Detox

Chapter 02: Regina & Harold

If I could turn the page
In time then I'd rearrange just a day or two
Close my, close my, close my eyes
But I couldn't find a way
So I'll settle for one day to believe in you
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies

Los Angeles, 1983

“Could you repeat that?”

“Breast implants? Augmentation or whatever you all call it?”

She grips the pen a little tighter between well-manicured hands; her piercing gaze penetrating the impassioned female before her.

“Yes, I heard you the first time, Mrs. Blanchette, but I’m a little confused as to the second half of your request.”

“What’s the confusion about? Look here...”

She turns to her silent and miserable-looking companion. “Lift up your blouse, sweetheart, let her see what I mean.”

“But Mooom,” comes the low whine accompanied by features that turn a bright beet-red. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? You’re in a doctor’s office, and she’s a woman, for God’s sake! Just lift it up...like this...Bethany, don’t start with me, young lady. Why must everything be so difficult with you...now lift it or I’ll...”

Regina watches the mini-struggle for a minute; trying to remember her professional oath where she is required to always ‘listen’ to the patient before coming to a firm decision – in this case to kick the pretentious bimbo who now looks about as real as a talking mannequin. Before becoming a regular at Regina’s clinic, Mrs. Fiona Blanchette’s extensive history of plastic surgery procedures was a textbook on how not to over do things. Countless nip tucks, breast lifts, chin tucks, and liposuctions had produced a woman that was barely recognizable to even her own mother. However to those in the Hollywood community, Fiona was nothing short of a modern marvel. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five – the socialite magazines would brag – when it was clear, to those who knew her intimately, that she was in her mid to late forties.

“See what I mean?” she states breathlessly, finally managing to win the battle as she’s now lifted her poor daughter’s blouse a little higher to reveal perfectly normal-sized breasts for a girl her age.

Regina forces her expression to remain neutral. “What am I supposed to be looking at, Mrs. Blanchette?”

Fiona’s impeccably made-up features tighten with irritation. “Don’t you see how flat they are? It’s humiliating. She can barely fit anything without looking like a goddamn tomboy, and do you know how embarrassing it is to go to parties and to see her peers filling out and she still looking so -?”

“Girls in their teens fill out differently, Mrs. Blanchette,” Regina explains carefully. She flashes a brief smile at the girl who is looking at her with gratitude despite her humiliation. “Perhaps your daughter is a late bloomer, that’s all. She’s only fifteen for goodness sakes -”

“When I was fifteen, I was definitely much bigger than this,” comes the snappish interruption, and Regina forces her hands to be busy with the documentation in front of her or she’s sure she would have reached out to do something drastic and very unprofessional.

“So what are you saying?” Fiona continues, this time with a sneer in her tone. “That you cannot perform the procedure? You’re not supposed to refuse me, right?”

Counting inwardly to ten and satisfied she can look up without revealing an expression of disdain, Regina replies quietly. “Actually, I can refuse to perform the procedure if I deem it within my right as a practicing surgeon that the client will not benefit any one way or another from it. Also, if I think that the procedure might do more harm than good -”

“More harm? Her peers have had the same thing done, and they’re fine!”

Ignoring the now red-faced female, Regina focuses her attention on the teenager to ask kindly. “What do you think, Bethany? Do you want to have breast implants?”

“Why are you asking her?” comes the shrill query. “I’m her mother for God’s sake! I have the right to -”

“It is her body,” Regina states in a voice that’s cold enough to freeze steel, and this must have mentally slapped Fiona because she sits back with a gasp; mouth opening and closing comically for a second as if unable to believe anyone could speak to her in such a way. Hardly surprising considering she was married to one of the media moguls of the world. When she asked you to jump, you simply asked “how high, ma’am?”

Not in this office, Regina thinks bitterly. She turns back to smile at Bethany, who is now tucking her blouse back into her jeans. “Well? What do you think of what your mother’s suggesting, Bethany?”

The blushing teen lifts her lashes shyly, spares at quick glance at her scowling mother and looks away quickly. In a voice that’s barely audible, she mutters, “No...not really. I...I don’t think I need it.”

Regina smiles and sits back with a look of satisfaction on her features. “Well, that’s that then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Fiona asks tightly.

“It means that since she doesn’t want to have the procedure done, I cannot force her to do so.”

“But she’s not legal -”

“Actually she does have the right to refuse any procedure especially if – as I mentioned earlier – it’s for nothing more than superficial purposes or to please someone else.” She turns to smile at Bethany again. “You are a beautiful young lady, Bethany, and in time I’m sure you’ll fill out just fine. Don’t feel you have to be pressured to look like anyone else, okay?”

“Than...thank you, Dr. King,” comes the shy but grateful reply.

“Let’s go, Bethany,” Fiona quips angrily as she rises to her feet and all but drags her daughter by the arm. “We’ll find another plastic surgeon that will assist you. They are a dime a dozen in this town after all.”

