It's Wednesday night, and I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I'm on my way to Dallas to meet Alan and Louise. And my mother. In less than two hours, I will see her for the first time in over ten years.
I'm in the back of the GenetiTech limo with Rachel, who holds me in the palm of her hand so I can look out the window. I'm dressed in what I guess could be considered my Sunday best clothes - black silk pants and a long sleeved blue shirt that fastens up the front with Velcro, black socks, black shoes. My unruly brown hair has been meticulously combed and held in place by the tiniest dollop of Paul's pomade, which has left the top of my head feeling sticky and wet to the touch.
The Daltons really wanted to come. Or, rather, Naomi really wanted to come. She made that demand of Rachel, insisting that I would not be taken out of the house without them. She then turned to Paul for support, and lost her temper when Paul sided with Rachel. By the time we finally left, Naomi had stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. And Paul had mumbled an embarrassed apology before chasing after her.
"You look nice," Rachel tells me, moving me away from the window so she can admire me. There's something so icy and detached in her gaze, it just gives me the creeps. When she smiles, its even worse.
"Thanks," I tell her nervously. "So do you." She's wearing a short, black dress that's cut up above her knees. Her dark hair hangs loose around her cold, attractive face. Her legs are bare tonight, one crossed prettily over the other. She's wearing black strappy high heels, open-toed to show off her bright red nails.
What disturbs me is that I suspect much of her attire is for my benefit. Rachel is obviously one to press any advantage she can, and she apparently thinks I'll be more amenable to her suggestions if I'm distracted. And despite my resolve to the contrary, she might be right.
"Well, aren't you the little gentleman?" she says, baring her perfect white teeth in a fierce smile. Her arms are bare as well, adorned only by a single silver bracelet. Her fingernails are red, and meticulously manicured. It's one of these nails that touches my stomach and slowly traces its way up my chest. It reaches my chin and tilts my head up, forcing me to meet her gaze. Her nail is hard and thick against my neck, making it difficult to swallow.
"I just want to make sure we're on the same page tonight," she tells me pleasantly. "I'll be sitting in on your little meeting tonight, so I'll know if you say anything inappropriate to your mother, or Dr. Herndon or Alan. And if you say anything I don't like, I can promise you that your little friend Suzy will be in custody within the hour, facing charges of kidnapping, obstruction of justice, and anything else I can think of that will stick. Understand?"
I try to nod, but can't really move my head with her fingernail against my Adam's apple, so I croak out, "Yes ma'am."
"As far as everybody's concerned, your months with the Daltons have been filled with familial bliss. They've taken good care of you, and they're working hard to put Naomi's unpleasant affair behind them so they can move on. One big, happy family, right?"
"Right," I manage to say.
"And that unfortunate business with Cheryl and Kim?"
"Never happened," I tell her, earning a smile. She removes her fingernail from my neck. I relax and swallow several times to clear the lump from my throat.
"Now remember, there's no need to oversell it," she tells me. "If you get carried away, they'll suspect you're being coerced and we really don't want that. You don't, I don't, and Suzy certainly doesn't. Understand?"
I nod. "Yes ma'am."
"Smart boy," she says, chuckling. She uncrosses her leg and extends it out, holding up her admittedly gorgeous foot for me to admire. Her toes flex slowly in the dim light. "You like my sandals?"
I tear my gaze away from her foot, feeling my ears and cheeks burn from her scrutiny. I manage to stammer out, "They're beautiful."
"I know," Rachel says, letting her foot drop. "You be a good boy tonight, and I'll let you play on them on the way home."
My hearing begins in two weeks in Dallas, which is where I'm meeting my mother tonight. Obviously, bringing my mom and Paul together would be awkward for everybody, which is how SPECTRUM was able to justify holding this meeting in a neutral location, as well as excluding Paul and Naomi from the proceedings. As it turns out, we're meeting in the Kessler Room of the Dallas Hyatt-Regency.
I don't remember much about my mother. Her face is faint in my mind, and would have probably been long forgotten if not for the pictures in the National Mirror. I remember her hand, the soft warmth of her palm and the gentle caress of her fingers. I remember red fingernails and the smell of lotion and perfume.
I'm trembling with nervousness and excitement as Rachel carries me through the lobby in the pocket of her attaché. I hear the staccato taps of her high heels on the ornate marble stairs. The sheer size of this place makes me sick to my stomach, as do all the people milling around in the hallway. We pass by lots of people in suits, tuxedos, evening gowns... probably a wedding reception in one of the other suites. My head rings with the white noise of indistinct conversation. Laughter, singing, the occasional clink of glass or silverware...
I've never been around this many people at one time in my life, and it's scary.
