Finding Parker (17 page)

One.

“Thank you. I think. I like listening to you, too. It’s like you’re a mentally challenged mini Shakespeare. Not as eloquent, but far more fucking satisfying,” I grinned.

Two.

“Mini Shakespeare. Why thank you. And I have no idea why, but I find it attractive when you curse,” he smiled.

The street lights illuminated the interior of his car with blue-ish warmth. His facial features on the right were shadowed by the rear of the car, making him appear even handsome. As I studied his face and smiled, his index finger followed softly along my jawline. I closed my eyes softly and became hypnotized by his touch. As his finger reached the tip of my chin, I crossed my legs.

You better stop that shit, Parker Bale.

“Good fucking deal,” I whispered, my eyes still closed.

Three
.

“You need to stop touching me, you’re driving me crazy,” I whispered.

Four.

“And you, my dear, have driven me crazy since the day we first met. To imagine spending my life without you in it makes me feel ill. Whatever it is you’re doing to me, it’s working,” he said softly.

Five.

Fuck.

“I have to go, I’m sorry. My mother…” I opened my eyes and felt along the door for the door handle.

“I understand,” he responded.

As he opened his door and walked toward my side of the car, I grinned. When he was a few feet from my door, I pulled the handle, opened it, and stepped onto the surface of the parking lot.

“Why can’t you wait for me to open the door for you?” he asked.

“I can. I like screwing with you,” I smiled.

Cautiously, he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into his chest. Softly, I lowered my head to his shoulder and closed my eyes. This was the time I so looked forward to.
The touching.
Although I yearned for it always, it came when I needed it the most; immediately prior to our departures. Having it continue in this manner allowed me to practice and exercise resistance to further sexual advancements. As I inhaled a shallow breath of his cologne I felt as if I was growing.

“What did you mean? The
whatever you’re doing to me, it’s working
comment?” I asked as I opened my eyes.

With his hands clasped behind me, continuing to hold my waist to his, he leaned away from me and looked into my eyes.

“
You make me weak
, that’s what I meant.  By merely being, Victoria. You make me weak,” he whispered.

I smiled.

“And you, Parker Bale, make me feel strong – more and more with each passing day. When you hold me in your arms, I feel as if I’m growing. Odd but true.”

He leaned forward and encompassed my lower lip between his and kissed me deeply. My entire body tingling, I pressed against his shoulders, slowly pulling free of his kiss.

“See? Strength,” I said as I gripped my clutch in my right hand.

I shook my head and smiled, “I damned sure need it to leave a kiss like that. Goodnight, love.”

I continued to shake my head as I walked toward my car. I unlocked my car and tossed my clutch into the passenger seat. As I looked over the top of the car toward him, he acted as if he fainted against the side of his car. I rolled my eyes and waited anxiously to see what he had to say.

As he stood up straight, he grinned, “See? Weak.”

My elbows resting on the top of my car, I smiled, “We’re perfect for each other.”

And in my heart of hearts I knew that to be true. 

VICTORIA.
“You should turn the television down, mother. It’s so loud,” I suggested as I walked past her.

She looked up from her position in the chair as I walked by, but offered nothing in response to my statement. In recent weeks, her dependency of narcotics and reliance on my provision of them was becoming rather stressful. I’m sure my having lost my job and the amount of time I was now spending with Parker wasn’t helping matters. Stress always brings on a change in attitude with me, which in turn manufactures more stress. Frustrated with my mother’s condition, I shook my head and stepped into the hallway.

“I’m going to shower and go try to find a job,” I screamed into the living room.

She reached for the bottle of OxyContin on the table beside her. As she fumbled with the lid of the bottle, I shouted again. It seemed as if the extent of our communication had become small bursts of shouting and never an actual discussion of any nature. What Parker and I had developed provided me with a sense of peacefulness I have never felt here. My interactions with my mother had become much more torturous since meeting Parker.

“I said I’m going to shower,” I hollered.

“I heard you,” she yelled as the lid snapped from the top of the bottle, dumping the contents into her lap.

I rolled my eyes as I turned to walk into the living room and pick up the mess of pills. Something as simple as opening a bottle had become difficult for her in recent months, it was as if her need for the narcotics had become greater, or her pain had worsened. Either way, she was now in a more medicated state and her motor skills were deteriorating.

“I’m fine. I’m a grown woman, Victoria. I don’t need you to do
everything
for me. Take your shower and go get a job,” she bellowed as soon as she realized I was walking in her direction.

“Mother,” I sighed.

“Don’t
mother
me, Victoria Lillian,” she hissed.

“Fine,” I huffed.

For me, nothing has ever compared to taking a shower. From a relaxation standpoint, life couldn’t possibly offer anything greater than warm beads of water beating against my naked body. The sense of security I felt in the shower was second to none. Or me, it was a reminder that this was my time alone, and as long as I stood in the water, I was alone and would remain alone. The warmth of the water softened me mentally and allowed me to find a tranquil state I was incapable of finding elsewhere. Since childhood, I have always looked forward to my time in the bath or shower, and I often showered twice a day. Generally, I would stand in the stream of water and sing until there was no hot water remaining.

Today was no exception.

As I patted my hair dry, I considered what I may wear to meet Parker and Kenton for lunch. Something about being in Kenton’s home caused  me to feel as if I needed to dress up, and not wear my typical casual attire. I’ve never looked at myself as ugly, and I haven’t felt I lack self-esteem, but dressing up always made me feel a little
more
beautiful. As I pressed the towel into my skin, I mentally dressed myself.

