3. Chapter 3 Staley
Chapter 3 Staley
M ondays are difficult at best, but my alarm has plans to make it even harder. A new cuddle request brightens my phone screen; seconds later, my alarm blares. Shit. If I hit the snooze button about six more times, the rest of the day would be easier to face. In a perfect world, I could quit all of this extra cuddling, but I currently reside in this house where there are past-due notices and an ailing father who had another bad episode yesterday.
Our home pops with bright-colored notes on multiple surfaces as reminders.
Do not use the stove. No driving. Staley is your daughter. Leslie is your nurse. We love you.
Decorations are all they are. Decorations we should have taken down a year ago when Dad’s overall health took a nosedive. These notes are living proof of existing in a time capsule, gathering dust and aging rapidly.
My head feels cloudy, and my body twinges as if I’m coming off a weekend bender of binge drinking. I scoff because I haven’t partied since I snuck out of the house at seventeen.
Come to think of it, I can’t recall the last time I relaxed, walked around in my bra and underwear, or ate ice cream from the container. Everything is scheduled until it cannot be—when Dad is extra confused and thinks I’m an intruder, a stranger in our home—and the schedule knows no beginning or end. Graduating will give me a much lighter schedule where I’ll only need to leave the house for respite, and groceries. Until then, I have my studies and cuddling—which isn’t bad. I’ve taken a liking to the job and the people, learning about them and helping them feel better.
I shower off my emotional hangover and search for a shirt that isn’t stained with coffee. I choose a plain white T-shirt, some workout leggings, and an oversized flannel. My dad called this my “Angela Chase from My So-Called Life” outfit. I’m more of a Rayanne who wants to wear oversized overalls, but they aren’t the comfiest clothes for cuddle sessions.
My appearance needs to be non-threatening, my clothes soft and inviting, and my scent neutral. A heartbroken person might cry, sob, or even sleep while I hold them, but I take a lot of pride in creating a safe space for them to land. A client’s body should melt into mine like softened butter on warm toast.
Leslie’s sweet, singsong voice carries back to my room, and ease settles into my body. When Leslie, my dad’s nurse, is here, I can relax about five percent of my mind. The other ninety-five percent is laser-focused on bills, managing my anxiety, and graduating college on time.
“Hey, Russell, how’s my favorite person today? I see you need a good hair brushing.”
A smile floods my face. Leslie’s work with my dad is consistent and endearing. She’s family to us.
When I was small and money was tight Dad tried feeding me canned green beans for seven days in a row: green bean casserole, green beans in a stew—heavy on the green beans, light on the stew—and green beans with margarine.
I protested like any child would under the circumstances, but my dad would smile and say, Staley, sometimes in life, we’re served things we don’t want to eat, and here’s the thing: You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. No one will make you, not even me. He showed love with his consistency the same way Leslie does, showing up without question.
Russell Monroe was—no, is—the world’s best father. His illness doesn’t negate what he’s done or the love he’s shown me. He turned our hunger into a life lesson for what I am up against now. He knew he wouldn’t be here to advise me on men and college and coffee cups with lids. He was steadfast in every aspect of my life, and hiring Leslie to care for him is the least I can give back.
Leslie drags a comb through my dad’s hair, and I admire them as the sun peeks through the blinds she’s opened up. Dust motes float through the air, dancing with Leslie’s choreographed movements. It’s always the same for Dad’s benefit.
“Morning, Staley. Want me to comb your hair before you head out too?”
The topknot on my head releases itself from the failing rubber band I’d found on my floor earlier. Dad laughs at Leslie’s joke and lends me a little smile. He raises his arm as if he plans to wave me over to the couch for a hug. Sometimes he does, but the mornings with hugs and recognition are growing more scarce.
Confusion floods his face as his silvery blue eyes dance between Leslie and me. The look is one I’ve seen more times than I care to count in the past few years; it’s like he’s lost, and he can’t get back. Dad used to say it was okay to feel misplaced sometimes, but he never gave me any sage advice for a situation such as this. His memories hide behind lonely, directionless eyes.
“Leslie! Who is this?”
I’d had boys break up with me countless times over the years. My heart has seen warfare. Dad was the one who helped to remove the shrapnel after every heartbreak. Boys never stayed put, not like my dad, anyway. He wiped up every single tear and knew every song to play to mend my aching heart. To have him forget me turns my soul into ground meat. Most times, my heartache is for him.
