Chapter 43
Seth
Gaga stares out the window of the nursing home. She’s been here for three days, and Layla has visited her each day. Today’s my first time, and I’m glad Jasmine is on her playdate and couldn’t come.
“Gaga, you want to go outside?” Layla asks. “I can push your wheelchair. Maybe you can walk a little bit.”
I stare out the window. Gaga’s room faces the courtyard, and I look down into the garden. It’s overcast and could rain at any moment, but I keep my mouth shut. Each time Layla comes home after visiting her grandmother, she’s been depressed. I found her in her walk-in closet crying yesterday. I’ve never been around a crying woman other than Jasmine. I didn’t know what to do. Not until I asked myself what Coach or Chastain would do. That’s when I pulled her into my arms and held her. She cried for a full ten minutes, and when she looked up, her eyes were red and puffy. Her cheeks were swollen, and she had clear liquid coming out of her nose, but she still looked pretty. I walked us into the bathroom, got a cool washcloth, and cleaned her face.
When I was done, I squeezed her cheeks until her lips puckered, and I gave her a kiss. She did a half laugh, half cry and I wrapped her in my arms again.
“You ruined my good shirt with your snot,” I said.
She started shaking in my arms, but this time it was from laughing.
“Seth!” I’m pulled out of my thoughts at the sound of my name and look at her. She’s standing in front of me waving her hand in my face. “Come outside with us. Maybe she can use some fresh air.”
Just as I’m about to tell her that it’s about to rain, I hear a clap of thunder and the sound of rain hitting the window.
“Fuck,” she says.
“Stella,” Gaga says. “Go outside and make sure your father didn’t leave his car window down again.” She waves her hand as if she’s signaling for Layla to go.
“I just checked, Gaga. It’s up,” Layla says.
“Good. He leaves it down and then gets mad at me. Last time he got mad, I told him to kiss my ass. And you know what? He did.” She lets out a laugh before waving us off. “I’m gonna make dinner while I watch my stories.”
After a few minutes, she gets agitated. One of the employees comes in, gives her medication, and helps her get into bed. The rain continues to fall. I’m not sure if it’s the weather, the comfortable bed, or the medication, but her eyes become heavy and she falls asleep soon after.
Layla sits on the loveseat on the other side of the room, and I sit next to her. I put a hand on her knee for comfort, but she takes it a step further and puts her head on my shoulder. I want to offer her words of comfort, but there’s nothing I can say that will make this any better. Besides, Coach’s words from a few weeks ago pop back into my head.
“What happens when she dies and Layla doesn’t need you to pay for her care anymore?”
The only thing I know is that I won’t let her go. My daughter counts on her too much. We have a routine. One that includes Layla reading to her every night, playing with her and loving her. Jasmine has an extended family now that includes grandparents who actually leave the house, and an uncle whose bark is much worse than his bite. Sometimes I’ll lean against the door and watch as Layla teaches Jasmine her letters and then reads her a book.
I’m no longer doing this on my own, and I get why Chastain is so crazy about his wife. She came into his life and became a mother to his son. In a short time, we’ve become a team. Layla does whatever needs to be done. Whether it’s cooking dinner, laundry, or taking care of Jasmine, she does it all with a smile and without complaint.
Another thing I’ve realized is how lonely I was before she came into my life. Even before Jasmine, when I had a different woman every night, I was lonely. I didn’t know it. Now, I have her with me, and even when we lie in bed so she can watch one of those crazy shows about killers, it’s still better than anything I’ve ever had.
“I think the Jeffrey Dahmer documentary starts tonight,” I tell her in an attempt to get her out of her funk.
“Will you watch it with me?” She lifts my shirt and wipes her nose.
“Fine, but something’s wrong with you. And you’re going to wash this shirt later. With bleach,” I add. I feel good when she giggles and wipes her nose with my shirt again. “Isn’t Dahmer the cannibal?” I ask.
“Yeah, and when he was a kid, he and his daddy would collect roadkill and stuff them.”
“Um, was his father a taxidermist or something? What the fuck kind of weird family is this?” I ask, totally disturbed by the thought. “And I thought my dad was weird. I guess he’d have to leave the house to pick up roadkill.” I visibly shiver at the thought.
“No. He was a chemist.”
“If you know all this already, why do you want to watch this show tonight?” I ask.
“In case there’s something new,” she says it as if it makes sense for someone to enjoy serial killer documentaries, but I don’t say anything.
“Fine, but I’m still kind of traumatized from that documentary about the one who dressed like a clown.” I shiver at the memory.
“John Wayne Gacy,” she says. “That was a good one. The police totally—”
“Enough, please. And no clowns at Jasmine’s parties ever.” She giggles at that. “Let’s talk about something else. Like how you know how to ride and suck a dick so good.”
She moves away, and her head snaps up as she looks at me in shock. Then she looks at Gaga who is snoring softly.
“What did you just say?” she asks. She looks horrified as she puts a hand on her chest.
“You suck and ride a mean dick. How do you know how to do that?”
Her mouth hangs open at my question, and then she throws her head back, overtaken by uncontrollable laughter. She laughs so hard and so long that tears fall down her face and she has to hold her stomach.
“I can’t believe you,” she says. “But, um, thanks? I think that was supposed to be a compliment.” She laughs again.
“Tell me,” I whisper. I take her hand and put it on my hardening dick.
“Oh, my god. My grandma is a few feet away.”
“I’m pretty sure your grandma’s seen a dick before. Maybe even more than one.”
She starts to laugh but ends up choking on her laughter. “Oh, god. I hope she didn’t see all those dicks at the same time.”
“Stop avoiding the question,” I tell her. “And you never know. Gaga might have a wild side.”
She laughs some more and puts both hands on her cheeks.