The little dress I bought for my job interview would look cute. It was a few years old now, but I had only worn it once. I could wear it with my little flats I got at the mall last year. It would at least look to my mother like I was going to look for a job, and not going to lunch.

Draped in a damp towel, I walked through the living room toward my bedroom.
Jerry Springer
blared from the television. I didn’t need to see or hear what was on the television to know exactly what was happening. Someone was screwing someone else’s girlfriend, and there would definitely be a baby involved. One of the two male hillbillies, the one emotionally committed to the trashy female, would succumb to a DNA test. After a commercial break, he would find out he was not the father of the child. A fight would ensue, and be broken up by the staff just prior to the knockout punch. The crowd would cheer through the entire debacle for more. Angry, I shut my bedroom door and provided what little barrier I could to filter the noise as I got dressed.

Ridiculous.

To think my mother’s life had become
this
– permanently positioned deep in her recliner, high on narcotics, fumbling for her next pill as she watched yet another episode of Jerry Springer. I yearned for something normal with her, but was well aware life with her would more than likely bring nothing more than this.

Unless something changed.

I often visualized that one day I would come home and find her in the kitchen cooking dinner. In the dream, she would announce to me although the pain was still noticeable, she felt it could be managed. Later, after a few days of living in a lesser medicated state, she would realize she was nothing more than an addict, and accept my suggestion to receive some type of treatment for her addiction. After a thirty day treatment program, she would emerge a different person.

I wanted to introduce Parker to her, and have her accept him as being who he was to me. To do so now would be an exercise in futility and an embarrassing situation for me. Frustrated, I got dressed and looked in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door.

Beautiful, simply beautiful.

Eager to meet Parker and see Kenton and Downes again, I opened my door and walked toward the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes and I’ll be out of here.
It’s strange how things change in life. Before Parker, I had no reason to do anything but read, work, and take care of my mother. Although I was never satisfied with my mother’s state of being, I was not as frustrated as I am now. I was at that point in time, however, satisfied with my life as a whole. Now, my annoyance with her condition was at an all-time high, and I wanted her to change. I hoped for a normal life with Parker, and to have any resemblance of that with her in
this
state was nothing short of impossible.

“Will you at least turn it down enough that I can’t hear it over the hair dryer?” I asked as I walked past.

Nothing.

I turned to face her and in doing so realized she was asleep. It wasn’t uncommon for her to fall asleep immediately after taking a pill. It was as if the initial jolt of whatever the narcotics provided was just too much, and it would cause her to pass out. After an hour long nap, she would awaken in a more medicated state, sometimes angry she had missed a portion or all of whatever was blaring away on the television. Quietly, I stepped into the room, turned down the television, and placed the remote control in her lap beside her hand.

Silence.

Pleased at the sound of
nothing
, I walked in the bathroom and shut the door. After fifteen minutes, my hair was dry, curled, and my make-up done. I’ve never used a tremendous amount of make-up, and always felt the less I used the better I looked. We all, however, need
something.

Satisfied my only improvement could be to have Parker by my side, I opened the bathroom door.

Silence.

Feeling frustrated with her in general but fractionally guilty for not telling her the absolute truth about my whereabouts for the afternoon, I walked into the living room to tell her goodbye. I lowered my lips to her forehead and kissed her gently, being careful not to wake her. Her skin felt cool against my warm lips.

Probably her lowered heart rate
.

I kissed her again.

This isn’t normal
.

I brushed her hair aside and kissed her again.

“Mother, I’m leaving,” I pressed my hands against her upper arms and softly shook her.

“Mom,” I pressed harder.

“No. No. No. Don’t do this,” I reached behind her shoulders and tried to help her sit up in the chair.

The sheer weight of her body prevented me from lifting her from the seat. I released her shoulders and pressed my hand against her forehead. It felt cold against my palm, but not
that
cold. Frantic, I unzipped my clutch, pulled out my phone, and made two phone calls.

“Nine one one, do you have an emergency?” the operator asked.

“Yes. It’s my mother. She isn’t responding and she feels kind of cool.”

“Your address. What is your address, ma’am?”

“648 Wichita Ave, El Cajon. She won’t. She doesn’t respond.”

“Ma’am, I’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately. When did she last show signs of responding or speak to you?”

“Uhmm. After. After I took my…no I mean before. I’m sorry, I’m nervous. It was before my shower. Maye thirty minutes ago.”

“Is she taking any medications or did she ingest anything that you’re aware of? Does she have any allergies?”

“She uhhm. She just took an OxyContin. Or I think she did. She was taking one when I was getting into the shower. I asked her to turn the T.V. down. Can you hurry? She doesn’t feel really cold, just kind of cold. Like just not really normal. ”

“Does she have a history of using pain killers, ma’am?”

“Yes. She had an accident at work. She takes them daily. Can you hurry?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re en route now. It’ll be a few minutes. Are you near her now?”

“Yes, I’m standing here in the living room.”

“Softly open her eyelid and describe her pupil, the black center portion of her eye. Let me know if it’s large or small. Are you comfortable doing that for me?”

“Yes, just a minute.”

“It’s tiny. Is that normal? Is it supposed to be big?”

“The pupils dilate ma’am. They change from large to small, back and forth, depending on medical condition. I’m simply collecting data. Is your house number visible from the street? And can you describe the house to me?”