She sneers at Regina in parting. “Don’t you forget it, Regina. You are a small drop in an ocean of better qualified surgeons in this city, and you can consider my services with you done. Finished. Over. You’ll regret fucking with me.”

Blah. Blah. Blah. How many times has she heard such threats before? If she got a penny for every day she received some tirade from angry or disgruntled clients, she’d be more than settled enough to retire. So threats? Check. Insults? Check. Talk of being sued for one thing or another? Check. All because she stuck to her principal of never going overboard just for the money.

It was a rarity in this town; to find a surgeon willing to work with you honestly. Everyone seemed eager to cut, dice, and slice anyone that walked through their door as long as they had the cash to spare. Regina assumed she might have gone the same route if she was that desperate, but she had grown up in a family that was willing to chip in with just a phone call, and so the talk of ‘money’ meant little or nothing to her. Perhaps that was why she fell in love with Harold...

But not to digress (as wonderful a digression as he was) – she loved her job and chose this profession in a time when being ‘a medical doctor’ was all the rage. Plastic surgery...although not new...was gradually picking up especially with the 80s kicking into high gear and more people joining the nouveau riche community. Her calling had been for reconstructive surgery – choosing to work more with patients recovering from severe burns, cleft lips or palates, or scars from whatever devastating injury they must have experienced.

Sure she still performed such procedures every now and then, but it seemed like her clientele was becoming more superficial by the second, and it was all thanks to her partner who specialized in the cosmetic side of things.

Timothy Bryce M.D. was a good friend, one of the few she had while at Stanford, and it was a no-brainer that the two top graduating students would decide to form their own private practice once they left college. It wasn’t easy at first, but with a lot of connections and determination (read as years working under superiors who were pain in the asses), Bryce & King, finally opened its doors two years ago...hardly a stone throw’s from the hub nub of Hollywood. It was something Regina had frowned upon, but Tim had insisted; stating that they were bound to get more clients that way.

And he wasn’t kidding.

In just two years, they became the talk of the town; the go-to place to get that tuck or nip to make you look perfect for your next big Oscar party or prom date. Tim was more than happy to deal with the celebrities, while Regina continued to work with the more serious cases. Her ‘mistake’ came in accepting a particularly famous Hollywood actress, who had dashed in one day begging for a procedure for a role she just had to have. Tim was, unfortunately, out of the country at the time, and Regina was forced to do the job. Needless to say, the actress absolutely adored the finished product and the next thing you know – word of mouth got around and Regina suddenly found herself dealing with more celebrities than she would have liked.

The angry tirades usually came from those she denied to work on; clients who simply became too addicted to seeking ‘perfection’ when it came to their bodies. She would usually recommend visitations with their psychiatrists, especially for clients with blatant symptoms of Body Dysmorphic Disorder. The kind of help they needed...being under the knife was going to be the least of their solutions.

She sighs and rubs her aching shoulders; gaze drifting quickly over the gilded framed photographs on her desk. There’s a picture of her husband and children posed in front of his prized Buick on their driveway with wide smiles on their faces, taken about two months ago. Next to it is a picture of her dear David; taken when he was five years old with that mass of curly brown hair she always enjoyed washing and brushing back then. Innocent, wide, black eyes were lit up with warmth in his handsome face; his pearly whites revealed in his childish grin.

How happy had she been when she discovered she was pregnant with him? It was like the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to a society that had shunned her relationship with Harold. No one had given them a chance to last as a couple, and yet here they were...nearly twenty years later and still going strong.

Next to that picture is another...this one of her miniature look-alike with the lovely caramel skin tone. She can’t help the small tug of her lips as she stares at the grinning girl posed on her stomach on a shaggy white carpet; clearly a studio shot as well. With her chin cupped in her upturned hands, her toothy grin (lost a tooth two nights before), her hazel eyes sparkling with mirth, and that mass of hair that she lovingly adorned with bows and ribbons to match her outfit...

Stephanie.

...Regina feels a little pang in her chest as she reaches out to caress the photograph gently. She hates to think of the night Stephanie had been conceived; of how angry Harold had been at assuming that she just didn’t care about becoming a mother anymore. It was a lie...sort of. She had cared, but she had tried to convey to Harold her need to be settled down; of her need to prove to her male-dominated profession of choice that she could stick around with the big boys and hold her own. Being pregnant again was definitely not something she wanted to deal with at the time, and besides...

You were so enamored with David, you didn’t really have a need for another, did you?

...she eyes her wall (where several photographs of herself and some famous celebrities, clients, and ‘medical who-is-who sit silently), and shelves filled to the brim with medical books, journals, awards, and accolades she has achieved in her life so far. Sitting smack-dab in the middle of it all is the gilded certificate/diploma telling anyone who walked into her office just who she was and why she was damned qualified to be their surgeon. She had worked hard her whole live to get to this point, and no one could take that away from her. Not even spoiled rich women who felt the rest of the world ought to bow to them.

She sighs and shakes her head; frowning a little as the memory of Fiona and Bethany seeps through her consciousness.

