Page 50 of Challenged By You
Propping herself up on one arm on my chest, her fall of hair cascades over, blocking her face. I brush it away. “Will you tell me why?” she asks.
My heart constricts. Sweat breaks out across my brow, not from the remembrance of pleasure we shared a while ago as I feel her breasts push against me, but from memories. Remembering the love Mom took the time to give me before… “Mom was a nurse. The night she died, she was late going to work.”
“You mentioned she was gone.”
“She was hit by a driver running a red light.” Even now, the words taste as bitter as an apple on my tongue to speak.
Trina’s hands smooth over me. And I absorb her touch, memorizing it, because when she hears the truth, what will happen? Will she turn away?
I finally blurt out, “She was running late to get to the hospital because I asked her to peel an apple for me before Julian and I went to Karlson and Lucy’s. No, asked is the wrong word.” I shake my head in frustration. “I threw a freaking fit. I said…I said…” And the burn behind my eyes causes me to squeeze them together. I don’t even know if Julian remembers what I said to Mom that day.
If you love us enough, you’d stay, Mommy.
Prying them open, I brace myself for the disgust I feel to be visible on Trina’s face. Instead, I find a quiet empathy. I honestly don’t know what’s worse. “Anyway, when you asked me if I wanted applesauce that first morning, I couldn’t be nice and say yes. I can’t eat them, can’t bear the smell of them cooking, anything. It’s because I caused my mother to…”
“Stop.” Trina’s voice is a lash. My lips part, not to speak but out of shock. “Do you realize how many times a day my children complain about doing something? Or they tell me they hate me? Do you remember us running into you the day of the shots?”
“Well, yes.”
“Chris had just finished asking for a new mother. One who wouldn’t make him get a poke.” Trina says the words matter-of-factly, but I know they must have stung at the time. “Why do you think he was so all fired up to go to an almost stranger?”
“I never even thought about it. They’re not normally good with people?”
“They are; they just normally wouldn’t leap from my arms to go to someone. There are days parenting hurts, Jonas. There’s the good kind and the bad kind of hurt. But trust me, it goes both ways.”
Smoothing a hand down her cheek, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Annie is a monster every time I try to make her nap, and Chris tries to choke me when I cuddle with him to read. I’ve heard the ‘Mean, Mama,’ ‘No fun, Mama’ and, my favorite, ‘Grandma—or Dada—better.’ The twins are two, and they’re not getting their way. Do I hold that against them? No. Does it hurt? Only until the next time they come up and wrap those little arms around me and tell me they love me. I don’t love my children any less; I never could. The problem, Jonas, is you never got the chance to wrap your arms around your mother again to thank her for peeling that apple.”
I crush Trina to me, burying my face into her neck. My shoulders shake even though tears don’t come. I think the little boy cried them out too long ago.
But inside, I realize I suddenly desire the taste of apples. And that sparks an idea—one I’m not quite ready to share with the woman in my arms. I need to talk with her boss first.
Long moments later, I feel her lips at my neck. “I have no doubt your mother loved you, Jonas. After all, she peeled the apple, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, Trina.” I hug her tightly before loosening my arms. “She did.”
Resting her head on my shoulder, Trina begins to draw patterns through the hair on my chest. “So, tell me about her. What was her name?”
“Doria.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It means selfless.” I feel Trina smile against me. “I looked it up in college. For years, I thought that meant she sacrificed herself for me.”
“No, I think it simply means your grandparents had the foresight to aptly name a woman who believed in helping others long before she knew what she was meant to be—a mother and a nurse.”
Twisting us so we’re face-to-face, I trail my fingers along Trina’s jaw. “Be careful, Trina. I might start to like you more than I already do. And that was already a lot.”
“Just remember, I’m the raving lunatic who serves you mac’n’crap and you’ll get over it.” She pats my cheek condescendingly.
I slap her ass in retaliation before we both break up laughing. Then in the quiet of the room, I share with Trina as many memories of my mom that I can remember before I roll out of bed, pull on a pair of pants, and drag her to the kitchen to find something to munch on.
It may not be on either the culinary level of what we had for dinner or her pastry skills, but I’m pretty impressed with the way I slice the cheese and arrange the crackers. “And,” I tease her, taking a punch to the gut as I do, “it surpasses mac’n’crap.”
But I don’t think she cares what the hell we munched on when I drag her over to my never-used dining room, lay her on top of the table, and feast on her before I pick her up and carry her back to bed.
Chapter 19
