Abomination Read online

  He had been wary about moving back in with his mom and Steve at first because he truly believed that you could never go home again. That once you were out, you were out for good. That your parents wanted to get on with their lives and didn’t want you back. But his mother and Steve had accepted him with open arms, and the transition had gone more smoothly than anticipated. Since he had come home relatively often during his college and post-graduate years for holidays and the like, his parents hadn’t touched his bedroom. His mother assured him, with a sly smile, that his room would only be turned into the dedicated sewing room she so desperately wanted once he was absolutely gone for good, which wouldn’t be until he was married. Jamie’s biggest worry about moving back home was that, despite the DMD after his name, the three of them would slip back into the comfortable-yet-strict parent-rebellious teenager relationship that had existed during his high school years. He couldn’t begin to count the number of times his mom and step-dad had uttered “This is our house and you’ll live by our rules, young man, or you’ll find another place to live.”

  His worries, though, had proved unfounded. Despite the fact that his mom and Steve were still the parents and he the child, they quickly afforded him all of the respect and privacy he could have wanted. Things had been shaky for a couple of weeks as everyone acclimated to the new dynamic, but once his mother and Steve came to terms with the fact that their little boy was now an adult, and a doctor at that, a balance was struck, one they all could accept and live with comfortably. Home felt like home, and he couldn’t be happier.

  Jamie made his way up the walkway, fished his keys from his bag, and unlocked the front door. He slipped into the house as quietly as possible, pulling the door closed behind him. He stepped out of his shoes and was no more than four feet into the foyer when the smell of freshly baked pastries wafted out from the kitchen, tickling his nostrils. The sweet aroma was accompanied by the equally delightful voice of his mother as she sang along with the radio. Jamie followed his nose and ears into the kitchen, where his mother stood at the counter, her back to him, working a pie crust against the sides of round tin. She wore a white baker’s apron, and her brunette hair was pulled in a ponytail to keep loose strands from getting into her face as she worked. A fresh pan of sugar cookies cooled under a small window to her left. The song on her lips as she moved was Janice Joplin’s immortal “Mercedes Benz”.

  The scene was so peaceful, so perfect, so Americana, it could have been immortalized in a Normal Rockwell painting.

  “Hey mom,” Jamie said, dropping his bag on the kitchen table. He walked over to her and kissed her gently on her cheek.

  “You never kiss me when you get home anymore,” Leslie Whitman said, a smile on her face. “You must want something.”

  “Smelled the cookies,” Jamie admitted. He reached out to take one but was thwarted by a well-timed blow from a batter-covered wooden spoon. He rapidly withdrew his bruised hand, a look of mock horror on his face. “Not cool,” he said.

  Leslie turned to her son. She was a petite woman, no more than five-foot-four, and Jamie towered over her. But she had a certain presence about her, an almost divine fortitude that always made her seem much larger than she actually was. She was thin, though not in an unhealthy way, and her facial features were soft and kind. The only blemish that marred her otherwise smooth skin was a one-inch scar on her right cheek that BrianWhitman, her first husband and Jamie’s biological father, had left her with the night he had disappeared from their lives forever. Though closer to fifty than forty, she had an air of renewed youth about her courtesy of both her second husband and her second chance at life. For her, age was truly nothing more than a number.

  “They’re for dessert,” his mom said. “I know how many I made, and I’ll know if you take one, young man.”

  “I thought we had an understanding, mom. That you can’t treat me like I’m seven anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but your still my son. And you will not ruin your dinner with a cookie.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Jamie said.

  “And don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

  “Yes mother.”

  His mom sighed. Jamie knew she hated being called mother as much as she hated being called ma’am. “How about you make yourself useful and go set the table for dinner. Steve just called. He’ll be home in ten minutes.” His mother turned back to her pie.