What would happen when Stephanie got to that age? Would she want to become as superficial as her friends? Or would knowing that her mother worked in ‘the industry’ make her want to become as shallow and flighty as many of the girls in this town?

Whatever the case may be, Regina was determined not to raise her daughter to believe that she was anything less than perfect. She would just have to find more time to do some ‘girl-things’ with Stephanie, but thanks to her ever tightening and busy schedule, it was a miracle she got to see her children for more than five hours a day.

What kind of a mother am I?

A light knock on the door breaks her thoughts and sitting up quickly, she tries to look composed and professional again. “Enter.”

A creak of the door and her assistant sticks her head in with a small smile. “We’re waiting for you in the OR for Mr. Benny’s liposuction, Dr. King.”

“Right. I’ll get scrubbed in a minute. Thank you, Amy.”

As the door closes behind the capable head nurse, Regina takes a deep breath, rises to her feet and stretches out her arms in preparation for another long day. With three surgical procedures to deal with today, she figures she might as well leave a message for Mrs. Baker to make sure her children have a decent dinner tonight.

__

Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you can't disguise
(You can't disguise, no you can't disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies

“Again, David?”

“Sorry, Dad. I forgot to tell you about it in the morning. I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough, son. Who’s going to be with Stephanie at home? I don’t believe Mrs. Baker is coming in today.”

Harold sighs and scratches his forehead in weariness; his gaze absently focused on the photograph of his precious family on his cluttered yet organized desk. “David, this really is the height of irresponsibility. This is the third time this week you’ve either had basketball practice or some club activity you haven’t mentioned to us until the last minute.”

“I’ll be home before seven. I promise.”

“That’s not the point...”

“Dad. Come on. Can’t I just get a little break?”

Harold frowns; though his heartbeat quickens with something he vaguely distinguishes as panic and...fear? Perhaps. For the voice at the other end had sounded...impatient...distant...not at all the boy who was always amiable and eager to please. This was the voice of a boy (young man) determined to get what he wanted and no one was going to stand in his way.

A knock on his door and a subsequent ring of his phone – a clear sign that he’s needed in the OR again - saves him from the lecture he is ready to launch into.

“Fine, David,” he finally replies in a tone that lets his son know that he is still the adult in this conversation. “I will call the house at seven, and if you are not there, you are going to be grounded. Do I make myself clear?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence that’s almost insolent before a quiet, “Yes, sir” is heard.

Before he can finish with the usual “I love you, son,” the monotonous dial tone heralds the fact that David hung up first...a...well first in itself.

He’s changing, Harold thinks sadly as he hangs up slowly. He kicks himself for even feeling that way, knowing full well that David was reaching that age of independence; a time when teenage boys sought to find themselves. Harold wanted to be there for him though. He wanted to be the go-to person if David had any questions or concerns. He wasn’t sure if his boy was still a virgin, although the topic of sex was something he was actually yet to bring up with his son. All the same, Harold knew that Time had no plans to wait for them. If he hoped to get through to David, this was the moment to do so.

“Over a game of golf this weekend then,” he decides with a firm nod as he rises to his feet and reaches for his surgical cap. “We’ll have a man-to-man talk then. No harm done.”

__

Although I'm not making plans
I hope that you understand there's a reason why
Close your, close your, close your eyes
No more broken hearts
We're better off apart let's give it a try
Tell me, tell me, tell me lies

“What do you mean he’s not yet back?” he asks incredulously, darting a quick glance at his watch and then at the grandfather clock in the living room just to be sure he’s not seeing things.

But no, there’s no denying it. It’s almost eight o’clock and, according to a flustered Mrs. Baker, his son hasn’t arrived home yet from his supposed basketball practice.

“Hi Daddy,” comes the small voice that forces him to look down and into the hopeful features of his little angel. Already dressed for bed, in her favorite pair of pajamas, he leans down to place a soft kiss on her forehead before tossing his briefcase on the kitchen counter.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets with a light grunt as he lifts her into his arms. He forces himself to smile even though his heart is still racing and his worry at something terrible having happened to his son, threatens to overwhelm him. “How was school today?”

There’s no point in calling Regina now. She’ll lose her damn mind if I do.

“Gooooood,” Stephanie drawls, holding up the picture she had been coloring on the dinning table before he came in. “I was doing this, Daddy.”

“Great job, sweetie. Great job,” he adds absently. His attention is focused on Mrs. Baker again. “Are you sure he didn’t call here? Any missed calls?”

“No, sir,” she replies with a shake of her head. She’s a matronly woman who has been with the family since their move to the new home eight years ago. If David was a third parent to Stephanie, then she had the role of ‘shadow parent’ to the children. Having no offspring of her own, she doted all her love and affection on the siblings and would do anything for them if given the chance. It was no wonder that her concern and worry for David’s absence was palpable.

The same concern was actually etched on his daughter’s features, but Harold was too wrapped up in his disappointment, panic, fear, and helplessness to notice.

“I’m sure we can call one of his friends to find out where he is,” he begins, lowering Stephanie back to her feet to reach for the phone. “Maybe even call his coach to...”

