"Mom, I'm home," Lindsey yelled as I heard what I imagined was every piece of her luggage being dropped on the floor, "Mom."
I pulled myself out of bed and threw on a pair of yoga pants and the nearest shirt I could find, which just happened to be Mike's sweatshirt. It smelt like him . . . the faint scent of his body wash and something else that I just couldn't put my finger on. I trudged out to the living room. It had been a week since Mike's wound infection; things had once again begun to quiet into a predictable rhythm.
"Lindsey, you have to be quiet," I whispered as I hugged my daughter . . . my dear, sweet, troubled daughter.
"What's up, mom?" Lindsey asked.
"Mike . . . my friend . . . he's sleeping right now," I replied. I felt my cheeks blush a bright cherry red.
"Friend or boyfriend?" Lindsey asked. Damn the mind of a sixteen year old. She was young enough to speak her mind and old enough to know what was really going on.
"Boyfriend. How were your finals?" I asked as I walked into the kitchen to make coffee, tea or whatever caffeine I could get my hands on first.
"My science teacher . . . ugh . . . he's convinced that I'm stupid," Lindsey began. I was surprised that she dropped her interrogation so quickly, but Lindsey did tend towards the self-centered. The probably wasn't fair since every teenager I had ever met seemed to gravitate towards the self-centered. She launched into a long story about dissecting frogs and sheep eyes . . . and how gross and morally offensive it was. Only my daughter . . . she never was one for conformity.
"Cath, did you want me to make supper before you go to work?" Mike asked as he walked into the kitchen. I was thanking God that he was fully dressed. We had gotten accustomed to spending most of our time in a minimal amount of clothing . . . especially since the surgeon gave "procreation" the green light.
"This must be Lindsey. Your mom talks about you a lot," Mike said as he carefully sized up Lindsey.
"This must be Mike . . . my mom never told me about you," Lindsey said as she did the same.
"Well, do you like surprises?" Mike asked.
"Possibly," Lindsey replied.
"Well, surprise," Mike quipped. Lindsey immediately looked disinterested and launched back into her story about her hatred of school. Mike feigned interest for about a half hour before he started making supper. I on the other hand talked to Lindsey about everything from school to friends. Despite talking to Lindsey nearly every day, I could still talk to her for hours on end.
"So, Mike, how did you meet my mom?" Lindsey asked.
"I got shot in the gut. She saved my life," Mike replied.
"He really was the one that saved my life," I said softly.
"Cool. So how long have you guys been shacking up?" Lindsey replied. She didn't seem at all phased that Mike nearly died, but he didn't seem to care to share those details. She was curiously eyeing exactly what he was doing.
"Two months," Mike replied. I wanted to smack Mike for not adding in the required public service announcement saying that 'shacking up' isn't a good idea . . . no sex before marriage . . . don't smoke pot, or whatever.
"So . . . are you a CSI too?"
"Nope. I haven't been back to work since I was shot. I'm going back to college to study psychology," Mike replied.
"Cool. Are you going to be a therapist or something?" Lindsey asked momentarily interested in Mike.
"Or something. I think I want to work with serial killers or teenagers, which ever seem less lethal," Mike replied with a slight smile.
"Probably the serial killers. What are you making?" Lindsey said without missing a beat. I couldn't take my eyes off of those two. Lindsey walked around the island and all but followed Mike around while he was cooking. He smiled and handed her a knife. He briefly demonstrated how to dice onions. He then told her to have at it.
Lindsey smiled and laughed with Mike. I sat back watching them easily interact. Mike wasn't someone that I pictured liking or even tolerating kids, let alone teenagers, but again with the unexpected. They easily bantered as Mike showed Lindsey how to make chicken in a wine sauce. She badgered him a little bit about dating her mom; he badgered her about being so damn noisy.
"So . . . about this drivers ed thing?" Lindsey tentatively inquired as she began to set the table.
"It starts tomorrow," I replied as a cold chill ran through my body. My daughter on the road controlling a huge peace of metal did nothing less than terrify me.
