## Archive-name: homecomming2

From: basmith@newshost.li.net (Brenda Ann Smith)

Subject: Kate and Emily: Homecoming, Part Two.

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

Homecoming, Part Two. (5/28/96)
Momma looked at you, sizing you up as I introduced you. "This is my...friend, Kate McMullen. Kate, this is my mother, Mrs. Leah Forrest."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Forrest," you said, extending your hand. "I've heard much about you."

"Good things, I hope," Momma replied, smiling. She turned to me. "Y'all got a lot of luggage? I didn't know whether I should get one of those carts."

"No, just a bag apiece," I said. We waited as the carousel began to turn. Momma made small talk about the heat wave that seemed to hover over Memphis; it had reached almost 100 F two days ago. "I like your hair," I told her. Her silky blond hair was cut short and angled into her small, fair face. "It's quite a change for you."

"Amy suggested it, and I figured what the hell. Couldn't make me look any older," she said. She winked at me.

"You don't look old at all," I assured her. "You never did."

Our bags finally came around. You grabbed both of them and we strolled out of the airport to the parking lot. It was still hot, close to 90 F and humid. Typical Southern weather.

It was a thirty-minute drive to my parents' home. I noticed that Bill and Amy's Honda was parked in the driveway; they were probably staying with Momma for the duration of Daddy's hospital stay. Momma pulled her car behind theirs and we trudged up the lighted flagstone walk into the house.

"We're back," Momma called out.

Bill and Amy appeared from the kitchen. They looked exactly the way I remembered them. We exchanged hugs and kisses and I introduced you.

"Are you the artist Kate McMullen?" Amy inquired.

"That's me," you said, smiling.

"I can't believe I'm actually meeting you. I'm a huge fan," she gushed. "The last time we visited Emily in New York I visited a gallery with some of your paintings. The prices were a little steep for me, though I've been saving up for a while now. The next time I go, I'm getting one for sure."

You chuckled. "If it means all that much, I'll get your address from Em and ship one to you. No charge."

"Oh...wow!" She clasped her hands together and giggled.

"Why don't y'all get settled," Momma suggested. "I'm sure it's been as long as day for you as it's been for us."

"Good idea." I motioned for you to follow me to my room. "It's so amazing that she hasn't changed a single thing," I commented after I flipped on the light. I stood with my hands on my hips and surveyed the room. Still those mint green comforters, the same flowered wallpaper on the walls. My various awards hung on the walls and the trophies stood on my chest of drawers, dustless. "I can't believe it."

"Neither can I." You picked up a white satin sash. "Homecoming queen?" you asked, reading the red glittered letters.

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up." I closed--and locked--the door behind me and pounced on you. We both fell back onto a bed. "Kiss me."

"Gladly." Your hands squeezed my ass as your tongue explored my mouth. "Ugh. I still feel that Dramamine. I'm going to have to sleep very soon."

"So go to sleep," I said, tousling your hair. "I suspect we won't be doing much tonight besides sitting around the kitchen table and catching up."

You wrapped your arms around me and hugged me tightly. "I love the feel of your body against mine. I like it more when we're naked, but this is good, too."

"I like my body when it is with your body," I quoted E. E. Cummings. "It is quite so new a thing."

"Okay, you have to get up so I can get to the bathroom." I reluctantly crawled off you. You leaned down and began to open your duffel bag but stopped. "I think I'm just going to sleep in my clothes. I don't feel like changing."

"Or you could sleep naked," I suggested, winking.

"You'd better get back out there, or your mother's going to wonder what you're doing in here," you replied. "Give her my apologies."

I hopped off the bed. "I'll see you in the morning. Or in a little while, if you're still awake." I kissed your forehead before leaving.

Momma was standing in front of the open refrigerator when I got into the kitchen. "You hungry, darlin'? Want me to fix you something?"

"We had dinner before we left the city," I told her. "I could probably eat again, but I won't."