The words die on his lips when the familiar sound of the garage opening has him replacing the receiver slowly. Everyone seems to hold their breath, and Harold realizes it must be David since the familiar rumble of Regina’s convertible does not follow the creaking noise.

Soon enough the door leading into the kitchen opens and before David can even take another step into the room, Stephanie flies into his arms; nearly taking him down.

“You’re back home!” she cries out in relief and happiness. “Where were you all day? You didn’t come to pick me up.”

He gives her a weary smile and places a kiss on her forehead. “Sorry, Princess,” he apologizes. “I had a long practice today.”

“Basketball?” she pouts earning a soft chuckle from him.

“Yep. Basketball.”

“You love basketball more than me.”

“No, I don’t. You know I love you the most, Princess.”

Harold watches this exchange; eyes narrowed as he takes in his son. He is still dressed in his school uniform, and though he still looks presentable, there’s a dishelved air about him that’s unlike David. He has seen his son return from basketball practices before...

Oh yeah? How many times, Harold? You’re always so busy with work, have you really ever noticed?

...and he’s sure that you weren’t supposed to look as if you were just stepping out of a strip club with a smug look of satisfaction on you features.

Or maybe he was just imagining things.

“Hey, Dad,” David greets, now holding on to Stephanie’s hand (or rather she’s the one squeezing tight) as he walks further into the house. “Hello, Mrs. Baker.”

“You didn’t call,” she accuses before Harold can butt in. “We were worried about you.”

He looks sheepish and lowers his book bag to the floor to wrap an arm around her in apology. “I’m sorry. I was planning to, but Coach kept us a little bit longer than we wanted to.” He was looking at Harold as he said this; those dark eyes seeming to dare his father to refute his statement. “He had a lot of drills and strategies for the next game.”

“Oh Lord,” Mrs. Baker sighs and shakes her head. “Well then, are you hungry? I can get you...”

“I’m good,” comes the cryptic reply as he releases her to give a warm smile. “We stopped for burgers.”

He stops before his father and with just the right expression of contriteness, he seeks forgiveness. “Sorry, Dad. I really did want to call, but we were tied up. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromise

The words echo shallowly in Harold’s head. He knows he ought to feel angry, to keep to his promise of grounding him for disobeying his simple rule. He knows he ought to wield his power here as the authoritative figure in his son’s life, and yet...there is something so...

Distant

...different about his son now. He can’t quite place a finger on it...yet.

Promises. Promises.

“Go to your room, David,” he finally says aloud in a voice that sounds hoarse and not at all his. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Dad...”

“Go. Now.”

He barely misses the look of disgust flung his way before it’s replaced with that same look of ‘sadness’ Harold is beginning to doubt is actually genuine. The tension is somewhat dissipated when Stephanie begins to chatter in excitement, tugging on her brother’s hand to lead him away from the scene. Perhaps she has sensed the animosity brewing between father and son, and her desperate attempt to set things right is to make him smile again.

What more can she do after all?

It isn’t until later that night in bed while attempting to read the latest medical journal (he subscribes to them weekly), while Regina is in the bathroom applying her facial mask or whatever it was she stuck to her face, does he bring up his doubts and fears.

“I’m worried about David,” he finally blurts out, lowering the journal and taking off his reading glasses. On T.V. Carson interviews Joan Rivers. Harold never really understood that woman’s sense of humor.

“What’s wrong with him?” Regina asks; her voice faint in the midst of the sounds of the vent blowing and the cooling system whirring at the same time. “Is he sick?”

I think so, he wants to say. I think he’s getting really sick and there’s nothing you and I can do about it.

“No...just...you know.” He sighs. He really doesn’t know how to put this.

“He’s a teenager, sweetheart,” Regina reasons as she steps into the room in her white bathrobe; a matching one wrapped around her head like a turban and her face a white mask thanks to her facial peel. She climbs into bed beside him and crosses her legs; feet clad in fluffy white slippers that she swings back and forth playfully. “Teenagers at this age start acting up, right? You were the one who told me to get used to that.”

“Not just that,” he mutters and slips his glasses on again. She’s now flipping through channels, no doubt looking for the Home Shopping Network. “His attitude...I mean...he’s been slipping a little this week.”

“That B he received in History test a few weeks ago?” she asks with a raised brow. “He’s been doing a lot better since then, Harold. What are you so concerned about?”

She doesn’t understand. No...it’s not that. She refuses to understand. To her, David is almost ‘untouchable’. Only she can decide to see his flaws...whenever she deems it fit.

“Three times this week, Regina,” he explains carefully. “He’s said he has to stay back in school for some project or another and barely makes it home on time.”

“He’s working extra hard, honey.”

“He usually tells us about such things....”

“So what? He forgets. It’s natural. You don’t tell me about all the meetings you have, and you usually pop them up on me at the last minute. It’s not nice you know.”

“Regina...”

“David is fine,” she states firmly as if hoping to convince herself of that. “He’s just going through a phase, and he’ll be fine. If you’re so worried, I’ll call his teachers tomorrow, hmm?”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but she silences him with a kiss on his lips effectively signaling that this particular topic of conversation is over.

