “Maybe kiss her while you look for shooting stars.”
I freeze in my tracks. “Orla,” I say. “Enough.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but then snaps it shut and shakes her head, running off to join her cousins.
Distressed by our conversation, I beg off the family outing to the diner after our run and head home to ice my foot. The pain eases up some, but by evening I’m experiencing shooting pains when I stand on it to heat up my dinner.
“Figures,” I say, pulling out my laptop to look up what sort of doctor I might need.
Orla and I made a vow to Helen that we wouldn’t ignore health concerns.
Even though she always went for her well-woman visits, she never spoke up about the abdominal pain she was experiencing until it was too late.
By the time my wife’s cancer was discovered, she was well past the point where treatment would have been effective.
I inhale and think. The likely culprit is probably running, but sometimes a sore joint could be a hint that something else is wrong.
When your wife dies of cancer in her 30s, it’s easy to assume every ache and pain is simmering cancer.
I decide the foot pain is probably just a muscle or joint pain, and groan when I look up “foot doctor.” Podiatrist just sounds like an old-man word.
I remind myself that it’s a gift to be old, to live long enough for aches and pains.
I click on the podiatrist who offers online scheduling so I don’t have to wait until Monday to call.
I stare at the appointment confirmation email.
Here I am with a podiatry appointment. Sure, this is the perfect time to ask my former girlfriend if she wants to spend a romantic night with me in the woods.
Maybe we can bring a cane and some adult diapers while we’re at it. Really turn up the sex appeal.
Orla’s comment earlier about the shooting stars reminds me that I have kissed Elizabeth by starlight before.
We never went camping together, but we went out exploring after dark plenty of times.
Back then, there was less light pollution in the city.
We could wander deep into Frick Park and sit by a creek, listening to the rushing water, making out in the moonlight.
It felt daring to break city ordinances about parks closing at dusk, and it felt good to kiss each other in the open air, our warm bodies pressed together, so young and curious.
Sitting on my sofa, alone in my house, I realize that my body has once again responded to thoughts of Elizabeth Burns.
I move my computer to the side and look down at my pants.
My own body has become a stranger to me in this way, like maybe it’s somebody else’s erection throbbing and twitching in my lap.
Swallowing, I close my eyes and reach into my sweats.
I gasp as I touch myself, my skin hot. My breath quickens as I pull up the memories of those makeout sessions with Beth.
I recall how young we felt, how alive. The thrill of pleasure, still new to us as teenagers.
My hand closes around my cock as I remember sliding my palm up Elizabeth’s shirt, my tongue plunging into her mouth.
I remember her breathy gasps as I pinched her nipples.
She didn’t even wear a bra back then, and I didn’t know enough to realize how sexy that was.
My hand moves faster, fist clenching tighter, pressure mounting.
I start to wonder if she wears one now, imagining her body in black lace, bare for me. Here in my house.
I shudder and my abs clench as I come on my chest, gulping for air as the orgasm rushes over me like a tidal wave. I look down at my sticky hand in surprise, knowing I’ll repeat this action again and wondering if Beth ever does this same thing.