Work Out Come Back

I'm an unfamiliar bed and it's an unfamiliar feeling. Even when I didn't have my trio of balls and chains, it always seemed to end back at my place. And I am sharing this unfamiliar bed with a familiar little ball of energy that is already awake and poking me and begging to go on our way. A finger pokes my cheek and I try to bite it off. I'm too slow. In my defense, I am still asleep.

"No biteys," says Louise, "If I'm driving, then I need all my fingers."

I groan and turn my back on her. I need rest. Yesterday saw me finally getting used to being carsick. Today will see me getting rid of my homesickness and the hotel bed is surprisingly good to us. Mostly because we beat it into shape last night.

"Rachel, I will leave you here," she continues.

"I'm fine with that," I mumble.

"Then you'll never feel Saoirse's boobs again. If you're ok with that, then I guess I am too."

I am not ok with that, as it turns out. I would like to feel them against my body, running on my back as she reaches around and tends to me. I would like to see Troy play and nestle between them. I would also like to see Troy at some point, his back working as he pumps into someone else. And I would like him to pump into me. The hotel bed can only take so much of us, and considering how much Louise and I worked it, I think it would seek legal reparations. Louise pokes me again and I have no more biteys in me. I just have yawnies and stretchies. And falling out of my clothesies. The curses of wearing a tank top to bed, and the boy shorts could not handle the woman's need. I'm hard and tenting and suddenly I'm not the only one who wants to stay in our hotel for a little while longer. Shame she's decided to be the responsible one.

I get up and stretch and my morning wood bobs and stretches out my poor shorts even more. But they glide down easy enough. Louise finishes zipping up our luggage as I finish up my shower. The hotel shampoo probably isn't the greatest for my hair, but it gets the sleep out and it smells like clean. Louise brought her own and I'm not allowed to use it. I can use her soap though. Now we smell the same and everything's clean and zipped up and put away. I couldn't calm myself down, but that'll fade in time. It bobs when the thought crosses my mind. It doesn't appreciate that delayed gratification. It will quiet down. Not quite when we hand in our room keys, but the clerk doesn't comment on the obvious shape.

The car's right where we left it, surprisingly. I always thought those things tended to roam when not hitched just right. But I put our bags away and hop in the passenger seat, downing that magic pill that's supposed make it all better. It tastes like oranges and I do not like the taste of oranges. But I like the taste of vomit even less. Louise adjusts the seat and I don't know why. She's the one who drove last and we are gone.

The road opens up and we see endless rolling green. Cornstalks and cornstalks and some cornstalks and what looks to be cornstalks. We pass a silo and that's fun. There's a name on the silo that says 'Sneed's' and I read it five times before it disappears. It's the most stimulated I've ever been. The map says we have about four hours to go before we arrive. The friendly little voice confirms it. We could have done it in one long stretch, but there was work yesterday, so we split up the trip, just the two of us. My phone goes off.

"Drive safe today :)," says the phone. It's from Troy. I tell Louise what the phone said and that she should listen to the phone.

"I'm already listening to the phone," she says, "It's telling me where to go."

"If you crash, don't apologize," says the phone. It's Saoirse this time.

I ask the phone why. The phone says that it implies guilt and that it could be used against us in court. I relay the message and Louise just shrugs.

"I'm not going to crash," she says, "So it wouldn't be my fault anyway. Maybe if you were driving."

I do not disagree, but I would not know. I think I can drive. I have driven a moving truck before, but most people do the driving for me in that case. The littler cars just get out of the way in case I get in a squashing mood.

Louise is tense. She's really tense. I watch her knuckles tighten and flex and break as the road rolls underneath us. The corn does not help her feel better, even when it turns into trees. She likes trees. She does not like lakes. She is appreciative of mountains but does not seek them out.

"Louise, you don't have to worry," I say, "My parents will like you."

"You say that," she sighs, "But still. It's always a thing. It could always be a thing. Not the same skin color, and kind of gay. One of those alone is a deal breaker for a lot of people, and the two together could be a nightmare. I'd hate to give your poor parents a heart attack."

"If they say anything weird, I could probably kick my mom's ass. Dad may be a tossup, but I can at least give him something to think about."