__


His ‘worry’ grows tenfold when he wakes up around one in the morning to grab himself something to drink (and eat) from the kitchen.

Shuffling wearily down the hallway – thoughts of a quick ham sandwich and maybe a glass of milk filling his mind – he is just about to take the first step down the stairs, when he hears the faint whispers.

Assuming someone has left the T.V. on in one of the kid’s rooms, he shakes his head (already calculating his monthly power bill) and shuffles his way toward Stephanie’s room first. However, he notices that as he approaches the door, hand on the knob, the whispers stop.

David’s room.

He frowns and pauses; unaware he’s holding his breath. For almost five minutes nothing is heard except for the sound of the ticking clock from downstairs and his thudding heartbeat, and just when he assumes he’s imagining things, they start up again.

Definitely David’s room.

His jaw clenches tightly; his insides beginning to get warmer as he imagines his son engaged in activities that would require him to sneak around at night speaking to whoever he damn well pleased. Who the hell was he calling at one in the morning?

Ready to give his son a piece of his mind, he is stopped in his tracks as the door to David’s room suddenly opens and both men find themselves gawking at each other comically. One can even take the time to admire that both King males have an affinity for black house coats; only Harold’s a little more worn with constant wear.

“...Dad?” David finally asks with a raised brow, as if wondering why his father is standing out in the hallway in the middle of the night. If he’s panicked, he shows no sign of it. “What are you doing up?”

“Should be asking you that question, son,” Harold replies in a voice he’s pleased to find even and steady. “Were you on the phone just now?”

“On the phone?” David blinks in bemusement. “No...must have been the T.V. I just woke up to get some water. I’m thirsty....and you?”

“Thought I heard the T.V.,” Harold replies warily; aware that somehow his son was playing with him...toying with him...perhaps mocking the fact that he couldn’t be more of a threatening presence. “I was going to get some water too. Let’s go together.”

“You know what? I’m not thirsty anymore,” comes the flippant reply. “I’ll just go to bed. I’m pretty tired.”

He turns to make his escape, but is stopped at the sound of his name.

“David?”

“Yes, Dad?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at the man responsible for bringing him into the world.

Harold struggles to find the right words to say. There’s a sudden insane urge to pull the boy-man into his arms and to hug him tightly, to tell him that whatever problems or mood swings he might be going through that he would understand and he would always be here for him...no matter what. But how can he say those words without sounding like he is caving in? That he is simply throwing in the towel and letting David dictate his life from here on out? Did that make him less of a father?

“Dad?” comes the quizzical query. “You okay?”

“Yes...” Harold replies with a small smile. “I...”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“...is everything all right in school, David?” He finally asks. “You’re not...in any trouble, are you?”

For a second – barely a second – Harold assumes he can detect a look of desperation in his son’s eyes; as if there’s something or someone else inside (the real David perhaps) seeking his guidance. However, as quickly as that appeared, it is replaced with that look of adult tolerance that sends chills down Harold’s spine.

“I’m okay, Dad,” David replies quietly. “...or do you think I’m taking drugs...doing crack?”

“No, son! I would never assume that,” comes the quick defensive stance that brings an uncharacteristic cynical smile to the boy’s features.

“S’okay, Dad. I’m clean. I would never touch the stuff.”

“That’s...that’s good...crack is...”

“Crack is whack,” David finishes with a laugh, which is interrupted as the door to Stephanie’s bedroom opens and she shuffles out with a weary yawn while rubbing an eye.

“Davee...” she whimpers. “Daveee...”

“I’m here, Princess,” David replies quickly, stooping to his haunches to take care of his sister. Again, that familiar pang of jealousy seeps through Harold’s pores as he watches their interaction. She whimpers about having a nightmare, and as usual, his son’s whispered words of reassurance before standing to lead her back into her bedroom, remind him of how much of a father she really sees Harold as.

I don’t even exist in her world except as a figurehead.

He shakes his head with a heavy sigh and begins to make his way downstairs, when he’s stopped.

“Hey, Dad.”

He looks up with a raised brow to see David leaning over the railing; a small smile on his face.

“What is it, Son?”

“We’re still going golfing this weekend, right?”

He has no idea why such a simple statement/question should make him feel ridiculously happy, but it does, and he refuses to question why. He only settles for a firm nod and a thumbs up sign. “Sure thing, Son.”

“Cool.” His smile widens and he turns to leave...but turns back to add quickly. “Love you, Dad.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, and it isn’t until he hears the click of the bedroom door closing behind David, does he finally force himself to move again.

Love you, Dad.

He fights the tears and marvels at how it always seems to come down to the little things.

Always the little things.

__

Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies
(Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)
Oh, no, no you can't disguise
(You can't disguise, no you can't disguise)
Tell me lies
Tell me sweet little lies

Regina had no reason to doubt David.

Why should she?