"Why not? You look so thin," she said, scanning my figure.

"I've gained about ten pounds since you last saw me," I said, laughing.

"Must be because I haven't seen you in so long," she said. "And I don't say that to make you guilty. I know that it's hard for you to get away from your job. Daddy and I kept talking about getting up to New York to see you but..." Her voice trailed off, and she turned back to the refrigerator. "How about some cheesecake?"

Momma made the best cheesecake. "Maybe one really, really skinny slice."

"Did someone say cheesecake?" Bill asked, wandering into the kitchen. "I could do with a slice of that myself."

We all sat around the table in silence as we ate. Finally I asked, "So what did the doctors say about Daddy?"

Momma sighed heavily. "That he's lucky to be alive. That he's going to have to make some serious changes in his life to stay alive."

"When is he coming home?" I asked.

"The end of the week," Bill replied. "They're keeping him for observation."

"Did you tell him that I was coming?"

"I told him this afternoon when I visited," Bill said. "He was very happy about it. He's got some good jokes for you." He grinned.

Daddy was a Methodist minister. What I remembered more than anything about all those sermons I sat through as a child was that he managed, every week, to have a new joke. In all my years, he never told the same joke twice. When he wrote his sermons he would use me as a test audience. I was the only person he told ahead of time: not his secretary, not Bill, not Momma. Just me. It made me feel so special.

"I just feel so ordinary," I sobbed. I was sitting on my bed, my arms wrapped around my legs, drawing them to my chest. "I'm not really pretty like Momma or really good at sports like Bill or really smart like you. I'm just average and I don't want to be like this anymore."

"You are not average, young lady," Daddy said sharply. "There ain't nothing on this earth that's average because everything God creates is extraordinary. Just because you don't realize how special you are doesn't mean that you aren't." Those words kept me going through junior high and high school.

I wondered if it hurt him to know that I went to community college for two years because my grades and test scores just weren't high enough to get me into a four-year university. I wondered if his heart ached when he thought of me "interning" (translated: glorified coffee maker) at those independent television stations when I could have gotten a better-paying job elsewhere. I wondered if he had to defend me against his friends and colleagues who asked why his almost thirty-year-old daughter wasn't married to a nice Methodist man and started a family.

I wondered if I had disappointed him.

"You can sleep in tomorrow morning," Momma said. "Visiting hours aren't until two o'clock." I nodded. She laid her hand on my cheek. "He's going to be so happy when he sees you."

I returned to my bedroom. Momma and Bill cleared the dishes in the kitchen while they talked about Bill's job. He was an attorney and Momma wondered whether his firm minded him being out of the office this week. He assured her that they didn't and he would make up the hours--and the money--in no time.

You were lying on top of the comforter when I came in. You looked like you were sleeping and as much as I didn't want to disturb you, I wanted more to feel your arms around me. I lay down next to you and whispered, "Kate?"

"Mmm?" you mumbled, stirring slightly.

I pushed back against you, my back to your front, and reached for your arm. I laid it over my waist. You snuggled closer and tightened the hold.

"Kate?"

You didn't reply. When I woke in the morning you were already up. I heard you taking a shower in the bathroom. I rolled over and glanced at the alarm clock: eight twenty-three. My body was on New York time, so it felt later.

You emerged in a cloud of steam from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your body and another around your hair. "Good morning. How'd you sleep?"

"All right, I guess," I replied, sitting up.

"Something you want to talk about?" you asked, sitting next to me.
I shook my head. "Nothing that I can talk to you about. It's between me and my father." You nodded understandingly.

We spent the morning touring Memphis. "Before we leave," you told me, "I want to go to Graceland." I laughed. We did some shopping and had a late lunch before going to the hospital.

Momma, Bill, and Amy met us in the lobby. It took no longer than three minutes for me to remember how much I hated hospitals, the staff, the smells, and even the putrid pastel colors everywhere. We took the elevator up to Daddy's floor.