"When are you going to have time to do the on the road practice with me? I'm only home for a month," Lindsey asked pointedly. She did have a point.
"Cath, I can do it. It will give me something to do while you're at work. Besides, Lindsey will need to know how to change a tire . . . her oil," Mike offered.
"Are you sure that you want to be trapped in a car with my daughter?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Mom, trapped . . . and you say I'm dramatic," Lindsey replied.
"If that bullet can't kill me, I don't think Lindsey can either," Mike replied.
"Funny," I replied.
"So . . . about this bullet," Lindsey prodded. I got up and left the room; I didn't want to listen to how Mike was going to explain how he almost died. I didn't need to hear it. It was bad enough that I had to see it.
"She's a nice girl," I said as I pulled off my t-shirt. The t-shirts and jeans were courtesy of Catherine deciding that my dark suits and white shirts weren't 'appropriate' attire for my convalescence. I liked them; no one had ever taken the time to pick out clothes for me. It was nice to be taken care of.
"Are you positive that you want to ride around in a metal coffin with wheels with my daughter manning the controls?"
"Cath, yes. I'll be okay. Lindsey will be okay. I want to make sure that she knows how to take care of a car. What if she blows a tire?" I replied as I carefully folded the t-shirt and placed it in the hamper.
"Well, worry wart. You're good with her," Catherine replied, "I think she may even approve of you."
"I love her mother . . . I'd like her to at least tolerate me. Right now, I'd rather not talk about Lindsey. I'd like to focus on making you a very happy, very tired woman," I replied as I unhooked her bra. I loved the lacy details; something so feminine hidden under the clothes of a ball-busting, take no prisoners, self-sufficient woman.
"Really, how are you going to do that, Michael Keppler," Catherine teased as I unbuttoned her jeans to reveal a matching lacy thong.
"I don't know. Do you want to find out?" I asked as I helped her step out of her jeans. I carefully picked her up and carried her to bed. I carefully trailed kisses down her neck, her chest, and abdomen. She trusted me. I was touched that after all I had done, she could trust me. Real sexual intimacy was based on trust; it was something I had never experienced before. I had walked in on Frank and Amy . . . and had gone unnoticed on accident. My ex-wife didn't trust me. We had Catholic, conservative, missionary position sex one to two times a month. There wasn't foreplay or cuddling afterward. It was fast and clinical, much like a business interaction.
Catherine trusted me in ways I didn't know were possible. She let me explore all of her body. Oral sex was all about trust; Amy trusted me enough once or twice. Catherine, on the other hand, she trusted me enough to make it a regular part of our love-making. She also knew what she wanted. Catherine was confident enough to guide my rather inexperienced hands. She was the best teacher I could ever ask for. My efforts were rewarded with orgasms that made my heart pound, my ears ring, and time and space stop. She seemed equally satisfied . . . jagged breathing and slightly tired, mostly euphoric.
"Jesus, Mike. Please," Catherine pleaded as I gently loved her. I loved how she would slightly arch her back . . . how she would say my name. She had a little devilish grin that would play across her pink lips.
"Please what, Catherine?" I asked as I continued to gently kiss her inner thighs.
"Love me," she said in a soft, hushed voice.
We moved slower than normal that afternoon. Rather than being fueled by a fiery passion, it was fueled by a gentle understanding. Slow, deep kisses came from lips that quietly whispered names and phrases of affection. Hands clung to bodies like they were holding on for dear life. Hips moved in synchrony to a slow, predictable beat. Time and space seemed to stop; the world was silent . . . everything outside of Catherine's bedroom ceased to exist. It was just her and me . . . loving each other as best we knew how to.
Her release was much more subdued than normal; whereas, my body felt like it collapsed in on itself. I couldn't move, I couldn't think, and I couldn't breathe. Catherine held me close to her. She said beautiful things I sometimes wondered if I deserved. Too soon, she would have to get out of bed and dress for work. Every night, I would watch her. I would creep up behind her and kiss the curve of her neck. I would silently thank whatever deity might be up in the sky for giving me another chance . . . a new life . . . someone that I wanted to be beside me for the rest of my life.