Besides his lapses every now and then - a.k.a the B in History incident – her son was nothing short of everything a mother could ever wish for. Office parties or social soirees involved her bragging non-stop about her boy’s achievements for anyone who cared to listen, and there was no doubt that some of her friends were already trying to pair up their trashy daughters with him as possible future mates. Take for instance Barbara Haney and her children – Melissa and Charley. Though Melissa was a pretty young thing and did carry herself as a lady, she was two years older than David, and Regina wasn’t sure she was ready for her boy to be dating anyone older than he was. Besides, Regina was sure Melissa was no ‘innocent’ and she was more than likely to corrupt her untainted son.

As for Charley...he was a plump little thing that really needed to lose the baby fat considering he was just a year older than Stephanie.

But this was no time to reminiscence about the Haneys and their offspring. Today, she is stuck here at David’s school for a PTA meeting; a rarity for her since she really didn’t give a damn about such school functions. However, this was no ordinary PTA event; this was the place to see and be seen. For unlike most ‘normal’ schools where such events might be attended by parents wearing comfortable jeans and tee shirts, Exeter parents did not seem to take that rule to heart. Instead, the parents who showed up come dressed to the nines; as if attending a posh Hollywood fundraiser instead of listening to a bunch of teachers rattling on about needing money for one thing or another. As for Regina, she looks resplendent in a Krizia cream blouse, a Krizia rust weed skirt and silk-satin d’Ornay pumps from Manolo Blahnik, and since she’s just left the office, she’s had no time to put her hair down...literally.

“Looking marvelous as always, Regina darling,” Eleanor Whitcombe drools as she sashays up to Regina in a double-faced wool chemise dress by Calvin Klein. They blow air kisses and false smiles. “Isn’t this such a drag?”

“Why are you here then?” Regina mutters, gaze drifting over the line of staff to see if she can spot David’s basketball coach. If Harold is so worried about David’s extracurricular activities, she’ll just have to speak to the man responsible for making her son stay out too late. Surely they can come up with a reasonable schedule that won’t affect David so much.

“You know James is one of the presidents or something like that,” comes the whiny complaint. “He insists I show my face because he donates so much money to the school and -”

“Excuse me, Eleanor,” Regina cuts in quickly. “I have to speak to someone.”

Hardly giving her ‘friend’ a chance to respond, she slips between parents with muttered ‘excuse mes’; some wanting to chat with her or acknowledge her presence. However, she shuts down each invitation quickly or ignores them altogether with a quick smile or a wave.

She’s finally noticed the man she’s met only one time before, and that was when she came to watch David’s first basketball game. There was no way she could forget that tall, muscular, over-tanned busybody...neither could she forget how much he tended to sweat. After the game, she had decided to shake his hand in congratulations for a good job, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She still couldn’t get over how wet his hands had been. He was literally drenched in his body fluids and he hadn’t even played!

“Excuse me,” she begins as she is almost five steps away from him. “Excuse me, Coach...ouch! What in the world...?!”

“Sorry, sorry,” comes the gasp of panic and apology as the person who bumped into her turns to try to steady Regina. “I apologize. I wasn’t looking at where I was going.”

“You should be more careful,” Regina replies testily, brushing away imaginary wrinkles from her outfit or perhaps the ‘germs’ this woman in a plain-looking cheap print dress must have left on her designer wear. She finally looks up to acknowledge the other woman, and is taken aback at how...well...blue her eyes are. It felt like she was staring into a pair of endless pools; the kind of eyes that could suck you right in and never let go.

And that mane of hair...who does she think she is? Farrah Fawcett?

“I’m really sorry,” the woman breathes; her voice a husky sound that Regina has no doubt many men would consider sexy or sultry.

Just who the hell is she?

“It’s fine,” she dismisses with a shrug; already not interested as she notices the Coach about to leave the auditorium. Ah shit.

Not planning to run in her heels, she does have to jog a little to finally catch up to him.

“Coach Paxton?” she calls out; hoping her voice can be heard over the din of yakking parents and teachers. “Coach Paxton!”

The man finally turns around, at first a frown coming to his features before he breaks into a smile at the woman behind him. He was not averse to sexy women, and if there was any one parent he wouldn’t mind ‘getting-to-know-better’ it was Mrs. Regina King. God help him for such sinful thoughts (he was a devout Christian despite what others might think), but he wouldn’t mind breaking commandment number ten with –

“Can I speak to you for a minute, Coach?” Regina asks curtly; her expression letting him know that any thoughts of inviting her to his bedroom might result in him searching for a new pair of testicles.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“Mrs. King is fine,” she states, shivering inwardly at the use of the word ‘ma’am’. She isn’t that old yet. “And let’s move to a place that’s a little quieter, shall we?”

He nods and leads the way outside the building, where it’s less noisy though there are a few groups of parents engaged in conversation with staff or themselves.

“I wanted to talk to you about David,” Regina begins; noticing from the corner of her eye that same blonde woman from earlier. She was talking to two parents in a way that seemed engaging...at least the father seemed engaged. The man was literally drooling beside his unsuspecting wife.