"You can't kick your mom's ass. No one can kick their mom's ass. There's too much psychological armor on her. As soon as you get mad enough to hit her, she'd just give you a look that might actually kill you."

I consider the scenario. And it scans. Probably would get grounded for a month with no TV and no internet, left to stew and think about what I've done, no dessert and a corner with my name on it.

"Nothing is going to happen," I say as I put my hand on her. She nudges it back and I take it away. She's driving. She needs to focus.

"I'll probably get really embarrassed," I continue, "But nothing will happen to you."

Louise hums and nods and tries to let the nerves calm. I would be nervous too. I am nervous. There is always the thought that this could be it. That this little meeting could fizzle out everything and my wonderfully secure house of cards falls apart. I go back to a studio and being frustrated and breaking things and scaring cab drivers, gym goers and the general public without a proper release system. And more than that, I'd be sleeping alone without a Louise or a Saoirse or a Troy for warmth. And they wouldn't have a Rachel for warmth either. But it will be fine.

---

We hit a sparsely packed suburb with lawns that probably should be farmland. They are all just carefully tended lawns. Some of them have trees with swings, pools that may actually be ponds, and a few have a little section for corn and vegetables, trying to cut out the honest grocery store that's like a full day's drive away. I think I see a chicken coop or two as well. No horses, unfortunately. We turn down a road and we come to my parent's house. My mouth turns to a hard line. They actually went through with it.

"Are you sure they're home," Louise asks.

"Ok, so," I sigh, "I hoped that it wouldn't look like this, but they're 'rewilding' their lawn. I didn't know what that meant when I talked to them. And now I know what that means. And now this is what it looks like."

It looks overgrown, grass up to my waist, brambles and burrs and spikes and snakes and everything terrible and biting slithering in the underbrush. They at least have more trees than I've seen from the neighbors, and I doubt the HOA is giving them any trouble. But it's still a shock. Driveway's clear at least. I think. Maybe. There's just a short line of grass with tire lines that Louise decides is for us. It's bumpy and scary and I am now embarrassed. I think I see a tiger poke its head out from the grass. Louise takes it slow, knuckles still tense and anxious on the wheel. My little carsickness pill is fading, but we are almost there.

I thank every god I know that my parent's house is still standing. The paint is still clean and fresh. The roof is still standing. Mom's old truck is still old, but it's one of her projects, so I imagine it could outperform most military hardware. And there's a fun little open barn shed thing out back. There's a man out there working on something else clandestine and top secret and probably worth disappearing over. Paradigm shifts and revolutions and I just now realize there is an honest to God forge in there. I am petrified. The car is safe, and I want to go back to my home with my Louise so my Saoirse and my Troy can make me feel better. Then a man comes out with a long clean beard and a beaming smile and I that does make me feel better. My seatbelt unfastens and my door opens, and I think there's my Louise behind me. I go a bit too fast to make it seem calm and controlled.

"My little ray of sunshine," dad whispers as he hugs me tight. He smells like work and sweat and home.

"Hi dad," I say into his chest. He's taller than me and I hate him for it. I need to be the tallest. Troy is technically taller than me, but only just and if I just go to my tiptoes then I can make up the difference. Not with dad.

We have a moment together in the wild lawn, something sizzling and sputtering and sparking in the shed, but it doesn't matter. It's just him and me and a vague impression of something else I love moving behind me awkwardly. I should probably break and introduce them. Dad gives me three kisses on the crown of my head before I have to go away.

"Dad," I say, all the nerves simply gone, "This is Louise, my girlfriend. Louise, this is my dad, Isaac."

He smiles the same smile as Louise holds out a hand to shake.

"Do you hug," he asks and she nods and I almost lose her in his chest. He's gained a little weight, but he's got the muscle and the shoulders and everything more or less proportional. Probably enough mass and density on him to be bulletproof. The beard's longer than I remember, but at least it's better than that one time he had mutton chops. Eyebrows are a bit bushier, but I also think that's just part of working outside. Things get sweaty and disheveled and out of place.

Louise breaks free, looking completely shell shocked and I don't blame her. Dad hugs are intense and wonderful, and I want another one. But then Louise would have to get one more, and I don't think she can handle it right now.