  Jamie did as instructed, pulling plates and bowls, cups and utensils, from their respective cabinets and drawers in the kitchen and arranging them on the dining room table. It took him only two minutes to complete this task, and when he was done, he returned to the kitchen and turned his eyes to his mother, taking pleasure in watching her as she blissfully worked at making the world’s best apple pie. It filled him with a great contentment to see her so happy in her skin, enjoying the simple pleasures of life. After suffering at the hands of his birth father for thirteen years, enduring emotional and physical violence and pain on an almost daily basis, she truly deserved this: a beautiful home filled with love and warmth, a husband who raised neither voice nor fist in anger, and a respectful child who did as he was asked without complaint.

  “How was work today?” his mother asked, not turning from her task.

  “Fine,” Jamie said. “Weird. The usual.”

  Monstru. Abomination.

  The words cam unbidden to his mind, sent a shiver down his spine. He kept them to himself for the moment.

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  Several minutes later, the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed through the house. Steve Gorman, Jamie’s stepfather of ten years, entered the kitchen. He was fifty-seven years old, ten years older than Leslie Whitman, but appeared no older than forty, a fact he attributed to his daily workout routine, healthy eating, and excellent genes. He ran three miles every morning, played tennis twice a week at the local racquet club, and lifted weights in the basement every other day. As a result of these activities, Steve’s facial features retained a youthful, elastic quality, and his body more closely resembled that of a twenty year old athlete than one belonging to a man on the wrong side of fifty. He was not tall, standing just under six feet, but he was imposing in his own right, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw and dark, inquisitive eyes that seemed to penetrate whatever his gaze fell upon. He wore his dark brown hair pushed back and kept his goatee square and sharp.

  Leslie drifted over to her husband as he shed his suit jacket and kissed him quickly on his lips. He kissed her back then hung his charcoal jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Do I smell an apple pie baking?” he asked, lifting his nose to the air.

  “For dessert,” Jamie warned. “You go after it now and I promise you’ll get nothing but bloody knuckles. And maybe a splinter.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Jamie, be a darling,” Leslie said, “and get the salad from the fridge. The dressing is on the door. And Steve, the brisket is in the oven. Could you take it out and cut it?”

  Both son and husband went to work without question or complaint. That was the power Leslie Whitman had over the men in the household; they did as they were asked because she had earned their respect by being a strong but fair mother and wife.

  Minutes later, the three of them were sitting at the table, enjoying the food and each other’s company.

  “So how was work, Jamie” Steve asked as he drenched his salad in a lite raspberry vinaigrette dressing, reiterating Leslie’s question from earlier.

  Jamie spent ten minutes telling his mother and Steve about his day and the motley collection of patients he had treated. Or attempted to treat. He told them about Khalif and Bunny, about the young woman who claimed that her babies had stolen the calcium from her teeth while in utero and the man who was receiving alien transmissions through his fillings.

  But he didn’t mention Elena Ionesco.

  “Sounds like the Mad Hatter’s tea party,” Steve remarked.

  Leslie
kicked him under the table, eliciting a yelp. “I would expect a little more sympathy from a therapist,” she said, half smiling.

  “Steve’s right, mom,” Jamie said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with a bunch of lunatics at the clinic. I think they do it on purpose, attract the weirdoes to prepare us for private practice. If we can treat these people without killing them, we should be able to handle anyone we’ll treat in the real world.”

  “You know, Jamie,” Steve said, swallowing a lump of meat, “it’s been ten years. Can’t you call me dad yet?”

  “You keep asking me that and I’ll start calling you Dr. Gorman again, like I did when you were my therapist. How’d you like that?” There was no anger or resentment in Jamie’s voice. This was a little game he and Steve played once a month or so. Steve felt that, after being married to his mother for so long, Jamie should call him dad, or even father. Jamie simply wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready. He liked Steve. Loved him, even. And that was exactly why he couldn’t bring himself to call him dad. The only man he had ever called dad had been an abusive, sadistic monster, and the association between the concepts of father and monster was firmly etched in his mind. Jamie felt that if he started to call Steve “dad”, he would begin to associate the horrible traits of his birth father with Steve, and that was something he didn’t want to do.