“What about David?” Coach Paxton’s gruff voice interrupts her thoughts.

“Oh yes, well...this is in regards to his schedule for the past week. Apparently, you have been keeping him in school way past seven o’clock in the evenings for your practices. Now, he has got other obligations and-”

“Wait...hold on...” the Coach interrupts with a wave of his hand, looking rightfully befuddled. “I’m not following ma... I mean Mrs. King. What practice are you talking about?”

Regina raises a brow. “Basketball practice? My son is on your team or squad or whatever you all call it. You’ve been having practices all this week, haven’t you?”

“No ma...Mrs. King,” he explains with a shake of his head. “Practice doesn’t begin until next week. I’ve got the schedule right here. Gave it to the boys early this week for them to post on their lockers or wherever. See?” He tugs out the sheet of paper from the folder that’s been tucked beneath his armpit all this time. “We’ve got practice from after school – that’s at two – until six o’clock and no later. And that’s on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Now, I don’t know what practice he’s been going to, but I can assure you it’s not mine.” He stops talking long enough to notice the expression of disbelief on the woman’s features. She looks a little pale. “Mrs. King? You all right?”

She had no reason to doubt David.
David would never lie to her.

....would he?

“Mrs. King?”

“Yes...I mean...I see,” she says with a shaky laugh; reaching for the schedule to hold onto it tightly. “Thank you. I must have been confused. I thought he was having practice...”

“You can ask his Math teacher though,” the Coach offered kindly. “She’s the blonde over there. Maybe she’ll know what kind of practice they have after school.”

Regina glances at the woman laughing with the parents and shakes head. “No...it’s fine. I must have misheard him that’s all.”

No. He definitely told us it was basketball practice. Definitely basketball.

“Well, all right then,” Coach Paxton says with a grin. “Good to have him on the team, Mrs. King. We’re going to have a good season. I can tell.”

She’s not sure of what she said in response, since her head is still buzzing with all the countless and endless possibilities.

He’s joined a gang.
He’s into drugs.
He’s engaged in illicit and illegal affairs.

Oh God! I can’t...I can’t breathe...

Not her David. Her dear precious David...no...no...nonononononono....!

“Regina?”

She looks up with a start; unaware of the panic and near crazed expression in her eyes. Eleanor frowns at the sight. “Are you okay, honey? You look like you could use a drink.”

“I have...I have to go home,” she whispers through lips that feel parched. “I have to...to...”

Talk to him...see him...touch him...make sure he’s still my David...he can’t have changed...I won’t allow it!

She must have driven faster than the speed limit to get home, and it was a miracle she didn’t get a speeding ticket. Luckily Harold’s car is not in the driveway, a clear sign that he’s going to be late getting home tonight, which is a good thing.

She all but runs into the house, but tells herself to calm down and act proper; to take deep breaths and control herself for fear she’ll do something she’s likely to regret.

At first the sight of her kitchen (and home in general) looks alien and foreign – as if experiencing some out-of-body moment; fully expecting the real Regina to walk right through the door apologizing for keeping the fake Regina waiting. She can hear that damn music blasting from his room, and the happy laughter of her children as they sing along and dance (their feet stomping on the floor is evidence of this).

“Cause this is thrilleeeer! Thrillleeeeer night!
There’s no one gonna save you from the beast about to strike
You know it’s thrilleeeeer! Thrilleeeer night!”

The door to his bedroom suddenly bursts open and out runs a screaming (laughing) Stephanie, and hot on her heels – on all fours to mimic an animal of some sort – is her dear son, growling and singing at the same time. Stephanie runs down the stairs still laughing wildly; a carefree sound that – on any other day – would make Regina smile, except that today it sounded nightmarish and scary. Like a constant shriek that just wouldn’t stop.

“Rwwwwwr! Gonna eat you, Stephanie!” David growls as he hops after her down the steps.

“Nooooo! Save meeeee! I don’t taste that good anywaaaaaaaaay! Eeeeeek!!”

They dash into the living room; neither noticing their mother’s presence until Stephanie makes the turn into the kitchen and promptly slams the brakes as she finally notices the silent figure watching them.

“Mom!” she cries out in excitement; forgetting about her brother the werewolf to wrap her arms around Regina’s waist. “You’re home!”

“Hello, sweetheart,” she greets absently; a hand reaching out to pet Stephanie’s head almost as a second thought. Her gaze is trained on the panting boy watching them from the doorway; a wry smile on his lips.

“Hi, Mom.”

“David.”

He must have noticed something in her expression as his smile fades a little, and he straightens up to his full height. “Come on, Stephanie,” he says quietly. “It’s time for bed.”

“Already?” comes the predictable whine.

“Stephanie,” Regina cuts in sharply, causing her children to look at her with twin expressions of wariness and slight fear. They knew whenever their mother’s tone became that way; one of them was definitely in trouble. “Go to your room, sweetheart. Mommy needs to have a word with your brother.”