"What do you want to do?" I asked you. It was everything I could do to keep from reaching for your hand. I needed to hold someone's hand.

"I'm going to stay out here with your family," you said. "Don't feel like you have to rush or anything. I know what this is like." You leaned closer and whispered into my ear, "I know that I can't, but pretend I'm giving you a big hug and kiss right now."

"And you're holding my hand," I whispered back.

You drew back and gazed intently into my eyes. "And I'm holding your hand."

I'd never seen Daddy look the way he did when I opened the hospital room door and stepped in. He looked pale. Pale and weak. And old. My memories were of a young, vigorous, robust man. But this was my father: the name next to the door said so.

"Emily." He smiled and tried to sit up.

"No, no," I almost yelled at him. "Just--just stay like you are. No need to get uncomfortable for my sake." I pulled up one of two orange plastic chairs next to his bed and sat, unsure of what to say first. He was surrounded by whirring, beeping machines attached to multi-colored wires that led somewhere beneath the white hospital sheet.

"I can't believe you're really here," he said. He reached out for my hand, and I laid it in his. "I can't believe it took a heart attack to get you here." He laughed but then, seeing my face screwed up trying to fight back tears, he stopped. "It was only a joke, sweetheart."

"I know, Daddy," I choked. "I know."

"Life been good to you?" he asked.

I nodded. "My job is going very well. I'm getting the better stories. I'm looking into some other offers."

"You still dating that boy? I forget his name."

"No. He and I parted ways," I said, lowering my head.

"Just as well. He wasn't a Methodist anyhow," Daddy replied. "What was he?"

"American Baptist."

Daddy snorted. "You dating someone else now?"

"No."

"Well, you've still got plenty of time, sweetheart," he said, squeezing my hand. "Momma said you brought a friend down with you?"

"Her name is Kate McMullen," I said. "I interviewed her about a month ago and we became friends. She's an artist."

"It's important to have friends," Daddy said, nodding.

We sat in silence for a long time. I looked at the ceiling, the floor, out the window--everywhere except at Daddy. I couldn't stand to see him that way. It hurt my heart.

"The one thing I regret about my life," Daddy said quietly, "and I've never told anyone this, not even Momma, is that I waited so long before I decided to have a family. I was thirty- four when I met Momma, thirty-five when we married. Very uncommon during my time. All of my friends had already married and had a houseful of almost-grown children when Momma had Bill. And now I'm close on to seventy and I'm not too sure how much time I've got left."

"Daddy!" I said, abhorred at unusual morbidity.

"Let me finish," he said. "Before I go, more than anything else in God's world, I want to see you married. I want to hold your children, my grandchildren, in my arms. I want to see you build a home for your family.

"I never said anything while you were growing up because I didn't think it was fair to pressure you that way," he said solemnly. His hand gripped mine harder. "But I'm telling you now because I'm scared. I'm terrified. I don't want to die--"

"Daddy," I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"--I don't want to die," he repeated, "without knowing that you will be all right."

I didn't say anything on the ride home. I went directly to my room and opened your duffel bag, dumping the contents onto the floor. "Emily, what're you looking for?" you asked, closing the door.

"Where's the damn pregnancy test?" I muttered.

"It's in the bathroom," you replied, staring at me.

I locked myself in the bathroom. I ripped open the box and tore open the foil package containing the square test. I read the directions. I peed into the cup, took the syringe, and dropped five drops of urine into the test window. I sat on the toilet lid and stared at my watch. About every thirty seconds I checked the test. The control window turned pink.

"Emily? Are you okay?" you called through the door. After five minutes I picked up the test and stared at the results. My hands--my whole body--shook when I saw it. "Emily?" you called again, trying the knob.

I knelt on the floor in front of the bathtub, my forehead resting on the cool porcelain edge, and cried.

Last modified (12/24/96 14:11:06) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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