  Steve grunted in response and turned to his wife. “And how was your day?” Leslie was a school nurse at the local middle school and had enjoyed a quiet day off because the public schools were closed for the holiday weekend. Steve, a psychiatrist who ran a private practice, was also off from work but had spent the afternoon in the office catching up on charts and billing.

  “Good,” Leslie said. For the next ten minutes, as everyone finished the exquisite Friday night feast, Jamie’s mother and step-father shared stories from their own days. Once everyone had stuffed themselves to bursting with brisket and leftover turkey and salad and sweet potatoes sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon, Leslie retreated to the kitchen and returned moments later with her apple pie, a plate of sugar cookies and a tub of Breyers French Vanilla ice cream. Jamie cleared the dishes and brought them to the kitchen while his mother laid out the dessert. He dumped the plates into the sink and retrieved a freshly brewed carafe of coffee, three mugs, a canister of sugar and a carton of cream. He poured everyone coffee then took his seat.

  The three consumed dessert with the same relish as the meal itself. Jamie swore that his mother could transform garbage into a feast that was not only edible, but so titillating to the palate that one would clamor for seconds moments after finishing his firsts. She could have worked in the finest Manhattan restaurant if she desired to, designing new recipes or preparing hundred-dollar-a-pop meals. He sometimes felt her ability was wasted on just the three of them. He had asked her about it once, several years ago. She had smiled and said that cooking for the three of them was work enough and rewarding enough. She didn’t want to be mother to everyone who passed through the doors of a fancy restaurant, forced to please hundreds of strangers. She preferred healing the aches and bruises and pain of children at school.

  Once every mug was empty and every plate licked clean, Jamie moved the dirty dishes to the kitchen. He was getting ready to rinse them off and load them into the dishwasher when the cell phone at his hip twittered. He looked down at the caller ID on the front display. It was Samantha. He looked up at his mom, who was entering the kitchen carrying the uneaten portion of the apple pie in one hand and the empty coffee pot in the other. “I have to take it. It’s Sam. Probably wondering when I’m going to be over.”

  “Go,” she said, shooing him away with the pie. “Steve will help me finish cleaning.”

  Phone ringing, Jamie launched himself from the kitchen and loped up the stairs, taking two at a time. He didn’t answer the call until he was in his own room, away from prying ears. He was an adult, but being home and around his parents instilled him with the same insecurities he had known when he was in high school. He didn’t like talking to his girlfriend where his mom or Steve could overhear snippets of his conversations. It made little sense, but teenage anxieties rarely did.

  Sitting on his bed, Jamie opened the phone. “Hey,” he said, a smile on his lips.

  “Hey,” a feminine voice on the other end said.

  Jamie looked down at his watch. It was seven o’clock. His bags were already packed, meaning he could leave in five minutes. “I’m just finishing dinner now,” Jamie said. “I’m going to leave in a couple of minutes. I should be in Philly by eight fifteen.”

  This was countered by a violent sneeze and some sniffling on the other end of the line. Jamie frowned. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t think you should come down this weekend, Jamie,” Samantha said. “I’m not feeling great. And I’ve got a lot of studying to do. Two tests on Monday and I have to start getting ready for the mock boards.”

  “That’s never stopped me before. I can make you tea and soup. And rub your back for you. And who better to help you study than someone who just did all of this crap last year?”

  “I don’t want you catching this from me, Jamie.”

  “You’ve known me for over three years, Samantha. Have I ever gotten sick before? I’m not afraid of a little cold. Besides, I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks.” Last week she had been in Chicago with her parents for a family reunion. And they had decided to spend Thanksgiving with their respective families. “I’m not going to let your little cold keep me from seeing you. It’s already been too long.”

  “It’s not a good time, Jamie.”

  Suspicion began to creep into the back of Jamie’s skull. He said nothing for several moments, turning the volume on the phone all the way up and listening intently. He could hear a television in the background, but that wasn’t all. He could also hear a man laughing in concert with the generic laugh track accompanying whatever it was he was watching.

