Shawn's Law (25 page)

“Thank you,” he preened. “But you’re missing the point.”

“And that is?” I just had to ask. Stupid me. Stupid all around.

“Let me clue you in. I want you to remember the day you ended up in hospital after you rescued your mother from boiling water. Are you remembering that day, Shawn? Because I remember getting the loopy phone call while you were still dosed to your eyeballs on painkillers.”

I frowned at the line of thinking. Where was he going with this? “Of course I remember.”

“So you put the pot on the stove and turned it on to boil to make pasta? If I remember the scenario correctly? Then you left it there and came back to find your mum about to put her hand in to catch the bubbles?” he reiterated.

I huffed in exasperation. “Yes. You know that, Kris. She was having a bad day and had been doing silly things all afternoon.”

“So, what did you do when you saw her about to put her hand in the pot?”

I rolled my eyes. “I raced over there and snatched the pot out of her reach.”

“No, Shawn. Before you did that,” Kris said.

I shook my head as the memory came back. “Nothing. I saw her and then I ran over to her. Nothing else.”

“Did you yell, Shawn? Did you cry out a warning? Did you scream? Because I think you would’ve.”

I stopped and remembered the moment.

Mum was standing next to the stove, watching the pot as it bubbled away. Watching with a look of glee on her face. She was wearing a pair of pink stretchy pants and a pink flowered top. I remembered that clearly. Her hair was longer then, and I’d put some side combs in for her that morning. Her face was all lit up, and I watched with horror as her hand came up and reached for the boiling water.

No! Mum, stop!

My ears were ringing with the bellow as I simultaneously knocked her hand away and grabbed at the pot. The pain didn’t even register as the water splashed up on my flesh. It was the absence of pain that registered first. Scalded flesh.

“Did you yell, Shawn?”

“Yes.”

“Did you yell or did you calmly say, ‘Excuse me, Mother. I do not believe that putting your hand in a pot of boiling water would be beneficial to your health. It’s just something I’ve read about in science class?’”

I didn’t say anything.

“Why did you yell, Shawn? Why? Was it because you were scared for your loved one? Was it because you loved her so much, you didn’t want her to get hurt? Was it because you definitely didn’t want the person you love to be injured in front of you? The same way that Harley shouted at you when you picked up a deadly creature who would’ve killed you in under ten minutes?”

I digested this for a moment. “Kris?” I said in a small voice. “You helped a lot. Thanks for being my best friend.”

T
HE
GRAND
opening of the new art gallery and exhibition center was in full swing when I arrived with my mother all dolled up at my side. I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm and hoped she wouldn’t embarrass me in front of Harley’s dad. Most times she was golden.

Lisa and Brendan had received their invitation as well, so my sister was wearing a loose black cocktail dress, sipping on orange juice, and chatting to one of the artists when I spotted her. I’d never been to an art gallery opening, and I was a little awed by the official-looking greeter at the door and the way the paintings were prominently displayed on the wall and on movable screens. As I stepped through the door with my mother I’d been given a catalog of items that were available to purchase, but a quick glance told me I would never be able to afford the prices.

“Lisa.” I hailed her and watched as she excused herself and sashayed to my side in her high heels. “Wow, sis. Looking good tonight.”

“Thanks, bro. You don’t clean up badly either.”

I eyed her juice. “So does Brendan know the big news yet?”

She stared at the wall and smiled brightly. “What news? There isn’t anything to confess to my husband, is there?”

I loved my sister, but it was clear we were related. We both liked to make bad situations worse. “Have you still not bought a pregnancy test?”

Her smile never wavered. “Nope. If I don’t know for sure, then there’s nothing to tell.”

“Yet, you’re drinking orange juice while there’s alcohol freely available? I would say that’s knowing for sure.”

I was skewered by her glare, and my balls, which I’d recently redeemed out of hock from the Great God of Masculinity, quivered with fear.

I was saved by a broad hand on my shoulder.

“Now, you could be none other than the fabulous Shawn O’Hara. I’m so pleased to meet you.” My arm was nearly dislocated from the socket as I took my first look at Harley’s sire and had my arm vigorously shaken. He was not what I was expecting. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had an image of the pot-smoking hippy guy from
That ’70s Show
. No sirree, this man was not him. This man radiated warmth and vitality. Yes, there was a resemblance to Harley around the eyes and the shape of his chin, but he was also dressed in a suit. Harley had never worn a suit in my presence before.

“Hi, sir. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lawson.”

“Come now, none of this mister crap. Call me John, and make sure you call me often. I want to know all about you and your lovely family. After all, you were the one who kick-started this move to these new premises, and I can’t thank you enough.”