"Rachel," says a voice from the real house and I perk up all again.

"Hi mom," I say, "Dad's been hugging my girlfriend. Girlfriend Louise, this is Mom Sofia."

"And now she's back to talking nonsense sentences," moms sighs, "Does she do that a lot with you?"

"She sometimes calls me 'A Louise,'" the one and only Louise says, "But I think it's kind of cute."

Mom looks a bit more like Baba, but I will say nothing because both of them look fantastic. They have the same laugh. She's starting to gray, but only a little. She's wiping her hands on a towel before putting it over her shoulder. I'm in her arms again and I love the fact that I'm taller than her. I hate that one of the hands leaves but I am pleasantly surprised that Louise fills the gap. More hugs, we need more hugs all the time.

"Not you," mom says over my shoulder, "You need a shower. You're almost as bad as when you started composting."

"Hey," shrugs dad, "That worked out great. And now we have tomatoes and peppers forever."

"We do, and that's amazing. You're amazing. Your next project is going to make me a sword that will cut the world in twain. But you still need a shower. And you two need to come in. I have cookies that need to be eaten."

---

My mom makes good cookies. My dad makes less good cookies, but he has other talents. I am having a good cookie. Louise is also having a good cookie. Mom is back in the kitchen moving through the pots and pans and setting everything in motion. Dad's just finishing his shower and Louise is sitting next to me and she has a very cuddly disposition at the moment. Our bags still sit in the front hall, but they'll find our room sooner or later.

"So, Louise," Mom says as she saunters back in and lays herself down gently in her chair, "Standard questions. Work, hobbies, how'd you meet, that sort of thing. Feel free to change the details so Rachel looks bad."

Louise giggles and downs another cookie.

"Job's HR paperwork where I get to send emails all day, and it has a title with a lot of words I can't remember right now. Kind of an audiophile, but since I'm sharing a place now, I kind of don't have the room. And well, your daughter knocked me out."

Mom gives a little huffy laugh and shuffles a bit, reaching over to take a drink from her water.

"That's honestly the best way you could have ended that sentence," she sighs.

"Was it up or out?" dad shouts from upstairs.

"Out," Louise replies, "I went to her gym and we sparred and then I was in the hospital."

"Up still would have led to the same place," Mom chuckles, "Just would have taken longer."

I'm beet red and I want to hide. I should have stayed in the car. I would have been nauseous and dizzy, but I wouldn't have to listen to my mom talk about how she knows that I fuck. I don't like it when my mom knows that I fuck. Louise is a traitor and now I don't want to like her anymore. I still do, mostly because she hands me a cookie and it's still warm. And she still saves me.

"Your turn," Louise says, "How did you two meet?"

"Work," dad says. He's clean, dark hair tied back and still a little wet. He's decided to wear a shirt, but it's sleeveless, so I'm not sure if that still counts. Mom scooches and moves and lets herself in his lap. He bends down and kisses her nose. She scrunches her face and Louise does a double take between us before keeping whatever she realized a secret.

"Longer story," Mom says, "He used to work construction. I used to work for the city's environmental office. I went out to do a survey for some public pool project and found some frogs that were on some list. He was the only one on the other side who cared about the frogs."

"I did," says dad, "They were cute. No one else liked the cute frogs. And the Plan B site was closer to my office at the time, so I'd save on gas. Then it became a whole thing that dragged on forever and the pool never got made. But we made signs and did a protest."

"No brick throwing though," moms sighs, "So it wasn't a fun protest."

"But that's history now. Probably not the most interesting thing."

"I like history," Louise says, "And I like frogs."

Dad gets a terribly devilish look and I want to hide again. I thought that I was safe, but then mom gets in on it and I am beyond saving. Louise doesn't offer a saving hand or a helpful rope as I keep falling.

"Do you want to see some pictures," mom says, savoring every sweet letter of those words. Louise perks up and I think she's going to burst through the roof. Or at least break her neck with how hard she nods. I want to hide. I need to hide. I need a soft dark den lined with moss and roots where no one will find me. I need endless night while I whimper and lick my wounds.

Mom is the one who betrays the most. She actually gets up from her comfy spot and retrieves the devil book, handing off the sin to my father and disappearing back into the kitchen. He opens the book and all my horrors come to life.