Stephanie looks at David with concern; her grip tightening as if hoping to give her brother strength. He smiles warmly at her. “S’okay, Princess. I’ll be up soon to tuck you in, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay...” She releases him reluctantly...debates on saying ‘goodnight’ to her mother, but noticing the grim expression, she spins on her heels and runs upstairs with a slam of her bedroom door behind her.

A silence so thick descends on the duo, and Regina finds herself actually feeling as if she’s the one being put under a microscope. She hates the way he looks at her; that earlier expression of fear now erased and replaced with one of blank indifference.

He’s changing...

For them he is. For her...for Stephanie...he’s probably always going to be the same sweet, lovable brother.

“I spoke to your Coach this evening,” she states; deciding there is no need to beat around the bush, and God, she wishes that damn music would stop playing. What is that artist’s name? The one everyone in America seems to have lost their damn mind over? Michael Jackson? It’s sickening just how much David keeps putting that man’s music on all the damn time. It hardly fit with the seriousness of the occasion especially since he’s currently singing about losing some girl.

Cry me a fucking river.

“I spoke to your Coach this evening,” she repeats; folding her arms across her chest. “Do you want to know what he told me?”

David remains silent; his expression giving nothing away. Undeterred, Regina continues. “He mentioned that you had no practice at all this week. That your practice sessions actually begin next week, David.” She reaches for the flyer to wave it in his face. “Did you not receive this from him?”

“Yes, Mom. I did.”

“And? Are you dyslexic? Or is there some other undiscovered medical condition that would make you want to lie and confuse the dates?”

He sighs and lowers his head.

“Don’t you look away from me,” she snaps forcing him to look up again quickly. “Explain yourself, David.”

“Mom...” he begins in a small voice.

“Where were you all three days, Mister?”

Her son says nothing; choosing to bite his lower lip and look away again, and for some reason...for some indiscernible reason... this little action; his sign of weakness ...gets her absolutely infuriated. She raises a hand – waiting to slap it away; to hit away the weakness, to make him so much stronger than he can possibly be. However, at his sudden flinch – an automatic motion of protection – she seems to come to her senses and it causes her to freeze in mid-air. Her once open palm soon forms a tight and trembling fist, which she lowers to her side slowly.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he begins in a whisper. “I’m sorr-”

“Is it drugs?” she asks tightly. “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”

“No, Mom,” he cries out in frustration. “I’m not taking any drugs.”

“Did you steal something? Is that it?!” she screams, pushing past him to stomp upstairs. Destination; his bedroom.

“Mom, please!” he begs and runs after her. “Don’t!”

But she’s not listening. All she can hear is the pounding in her head; the voices of those who felt she was making a big mistake being with Harold; the taunts of those who thought being a nigger-lover was going to get her in trouble; the accusing eyes and mocking laughter of those who believed she’d raise children who were crack-addicts and unable to become decent members of society. That was what happened to those who married black men. This was her punishment. She was raising drug addicts.

“Mom! Stop messing up my stuff!”

She’s opening drawers and searching through them frantically; ignoring her son’s cries and the silent sobs from the girl watching in the doorway (so much for her bedtime).

“Davee...” she whimpers in fear. She’s never seen her mother act this way before, and it’s scary as hell.

David – with tears in his eyes –manages to wipe them away quickly and kneels before his sister with a tremulous smile. “It’s okay, Stephanie. Go to bed, okay? Mom’s just a little tired right now...”

“But...”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” He gives her a much bigger smile and with a soft kiss on her cheek, ushers her to her bedroom, where he sits with her for a while; though he winces inside with every ‘thud’ and ‘bam’ heard from his room.

“Goddamnit!” Regina cries out in helplessness; now standing in the middle of a place that now looks as if a tornado had gone through it. “Goddamnit. Goddamnit. Goddamnit.”

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing here.

“Happy, Mom?” comes the bitter but quiet voice behind her. “I told you I wasn’t doing any drugs. You just can’t believe anything I say, can you?”

She spins around to notice him watching her; his cheeks now caked with the remnants of his sorrow. However, she would be a fool not to have noticed the disdain in his eyes, and as he walks past her, she is hardly surprised that the first thing he picks up is his radio (she had knocked it down earlier and unplugged it in the process) and his precious Michael Jackson cassettes and records.

She opens her mouth to say something, but only painful silence slips past her lips as he continues to clean up the mess she’s created.

She wants to bellow at him; to tell him that she is his mother for God’s sakes! Can he not see how much he hurts her with his lies and secrecy? Hadn’t she loved him all these years? Why couldn’t he see it fit to trust her? Was she that terrible a mother?

“Regina? Are you home?”

Harold’s voice drifting upstairs is like a much-needed elixir, and not wanting him to see what damage she’s done, she takes one last look at her son, and with a lump the size of Texas, she finally leaves his room with a soft click of the door behind her.

“Honey?” Harold asks as he notices her walking down the stairs; almost zombie- like.

“Regina is everything oka...?”

Whatever else he might have said is lost as she suddenly collapses into his arms, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, his usually strong and poised wife becomes nothing more than a helpless little girl simply begging for forgiveness.