If I were to describe his diagnosis, I would speak of him standing with his hands cupped together, holding water. Tiny droplets slipping through his fingers a little at a time. He sees it as if it’s happening but cannot reach for anything to patch the leak. Sometimes, we hold the water for him, and when he’s having a good day, he holds it reasonably well, but there’s eventual loss at every transfer. He’d be so upset if he knew how much worry I walk around with every damn day, but I’ll do anything for him.
“Now, Russell, you know Staley. She’s the best daughter in the whole wide world. You even told me so once.”
“Did I?”
Leslie moves the conversation along, so I don’t question whether this is true.
“Hey, Leslie, can I chat with you real quick before I head out?”
“Sure, sugar, what’s on your mind?”
Giving Leslie updates is getting harder. It’s a barrage of bad news moments after she enters the door. I sigh and prepare her for the retelling of last night’s events.
“Dad snuck out of bed while I was in the shower. Mid shampoo, the neighbor pounded on the front door and the house wasn’t even on fire.”
Showers are difficult to come by when it’s Dad and I at home. Our neighbor, Noah, has walked Dad home several times over the past three years, but last night was different. At first, he’d been gracious about it—sad even—as he and my dad were great friends, the kind to share a beer in Noah’s garage when there was a game on. They were friends who never spoke about politics but could poke at one another for the state of the other’s lawn and still hang out together on the weekends.
Friends before and through the early stages of Dad’s diagnosis. When the confusion ramped up, and Noah was no more than a strange metallic taste in Dad’s mouth—a long distant memory he could no longer reach—Noah’s visits dropped off. Our refrigerator has random snapshots of the three of us in sports jerseys, watching games together. One of my favorites is Noah and I making meatballs in ridiculous aprons. His has a silhouette of a woman’s body in a skimpy string bikini, and mine has a man’s eight-pack stomach with deep V cuts at the hip.
“It was Noah. He found Dad in his garage, lying on the horn of his car. Yelling for someone to get him the keys so he could drive away.”
The look on Noah’s face was heartbreaking, a reminder of Dad’s evident decline and how he needs extra care, even when I’m home. Leslie’s face drops at the admission. She’s seen this a million times and promised never to sugarcoat things.
“Staley, you two can’t keep going at this rate. You need more in-home care. I’d come to stay with y’all, but I’ve got a family to tend to at the end of the day. It’s time to get a plan in place. I know how important it is to you to keep him in the house, and the only way you can is with round-the-clock care. It’s that or an assisted living facility.”
Her warm hands encase mine, and I feel the tenderness of a mother’s love for half a second, as she has been the kind of unwavering devotion I imagine a mother would give. It’s been Dad and I since day one when he adopted me and raised me on his own.
“I know, Leslie. Don’t get me started on the money thing. If I could, I’d drop out of school and pick up more work to pay for it. Dad insisted I stay in school, though, and I promised I would see it through.”
A deep breath is what I need right now, and Leslie senses it. Her eyes lock with mine as she inhales slowly, gesturing for me to follow suit. I parrot her, searching for the expanse in my chest. Air often gets trapped within my throat, where panic inevitably will consume me if I’m not careful. Leslie knows this. She brushes my wild auburn hair behind one of my ears.
“Staley, I’m telling you it’s okay to surrender some control. You’re young. Let yourself enjoy life. He’d want joy for you too.”
Dad laughs at the TV screen, and my heart aches at the idea that he may never laugh with me again. But I cannot stop the trajectory I’m on. I have to try.
The only momentum required of me is forward. For Dad—for us. Even if it means I must cuddle every student on campus, I’ll do it.
After my heart-to-heart with Leslie, I hustle out the door to get to the latest cuddle appointment. From the looks of it, the inquiry arrived in my inbox at three in the morning.
I’ve seen the highest influx of cuddle requests occur during particular times of the school year when breakups are at their highest: the day after Valentine’s, two weeks before Spring break, and Mondays.
Why Mondays?
1. They’re the proverbial worst, a brick in the face. On average, people don’t smile until at least 11:16 a.m. on Mondays.
2. Weekends are for drinking with friends. Power writing ten-page papers and studying for Human Biology while praying to the college gods to ensure the universe will be on your side for once.
3. Mondays are for sorting out where you might’ve fucked up along the way. The majority of breakups happen on Monday mornings. Why drag out the misery between two loved ones when Friday is on the horizon? Oh, and the brunette you kissed? Definitely not your girlfriend.