"Halloween," dad says, "She was a knight. That's her brother, Sam. He was a, God what is that? I think it's a ninja. We'll say it's a ninja."

Louise is now enraptured, her soul stolen by the pictures. There's another Halloween. There's a Christmas with matching PJs. There's first days of school and beaches in summer. Those are alright. I don't mind the ones with Baba and Gigi, although I do get a bit sad when there's one right before Gigi's funeral. He did not look good, but he was smiling in his wheelchair. And then dad turns a page and I am in high school.

"Rachel," Louise murmurs, "I'm so sorry."

I say nothing. Adolescence wasn't kind to me, all gangly and long and lanky and stretched. Open pores and acne and weird little parts of me that just don't look put together right. And I'm wearing so many sports uniforms. That was my endless phase. Volleyball and basketball and softball and various other balls that were thrown and caught and shot. Dad turns another page and suddenly I'm in uniform. I think that one is worse than the sports ones. My knuckles tense a bit and my dad turns a page once more. Now I look like me and everything's where it should be. I even have my favorite jacket now, with the fur lined neck. Louise turns back the page to me in those blue pants and white hat.

"Do you still have that," she asks. I can feel some of the other questions that sneak in under that one and I think that there is something I would like. But I shake my head and it all fades. Louise lets that question fade, but another rises up to take its place. It comes out with more little nervous knuckle taps and a poke on the back of my hand that means 'I'm sorry,' both for that and what she's going to ask next.

"Elephant in the room," she says, "Rachel is different, and I like that, but I have to know. Are there others like her?"

Dad laughs and it is loud enough to shake the windows. Mom giggles from the other room and I am back into hiding and shyness and trying to forget I exist. At least he closes this book and fiddles around on the shelf for another one. It's older, with a cracked cover and yellowed pages, but he has it in his hands and now it's open again. All the photos are in black and white, and he keeps flipping through them.

"As far as I know," he says, "There's one. My parents are the ones who made the trip across the ocean, so we kind of have a break there. I've only been back twice, and I couldn't take everything from that side of the family, but my Baba, my grandma, and before you ask, I don't know if that's the biologically correct term, was like Rachel."

He turns one more page and there is a young woman in the black and white, heavy coat down to her knees and a bolt-action rifle across her shoulders. Under her hat is a length of dark hair and her shoulder has some sort of patch I can't quite make out. She looks grim and harsh, but there is a smile in her, buried under the cold and lost in the forest. I can't help but feel that she's posing, playing something up.

Louise goes still like a head-lighted deer. She reaches for the bad photos again and finds the worst one. She looks back and forth between them, slotting together one last idea.

"Rachel," she says, "that's you. That's just you."

I bring myself to look at the pictures again and she's right. She's right. I'm there in the color and I'm there in the monochrome. I'm in a concrete lot, standing ramrod straight and fabric all crisp. I'm out in the wilderness with a beaten rifle and some old fire running through my bones.

"Her name was Ruslana," dad says, "I met her just the once. She didn't speak English, and her eyes were going. But it was like I had been one of hers all my life. Recognized me and everything. Don't really know what she fought or who she fought for in that picture, but she was there for more or less everything like that ."

Louise is still flipping back and forth between the time period and I wish she'd settle on one. I like the one where I'm in black and white. The rifle looks like a cousin of the sharp rock on a stick, but that also means it's infallible.

"I know this sounds mean," Louise says, "But it was so weird when I found out. It didn't help that still had brain damage. And now it's weird that there are more. But it's also less weird, maybe. It's weird. It's still weird. How did this even start?"

"I have a theory," dad says with a mischievous glint. Louise takes to the glint as well, drawn into the promise of secrets revealed and wonders explained.

"What do you know about Rasputin," he whispers. The fires go down low. The wind howls. The eyes go wide, and every seat is just the edge.

I take that as my excuse to leave and go help mom with dinner. I will be of very little, but I do not want to listen to this and have Louise be in more awe of me with my dad so close by. I will just sit at the counter and watch. Supervise all the little tasks and make sure that all the tastes pass the test. Mom's busy cutting dough and portioning everything out.