“You can’t make fun of or hold it against me,” she says while she now points a finger in my face. “Promise you won’t.”
“Sounds juicy, but I promise not to hold it against you. I will definitely make fun of you though.”
She takes a deep breath, and after a few more giggles, she sobers up. “Okay, so, I convinced myself that I was going to be this amazing lover, except I had no experience beyond kissing. I decided I was going to educate myself by watching porn. So, that’s what I’ve done.” She looks away from me in embarrassment.
“So, all this time you were judging me, and you’ve been addicted to porn?” She throws a punch at my arm, but I intercept.
“I’m not addicted,” she whispers. “But yeah. That’s how I know how to suck and ride a dick, as you crudely put it.” She manages to hit me on my chest. “I watched a lot of tutorials, okay?”
I look up at the ceiling as if I’m praying. “Thank you, porn gods,” I say, and she hits me again. “What’s your favorite? What’s your fantasy?” I ask. I put my arm around her and pull her close. She smells of fabric softener and that musky body spray she uses. She tries to move away, but I hold her to me. “Tell me. I’m your husband.” When she remains quiet, I say, “My dad had some porno tapes under his bed. I found them when I was about fourteen. I stole them and watched in my room.”
“You pervert,” she says.
“They were old and corny. One was about a cable man who bangs some housewife. He had a huge gut and could have used some manscaping. He looked like a bear. You want to reenact that?” I ask, suddenly liking the idea.
“I can’t even bring myself to think of your father watching porn.” She whispers the last word as if it’s a sordid secret, and she didn’t just admit to watching it herself.
“Well, what the hell else was he going to do? It’s not like he left the house to go find a woman. He probably watched and rubbed one out.”
“Eww,” she says, shivering in disgust at the thought. “And then you stole it.” She laughs. “How was he supposed to get off? Poor Pete.”
“I only took a few. He had a whole stash.”
“Why did you have to tell me this?” she asks. “Now every time I see him that’s what I’m going to think about.”
“Tell me what you like to watch,” I say. “Spousal privilege.”
“Okay,” she says. She takes a deep breath and sits up. “I like the ones where she gives him head and he pulls out to come on her tits, but some of it ends up on her chin.” My head whips around to look at her, but she’s looking straight ahead while blushing. “I like when she’s on her back and he’s plowing into her with his huge dick. The dick has to be huge for me to watch. Not all dicks are created equal.”
“You think?” I say with a snort.
“If he tells her she fucks like a slut, that’s a bonus. Every once in a while, I enjoy watching a good gang bang.” She says the last part so matter of fact that it takes me several seconds for her words to sink in.
I move away and cup her face in my hands. She looks up and blinks at me with her pretty brown eyes. “What did you just say? You like gangbangs?” I look down at her and wait. “Do you want to be gangbanged?” I whisper.
“Eww, no!” She tries to pull away but I hold her face tight. “I don’t want to be rammed by a bunch of men. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“But you like to watch another woman getting rammed by a bunch of men?” I ask.
“If that’s what she wants.”
“Do you want to be called a slut?” The indignation lifts from her eyes, and she blushes again. “Oh my god. Look at you. I bet your pussy’s getting wet, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says, much too quickly. I drop her face and stick my hand between her legs. There’s no way I’ll be able to feel anything with the jeans she has on, but she moans.
“Listen to you moaning like a dirty slut right here,” I whisper into her ear. Her eyes close and she exhales. “I bet you want me to drag you into the bathroom and take you against the wall.” Her eyes fly open and lock with mine. “You do, don’t you?”
“No?” she croaks out before she covers her face with her hands in embarrassment. I take one of her wrists and pull. “Oh my god, will you stop it? I swear, I can’t stand you,” she giggles.
“I’ll do it. I’ll cover your mouth with my hand and give it to you nice and slow along the wall. Make you purr like a slutty feline.”
“What the fuck is a slutty feline?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Like a horny tiger or something. Grrr.”
She looks into my face with a blank expression before she says, “I really can’t stand you.” She starts to giggle and buries her face in my chest again. I cradle her neck and find myself laughing too.
We laugh until my stomach hurts. Then I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. We fall silent, and the only sound in the room is Gaga’s snoring. She rests her head on my chest, and I find that I like it. Other than Jasmine, no other human being has ever been this close to me before. I never thought I’d like this, but maybe this is why Chastain and Coach are always so close to their wives.
We stay like this, in comfortable silence, until the door to the room opens and Stella walks in. She stops short when she notices that Gaga is sleeping. Layla leaves my arms to hug her mother, and then Stella opens her arms to me. I hug her and it feels nice. I can’t remember the last time I hugged a mother figure.
“Where’s Jasmine?” Stella asks. “I have some toys for her at home.” When we tell her that Jasmine is at a playdate, she says, “You two get out of here and go have a nice dinner somewhere. It’s important to have time for the two of you. And you know me and June Bug will babysit for you whenever you want. Donna too. I put a crib in Layla’s old room. Go,” she tells us.
Layla looks at her grandmother, who is still sleeping soundly. I can see she’s conflicted about leaving.
“Come on,” I say. “Let me take you out to dinner. You can always come back tomorrow.” I put my hand on the back of her neck and cradle it.
“Go, honey,” Stella says. “Gaga is just going to sleep, and I’m going to read that new Victoria Chastain book.” She pulls the paperback book out of her big purse and waves it in the air before she plops herself on the loveseat.
Layla kisses her fingertips and presses them to her grandmother’s cheek. I take her hand and we walk out of the room together. We’re only stopped a few times before we get to the door. I take a few pictures and sign some autographs, and I’m relieved when we leave.
The moment we step outside, we’re assaulted by the humid August air, and after taking a few steps to the car, the skies open up again. With her hand still in mine, we sprint through the parking lot and jump into my black Land Rover.