Chapter 21

Deana remained on the edge of the bed for a long time after Candy left. She was picturing her mother standing, facing her. The robe hung open, a side snagged on the crown of each breast. Her mother made no effort to close it. Deana’s eyes had moved from where the fleshy globes rested on each other, down over the flat stomach to the strawberry hair, and back up to find her mother’s hazel eyes. Candy leaned forward, kissed Deana on the head, and left the room. Looking at the closed door did nothing to reduce Deana’s shame, so she walked to the mirror and stared at herself. Her bent arm crossed her face and pressed to her lips. The memory of her mother’s tit would be stuck like a song in her head. There was only one way to get rid of it.

“What’s wrong with you?” Deana asked, her reflection. “You just proved what kind of person you really are, and already you want”—Shaming herself wouldn’t make the desire for Candy disappear. The woman was her mother, her father’s wife, and Cindy’s lover, so why did Deana want her more than ever? Obviously, I’m not a good person, Deana thought.

Her father filled Deana’s mind. He would be home soon. What if he had gifts for her and told her how much he missed her? Maybe he would tell her how pretty she was, ask about summer vacation, and surprise them with plans for a trip to the beach. Wouldn’t that make it better?

What if her father had come to more of her ball games, cheered for her, coached her team, taken her shopping, showed interest in her friends and her life, and let her date boys? The man was her dad, after all, and everybody is supposed to love their parents. Once upon a time, was there a loving father who held her and bragged to all his friends about the most beautiful baby girl in the world? She must have held his hand, sat on his lap, and rode on his shoulders. It didn’t seem possible that the man never paid attention to her before things changed. At some point, he must have taken her to his room during a thunderstorm or chased monsters out of the closet. Now, Deana saw her father as the monster in the bed. Why?

Deana didn’t know. There was a wall in time that blocked her memories. Not all of them, not completely, because Evan was always there, and to some degree, Candy. Maybe he did love her, and that was his way of showing it. I love Evan, Deana thought, he’s my brother, and we have sex, and I went to great lengths to seduce him. Gloria, her kid sister, Deana had taken the girl to bed, even involved her in a threesome, but she loved Gloria. And Candy, oh, how Deana wished Candy hadn’t walked away. She was fully aware that her mother was vulnerable, knew how Candy hurt and missed Cindy, and she took advantage of her likeness and tried to make love to Candy. But I love them, Deana thought. Maybe her father did love her, and that was his way of showing it.

Aunt Sally said she was a mirror image of Sandra. Deana’s back thudded against the wall; she slid down, rested her forehead on her knees, and hugged her legs. When his wife died, her father needed her, and Deana looked so much like her mother. Maybe I was too affectionate, cuddling and rubbing against the wrong spot. Had she given him the wrong signals?

That must be what happened, I made him think that’s what I wanted, and that was his way of loving me. Nobody would have a daughter just to—Wait, did I ever tell him I didn’t like it? No, Deana thought. I did everything he wanted as well as possible so he could finish quickly. Of course, he thought I liked it and considering all the things I have done, why wouldn’t I? All this time, she had made John out to be evil, but as far as Deana knew, her father had never seduced his sister or committed adultery with his mother. Certainly, the man had never had a same-sex relationship. This is all my fault. Deana fell on her side in a fetal position and cried herself to sleep.

The following morning, Deana didn’t remember how she got in her bed or much of anything. Sleep is an excellent way to clean the slate for a fresh start. She looked around the room. A clean slate only lasts until the brain starts scribbling and the memory express train gets rolling. She cried herself to sleep like a child.