  “He’s there, isn’t he,” Jamie hissed. It wasn’t a question. “You promised me, Sam. You fucking promised me.”

  “It’s not what you think, Jamie,” Samantha returned, her voice suddenly defiant. “He’s just here studying with me.”

  Jamie could hear the lie in her voice. In the pitch, in the timbre. If she had been standing before him, he would have seen the telltale lip curl and the subtle eye twitch that so often betrayed her.

  “So you don’t care if he gets sick?”

  “He’s not staying the weekend, Jamie, like you do. He’s not sharing a bed with me. He’s not fucking me. (Did he detect a lie there?) And he’s leaving in a couple of minutes. It’s not the same.”

  “Whatever,” Jamie said, exasperated.

  Samantha’s voice softened. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “I promise. We’ll make plans for next weekend.”

  “Fine.” But it wasn’t fine.

  “Talk to you tomorrow. I promise. After he goes home, I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. So I can be healthy next weekend. For you. So we can spend all weekend together. Maybe not even get out of bed. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Love you,” Samantha said.

  “Love you, too.” Jamie said reflexively.

  The line went dead.

  Jamie dropped the phone from his ear, placed it on his nightstand. He collapsed back into the gentle embrace of his bed and closed his eyes. “Motherfucker,” he said. He wanted to break a wall, wanted to throw something, wanted to roar. Wanted to let the rage that was slowly building inside of him loose. If there ever was a time to give in to the anger, wasn’t this it? While watching his three-year relationship with Samantha, the girl of his dreams, the girl he thought he was going to marry, start to unravel?

  But he didn’t give in to the anger. Didn’t throw or break anything. He slowed his breathing and reeled the anger back in. Stepped on it, buried it, as he always did. Controlled it. Submerged it. He wouldn’t be like his father. Wouldn’t
submit to the base instincts which threatened to consume him. He was a man, not an animal.

  Not a monster. Not an abomination.

  As he lay in bed, he knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised by this turn of events. Things had been rocky ever since he graduated back in May when he returned home to northern Jersey, leaving her to her own devices in Philadelphia. She wasn’t the kind of girl who handled separation well. She needed the comfort of knowing that her man could be at her place at a moment’s notice to give her a backrub or cook her dinner or fuck her. She needed constant gratification, constant validation, the immediate fulfillment of her whims. He worked nine hours a day at the clinic and currently lived an hour and a half away from her apartment. He couldn’t simply hop on the turnpike every day after work to see her. It was far from a convenient situation, but he knew that he could handle the separation for a year. After all, they saw each other almost every weekend. He had convinced himself that, after three years of commitment, Samantha would be able to suffer their year-long separation for the sake of their future. It appeared he had been wrong. But he couldn’t prove that she was actually cheating on him with that rich, arrogant scumbag Peter Fauerbach. She hadn’t confirmed his suspicions. Quite the opposite, she had vehemently denied them.

  But his gut told him that she was fucking him. And his gut was rarely wrong.

  He was almost positive that she was playing him, manipulating him using both his feelings for her and her own sexuality, keeping him in her back pocket, hoping that he wouldn’t discover her dalliances, hoping that she could screw around with someone else while he was distant but keep him close enough so their relationship could return to normal once she had graduated (assuming nothing better came along in the meanwhile). As Jamie laid there, his mind throbbing with all of the gory possibilities, he actually cracked a small smile. She was so manipulative, so good at the game. Three years was a lot of time, a lot of energy, a lot of memories, a lot of emotions to casually toss away because of suspicions. He was a sentimental fool and she knew it. She would allow him free reign because she knew that he wasn’t the type to cheat, not the type to break up with her based on nothing but unsupported fears. And when things began to get strained, when the relationship seemed tense to the point of snapping, she would do what she needed to do to reel him back in. Like promise him a weekend of nothing but wild sex which would undoubtedly prove to be mind-blowing.