Rachel carries me past the party, and into a smaller corridor. I breathe a sigh of relief as the crowd grows distant. We continue on down the hall, past numerous rooms marked with ornate brass plaques. At last, we come to a uniformed security guard standing in front of a closed door. He mutters something about identification and holds out something that looks like a large calculator. Rachel touches her thumb to a silvery panel, and the guard studies the readout. Finally, satisfied, he swipes his card and the door to the Kessler Room opens with a metallic snick.
It's a big room, obviously built for boardroom meetings. A massive marble table, surrounded by plush, black leather chairs fills most of the room. There's a counter against the far wall, with a coffee pot and a water pitcher, as well as a stack of drinking glasses. A large whiteboard hangs on the wall, covered with the faded scribblings of past meetings. Written in red, playful letters is the message, "Welcome Ray!" The letters are drawn like balloons, and the dot under the exclamation point is a heart.
A couple of men in dark, non-descript suits stand at random spots throughout the room. Each wears an earpiece, with a wire running down to his jacket. One of the men is Oswald, the hulking bastard who accompanied Rachel to Suzy's house last Saturday.
The chairs around the table are unoccupied, except for the three at the far end. I immediately recognize Alan and Louise, both of whom stand up when Rachel enters the room. A woman, vaguely familiar, sits in the seat at the end of the table. She looks tiny and fragile, almost dwarfed by the large leather chair. Her hair is jet black, which strikes me as odd, since I remember her as a blonde. Her face, though, is exactly as I remember it. A little older, a few more lines, but it's the face I remember from that picture in the Mirror. Her eyes are wide and bright, and she blinks nervously as Rachel approaches her.
"Hello, Dr. Herndon, Alan," Rachel says civilly as she takes her seat. She leaves an empty chair between her and Alan.
"Rachel," Alan replies. "I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to respect Ms. Miller's wishes to meet with her son in private?"
Rachel shakes her head. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Alan." She looks at my mom and offers a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, Cathy. It's nothing personal."
"No, it's... I mean, that's okay..." my mom says, her voice trembling and awkward. She licks her lips nervously and drums her fingers on the marble tabletop. "Where's Ray? Can I see him?"
"Of course," Rachel says with a magnanimous nod. She plucks me from the pocket of her attaché case and sets me on the table. Feeling the eyes of everybody in the room on me, I walk on trembling legs towards my mom.
She lets out an excited gasp and touches her hand to her cheek as I walk towards her. The red fingernails I remember her having are gone, gnawed to the quick. "God," she says. "You're so itty-bitty... I forgot how... I mean..."
For years, I've fantasized about this meeting and tried to imagine what I would say if I had this opportunity. And now that I have my chance, words fail me. I stare up at her, trying to figure out just how I feel. Not happy, not angry, not bitter, not sympathetic...
"I've missed you," she says, a tear on her cheek. "I'm so sorry I left you like that, Ray. God, I'm so sorry."
I approach her hand and tentatively touch her finger. I look up into her pretty, childish face, trying to reconcile this sad, awkward woman with the dim memories I have of my mother.
"It was the drugs," she tells me, her finger brushing me gently. "That ain't an excuse, but I swear that's what made me act like that." She takes a deep breath and smiles at me. It's a smile I remember, not from real life, but from the National Mirror. "But I ain't done that stuff in over a year, and I'm not gonna do it anymore. I'm ready to be there for you, Ray." She wipes at her tearing eyes and adds, "Son."
It's surreal, probably rehearsed. SPECTRUM's attorneys have probably been working with her, making sure she's ready to say all the right things in the hearing. In a horrible moment of clarity, I suddenly realize I feel nothing for this woman. She's my mother, the woman who birthed me and was so important to me when I was little. I used to love her more than anyone else in the world, but now I'm unable to feel anything other than a detached sadness. I feel hollow, somehow deprived.
"May I..." My mom turns her hand over, palm up. "I mean, remember when I used to hold you?"
I shrug. "I've seen pictures."
I regret saying it as soon as it's out of my mouth. For the briefest of moments, her face lights up at the sound of my voice. But then, just as quickly, it dawns on her what I've said and her smile collapses into face of such heart-wrenching sadness. She takes a wavering breath and wipes tears from her eyes.
"Oh Jesus, Mom," I say, running to her and climbing into her hand. "I'm sorry." Her fingers close around me and she gently lifts me to her face and presses me to her burning cheek. I smell perfume and lotion... her perfume and lotion.
"I'm not going to let them take you away from me," she whispers, still cradling me. "I'll die before I let them take you away from me."
After about half an hour, the mood of the meeting lightens considerably. Mom proudly displays the greeting she wrote for me on the whiteboard, and awaits my approval like a little girl. Louise and Alan chat with me about things at SPECTRUM, and let me know that everybody misses me. They ask me about life with the Daltons and I reluctantly lie and tell them everything is fine. But I really do miss them, I insist, and I can't wait to be home.