Home is about a fifteen-minute walk from campus, where most of my sessions for work are, but this inquiry is a different neighborhood entirely. Safety matters, so every single client is vetted by the agency first. Upon my arrival at the client’s house, I check in via the app so they know I arrived and check out once I leave. It’s why the first session with the client is all talking and no touching. The rules are clear, and they are very rarely broken. Hopefully, this client isn’t a one-timer because at the very least, I can sip my coffee while seated with my headphones on—giving me more time with Luca Blue.
Walking a few blocks allows me time to read over the client intake form for this appointment. My phone says the bus should arrive at 7:30 a.m., and I’m ten minutes early. There should be enough time to get me to the 8:00 a.m. appointment. Class starts thirty minutes after the cuddle session ends. If everything goes according to schedule, I won’t be late for my second poetry class.
I have no time to miss anything, not a cuddle appointment or a class I’m desperately trying to get into.
I recheck my watch—7:28 a.m.
Don’t fixate on the time, Staley. The bus will get here.
The client’s name is Theo. No last name is listed. His address is in a nicer part of town with three-story row houses encased in old brick and verdant ivy.
7:30 a.m. Panic sets in.
My hand taps my leg as I mutter some grounding words. To my relief, the client has prepaid and left a twenty-dollar tip, enough money to offset the bus trip, and a monthly subscription to Luca Blue’s unique content—the dream of all dreams and my only vice.
The cuddle agency requires clients to complete a small questionnaire before their first appointment with me.
Why do you need a cuddle? My therapist suggested exposure therapy.
What exactly is the exposure here? Is he afraid of touch? Cuddling?
Do you foresee yourself using our services more than once? Yes.
Would you like a male or female cuddler? Female.
Please leave any other comments necessary in the box below to help our professional cuddler best serve you. I’ve never cuddled before.
This never happens. A virgin, sure, but I’m not in the business of sex.
A virgin cuddler? No, ma’am.
To think there are people out there who have never even spooned before is a bit mind-boggling.
Most of my cuddle clients are on the back end of a breakup—lonely and missing a physical connection with someone safe. They want to feel again and be held without judgment. My body settles, and my chest warms, thinking of my connections with clients. I’ve sworn off all romantic relationships—because who has the time?—and I pour myself into other people who are experiencing hurt, sadness, and isolation.
I get the occasional “my family dog died, and I can’t tell any of my guy friends about it” and the random “I can’t fall asleep without someone petting my hair” request, but never do I get an inquiry at three in the morning for a virgin cuddler.
The bus is three blocks down. I check my watch—7:35 a.m. Better late than never. I turn up Luca and prepare myself for the day ahead. There is cuddling on the books and poetry classes to tackle.
I’ve been thinking about what you might want from me for a long time.
Because the bus was a few minutes late I now have to run four blocks. I only drop my phone twice, and somehow, I manage to keep Luca’s voice to a dull moan so as not to blast anyone’s ears with his orgasmic recording on the way. The stairs at 365 Williams Street are composed of symmetrical red brick. The front window near the door hangs ajar, allowing the curtains to flow out softly. It’s a bit chilly out. I’m surprised to see it open at this time of year. I shudder as the breeze hits my sweaty skin and feel confident this cuddle client will rescind his tip the minute I try to spoon him. Sweat plus cuddling is only cute when it’s post-coital bliss.
I ring the doorbell once, twice. I watch as the school crossing guard from three blocks back makes their way past me. I press the doorbell for the third time. Children are hanging their backpacks in cubbies by now and wiping boogers underneath their desks. Meanwhile, I’m steadying my breath and trying to compose myself for my very professional job appointment.
This guy needs to hurry up, or I’ll report him as a no-show and collect the fee anyway—
The sound of a chain clamors against the door as the deadbolt thunks over. The door cracks open, revealing very little of who I assume to be Theo. His hand shades his eyes from the morning light. The gleam of the sun blocks out most of his profile as I catch glimpses of wild and messy hair. I can’t tell if this guy is a student or a random person from the city.
“Mother now is not a g-good—”
“Hi, I’m Staley, and I’m with Cuddle Like You Mean It. I’m here for your 8:00 a.m. cuddle session.”
Theo abruptly moves the door as if to shut it, leaving only a sliver of space for me to look through. A fraction of his arm peeks through, and a small part of his profile exposes him biting on his bottom lip.
Wait one damn minute.
The morning breeze kicks up and pushes an aroma of citrus and ink past my nose.
“Mr. Sullivan?”