“No.”
“Come on, Mike,” she groans. “It’ll be fine. All of my friends are going.”
“For the last time, sixteen is too young for that kind of thing. It’s not safe.”
Susan falls quiet and toys with her frosty blond hair as she leans back against the refrigerator. Dressed neatly in long, white pants and a white top, she blends in with the appliances and cabinets.
She doesn’t usually give up this easily. I retreat from her smug gaze by slipping on the scorched, orange mittens and peering through the oven window.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, singing the last two syllables.
The phrase ignites memories of similar offers I could never refuse. Her mimicry is more incalescent than the blast of heat from the open oven door. Momentarily staggered, I say, “No deals.” The pan of dark red lasagna continues to bubble as I recover and carry it to the table. “Let’s eat.”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Her crisp voice echoes off the granite counters and floor.
I keep my back to her, nursing a finger overheated through a thin spot in the mitten, grateful for a distraction from my trembling.
The icemaker clacks behind her. “I’m not a virgin anymore, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say to the table. The heat creeps over my face.
“It’s been a long time since Mom died, Mike. You never go out. I‘ll bet you’d like to throw me down and… fuck me?”
I turn, trying to understand how she could say those words so coolly.
Still leaning with her one leg crossed in front of the other, still pulling at her hair, Susan twists her face into an almost believable enticement. “A big, rugged guy like you could make me do most anything. I wouldn’t know how to stop you.”
My neck prickles and my hands sweat as I leave the mittens and walk slowly to her. No makeup hinders the beauty of her translucent skin, or her blue eyes. The scent of her freshly washed, damp hair mingles with her peppermint breath. “I never thought I would hear you say… those things.”
Her eyes darken under my shadow. “I know how to turn you on,” she says. “Try me.”
I carefully take the hand from her hair, close my eyes, and lightly press her fingers to my lips. Her icy touch reminds me of the stinging cold toes that awoke me most mornings. Susan’s pupils are wide in anticipation when I open my eyes. “You would have to do whatever I wanted,” I say.
She tries to quieten a gulp. “You could tie me down,” she whispers. “That way I wouldn’t have a choice.”
Her breath across my cheek burns my ear. I can barely stand.
Susan pushes her Popsicle finger between my lips to rest on the tip of my warm tongue, “Do we have a deal?”
The refrigerator motor kicks on, emitting a noisy hum. I pull her finger away, saying brightly, “You do your mother well, but Carol was never that serious. The things we said to each other were part of a game. The deals were only a pretense, to have fun.”
Susan pushes me back toward the table with both hands on my chest, and walks as far as the kitchen doorway. Turning suddenly with clenched fists, she says, “I hate you. I never understood what she saw in a big jerk like you.”
Sitting at the table, I take a long drink from the glass of water near my plate. I make minute adjustments to the two, neat place settings. “Sit down,” I encourage. “I’ve made your favorite.”
Susan’s expression is a mixture of frustration and relief. A loud exhale accompanies her walk to the table, and she falls into her chair.
I place a serving of lasagna on her plate. “You must have heard everything.”
She jabs at the food absently. “I used to hate waking up every morning to you two laughing in the next room.”
The image sparks a longing for the role-playing games with Carol that always deteriorated into giggles and passion. “We didn’t know you… heard us.”
“I miss it now.” She puts some of the noodle mixture on her fork, sniffs, and blows through pursed lips. “I just wanted to feel what that was like. I wanted to be happy again, like you two were.”
“I miss her, too.”
The morsel disappears into her mouth followed by several more. Her slender jaw moves rhythmically consuming the lasagna and her sadness.
I poke the serving on my plate to let the flavorful steam rise from the middle as I watch her eat. The sweet scent of onion makes my eyes water. Her face flushes a little more with each bite. “How is it?”
She warms into a full, shoulders down smile. “You did okay this time,” she says, “It’s good,” and she blows on another forkful.
Susan is the lucky one. She sees only a reminder of Carol in me. Through the wafting vapor I can believe Susan’s mother still lives, only slightly disguised by her daughter’s youth. The similitude of every wrinkle of her nose, every furrowing of her brow, and every calling of my name torments me.
Susan catches me staring, and adds, “Almost as good as Mom’s.”
“Yes, almost.”