Louise and Mom and I reminisce about my childhood, with Louise bringing up a painful story of my obsession with a pink rubber eraser that I named Milton.
"It was so adorable," Louise says, stroking me playfully with her finger. "It had a little face on it - I think Gary drew it with a ballpoint - and Ray wouldn't let it out of his sight. He held onto it during class, during meals... he even slept with it." She chuckles. "How old were you when you finally gave up Milton, Ray?"
I shrug. "I don't know... seven or eight, I guess." Up until now, I'd totally forgotten about Milton. Leave it to Louise to drag that embarrassing incident out of the past.
Of course, Mom has to do her one better. "That's nothing," she says, giggling. "When he was two years old, he had this thing for one of my sandals."
Oh god. Mortified, I stare at my Mom and pray for something, anything, to interrupt her story. I honestly have no memory of what she's talking about, and I'd give almost anything to keep it that way.
"He'd just be crying and crying," my mother says, smiling from the memory. "And I knew he wasn't hungry, and he wasn't wet. So I'd take off my sandal and put it in the floor. And he'd just crawl over to it - he wasn't walking yet - anyway, he'd get over to it, and I'd have to help him get up on top of it. Then he'd just roll around on it and giggle. And I'd reach down there with my toes and..."
"Okay, Mom!" I say, burying my face in my hands. "Jesus, that's enough."
"Aww, he's embarrassed," my mom says, giggling.
"Get used to it, Ray," Alan says with an easy grin on his scarred face. "Mothers exist to humiliate their kids in front of their friends. That's their whole raison d'etre."
"Oh, Alan," Louise chides him. "Seriously."
"My mom has a picture of me sitting on the toilet when I was three," Alan says. "I'm butt naked and all pissed off, my little legs dangling over the edge. And you know where she keeps this photo? In a frame on top of her piano. Why? You're a psychiatrist, Louise. Why would somebody display a picture like that?"
"It sounds adorable," Louise says, giggling.
"It sounds horrible," I tell Alan. "You ought to steal it."
"I did," Alan laughs. "But she had prints made."
And so it goes for another hour or so. We talk about the weather, movies, life in general - everything except for the upcoming hearing. With Rachel there, I'm sure Louise and Alan don't want to discuss the particulars of their case.
The conversation hits one of those fabled eight-minute lulls, and Rachel takes that opportunity to stand and announce that we need to be getting back. "It's a two hour drive to Stasheff," she says reasonably, "and I really should try to get Ray home before midnight."
Get Ray home. It's not a slip of the tongue, but rather an intentional barb on her part. My mother's smile falters and she gazes down at the table. I turn and glare at Rachel, who meets my stare with her own.
"Rachel, can I please have a moment alone with my mother?"
Rachel shrugs. "Sorry, Ray. I'm afraid it's not going to happen."
"It's okay," Mom says, reaching for me. Her hand is so warm and soft, so safe. She hugs me to her cheek again, then gently presses her massive lips against me in a kiss. "I love you, Ray," she whispers as the tears work their way down her cheek once more. "No matter what happens, just remember that. I love you."
"I love you, too," I say, surprised and relieved to realize that I mean it. I place the palms of my hands against her cheek and kiss her, nuzzling the warm, tear-damp flesh. "I love you, Mom."
Smiling through incredible sadness, Mom hands me over to Alan. Alan accepts my proffered hand between his finger and thumb, and shakes it. Then, grinning, he mutters, "Aw, hell," and hugs me affectionately to his chest. "We're going to get you back, Ray," he whispers to me. "I swear to God, you're coming home."
Finally, I say my tearful goodbyes to Louise. She presses me to her breast, then to her lips. "Don't you worry about a thing," she tells me. "You'll be home with us soon." She says this loudly, for Rachel's benefit.
She hugs me to her cheek, and as I stroke the soft, warm skin, I whisper, "Suzy Le. Talk to Suzy Le." Louise gives an imperceptible nod of her head to let me know she heard me. Then she kisses me one more time, and sets me down on the table.
The atmosphere in the room gets downright chilly as Rachel slips me into her attaché case and stands up. She and Alan seem to share a lingering, knowing look between them. There's nothing romantic or smoldering about it... it's an exchange of barely contained hostility. I suddenly remember Rachel mentioning, almost in passing, that she's the one that gave Alan his scar.
I peer at the three of them from my vantage point, watching them as Rachel walks away. My mother breaks down and starts crying, and Louise moves to comfort her. Alan sits there, staring after us with an intensity that's downright frightening.
The door to the Kessler Room closes, and I find myself crying.
"You did very well in there tonight," Rachel tells me. We're in the limo, on our way back to the Daltons. Rachel holds me in her cupped hand, letting me look out the window at Reunion Tower. "I really appreciate you cooperating."
I sigh, my tears once again under control. "Look, we both know why I cooperated. So don't insult me by acting like we're friends, okay?"
Rachel shakes her head. "I'm not acting, Ray. With everything that's going on here, I think you really need at least one person you can trust. And I'd really like to be that person."
God, everything she says is so calculated. But she knows the right buttons to push, and she pushes them with ruthless efficiency. I remember my dream from Saturday night. "It's not about doing things to him. It's about making him do what we want. Or making him WANT to do what we want."
"How are things at the Daltons?" Rachel asks me. "I mean, really?"
I shrug. "Fine."
"Really, Ray," she says, raising an eyebrow. "I'm the one person in the world you don't have to lie to. Tell me, and maybe I can make things better."
"If you already know, why are you asking me?"
"Based on the bruises and contusions on your body, and Naomi's general demeanor, as well as your particular... fixations, I'm guessing Naomi takes delight in tormenting you."
"If you say so."
"I'm serious, Ray. I can stop it if you just ask me."
"Why?" I stare up at her cold, indifferent face. "Why do I have to ask you?"
"Because that's what friends do, Ray. They ask."
Which is bullshit. She wants to hear me ask because it'll make me her accomplice. If she were to take care of things without my asking, she knows I wouldn't have to acknowledge the favor. But this way, it's conspiracy. It's me and Rachel against the people that are making me miserable, and that puts me just a little deeper in Rachel's pocket, metaphorically speaking.
It's funny. Many times, I've said I would sell my soul if only I could knock that smug look off of Naomi's face. And it looks like that's exactly what I'm going to do.
"Okay, Rachel. Things are actually pretty good between me and Naomi right now. I mean, she and I came to an understanding of sorts on Sunday, and she pretty much quit fucking with me."
Rachel nods. "But?"
"But she still plays with me, and I hate that," I tell her. "Every morning, she wakes me up and makes me take a shower with her. Then she takes me to work with her and when I'm not in her pocket, I'm straddling her foot, or dangling from her tit, or whatever little game she's thought up. And she talks to me with this horrible baby talk that makes me want to puke my guts out."
I look up into Rachel's face. "I want it to stop."
"It will," Rachel tells me. "Tonight. Anything else?"
"Um..." There's a tinge of excitement about making these requests. I feel like Aladdin after he let the genie out of the lamp. Three wishes... better not waste them...
"Okay, Paul and Naomi have really got it in for Nicole these days. Paul's still pissed about the whole Cheryl and Kim thing, and Naomi lost her temper because Nicole told her to stop being so mean to me. So now the poor girl is grounded until she dies of old age."
"I'll talk to Paul," Rachel says. "I'm sure I can get that lifted."
"All right," I say. "I'd really like to get out of that goddamn aquarium."
Rachel sighs. "I'm afraid you're still something of a flight risk, especially this close to the custody hearing. But if you can stick it out for just two more weeks, I think we can come to some sort of compromise."
I sigh. "Okay, then how about letting me see Suzy?"
Rachel chews her lip. "I'll agree to one supervised visit between now and the hearing, with more lenient visitation once you've been remanded to the Daltons' custody."
I nod. "It's a deal."
"Not yet," Rachel tells me, glancing out the window at the passing traffic. "If I agree to these terms, I need your word that you'll be on your best behavior during the hearing. Just like you were tonight." She looks down at me and offers a tight-lipped smile. "If you've got problems or grievances with anybody at all, you tell me and I'll handle them. I don't want you airing this stuff in public. Understand?"
"Yeah," I say, puzzled. "But how do you know I'll keep my word?"
Rachel winks at me, an awkward gesture at best. "Because I trust you, Ray. Friends trust each other, right?"
"Right."
"So, we have a deal?"
"Yeah," I say, nodding slowly. "I guess we do."
"Great." Rachel says, crossing her leg. She leans forward slightly and, with her free hand, begins fiddling with the straps on her sandal. "What do you say we seal the deal?"
"What do you mean?" I ask nervously.
"Oh, I think you know," Rachel says. Her shoe slips from her foot and lands on the floor with a thud. And as she lowers me towards her bare foot, I realize I'm no longer certain which one of us is manipulating the other. Nor do I really care.
She slips me between her long, beautiful toes and I respond with an erection so sudden and ferocious that it makes my head spin. I stroke the soft scented flesh of her toe and lay my face on the smooth red nail. And as her toes slowly grind together, creating delicious friction, I allow myself, if only for a while, to experience the sheer joy and freedom that can only come from total submission.
Did I really want this? Or did she just make me want it? Who the hell knows? Sometimes it's goddamned hard to tell the dancers from the dance.
Giantess World
Homunculus by Cayce