I tried to deny it, but my sister butted in and asked about John’s statement, which started off a long story about how Harley had discovered that John and Cherie’s little Subiaco stall was faltering and they needed to do something about it. Apparently, Harley’s web of contacts had come into play. Through one person, Harley had found the brilliant Aboriginal artist, Violet Balawindarra, who was just waiting to be discovered and championed. Through another contact, Harley knew of Daphne Clarke, a cross-media artist who was gathering momentum but didn’t have a sponsor. The word was out, and Cockyboy Cordell materialized, wanting to get on board. The five artists, all Australian and all focusing on Australian flora and fauna in their work, decided to open this new gallery, where they could sell their creations as well as run workshops.

John had a permanent workshop in the back and a room for teaching others his craft. He had regular groups lined up, including weekly workshops for those stricken by cancer. Violet was an activist for Aboriginal women and would be teaching “women’s business” to the young girls of today’s culture who had lost connections to their roots. The others would all run lessons too.

The new premises gave the artists a home, but did not restrict them to set hours. They were employing a small staff to run the day-to-day stuff, allowing them the freedom they required to work.

Other artists would be welcomed on a commission basis.

John talked earnestly and passionately about the new structure, never failing to give Harley the credit for arranging the whole thing.

“And where is Harley?” Lisa asked.

“He’s helping save the orangutans in Borneo, at the moment.”

I wondered when I would get the postcard.

“You do realize that Shawn and Harley are broken up, don’t you?” Lisa told John.

“I don’t think so,” John said with a little smile playing around his mouth.

Lisa was skeptical. “Why not?”

John replied as if the answer was obvious. Maybe it was. “You’re here, aren’t you? Shawn’s here. Your mother’s here. That doesn’t sound like broken up to me.”

I was peeved that he’d read the situation so well. Brendan walked up behind Lisa, placed his arm around her in a husbandly fashion, and stuck out his hand in introduction. “Brendan Dowey, Lisa’s husband. Pleased to meet you.”

They shook hands, but before John could give his name, my mother, bless her soul, suddenly piped up at my side, “You’re the husband, then?”

He smiled genially at Mum, completely used to not being recognized. “Yes. Lisa and I have been married for six years now.”

Mum looked unimpressed. “Your wife’s stepping out on you,” she declared in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What?” The word fell from three mouths—me, Lisa, and Brendan—in amazing symphony.

“Yes.” Mum nodded wisely.

“I am not,” Lisa gasped in denial.

Mum pointed at me. “Then why did you tell this man about your pregnancy before you told your husband, if you two are not lovers?”

“He’s not my lover,” Lisa protested.

“I’m gay,” I protested.

“Ahh….” John was lost for words.

We all stopped and looked at each other in horror. Then my brother-in-law caught up.

“Pregnancy?” Brendan asked.

Lisa went bright red. I stopped and tried to work out an escape route—maybe head toward the painting of the emu, duck behind the cute waiter with the mini quiches, and bolt for the door. Thinking is not my strong point. Remember? Dropped too many times on my head as a child.

John stepped in and saved me. “Estelle? Can I introduce you to my partner? Her name is Cherie and she paints.” We skedaddled and left the married couple to contemplate their expanding future.

Cherie was a lovely woman, who looked me closely in the eye—I mean closely. Literally. She made me take my glasses off so she could stare at my irises, and declared that I was truly a child of luck. And I should eat more iron from leafy greens—something about the brown not being brown enough. I diverted her from my diet by asking if she used grapeseed oil or something else, and before a beaming Brendan and a morose Lisa could rejoin us, I was signed up to her amateur artist class that ran every Tuesday from ten o’clock.

We mingled, munched, critiqued, and crunched our way through the offerings—food, wine, art, and company. John found us again as we were making plans to leave.

“Shawn. You’re not leaving already, are you?”

“Sorry, John. It’s a brilliant party and wonderful opening, but Lisa and Brendan need to get home to their babysitter, and I need to get Mum into bed.”

John nodded understandingly, then drew me aside. “Listen, Harley gets home on Wednesday. Do you think the three of us could do dinner on Thursday night?”

I looked at my mother and knew I couldn’t ask Lisa to mumsit. She had her plate full for the next couple of weeks, untangling her apparently fertile life. That meant contacting the agency and seeing if I could get Bernice or maybe Terry to come out. John saw my look and offered, “Or lunch? Harley won’t be back at work until the following Monday, and my days are now able to be cleared as I wish. If you don’t mind me being forward, we can come to your house for lunch? I do a great curry and I’ll cook it up at Harley’s and bring it with us. You don’t have to do a thing apart from clear the table for us to sit at.”

I dithered. Harley’s communications over the past few weeks had made it clear he wanted to be with me. I didn’t know why, because I was a really bad boyfriend. But apparently he loved me and missed me. Every single letter and postcard told me so. I had long ago forgiven him for any wrongdoing, and knew I had to apologize, on my knees if needed (both in a sexual and nonsexual manner) in order to make up for it.

But did I want to meet him again for the first time with his dad and my mum looking on? Does anyone know how to spell awkward? But, then again, if we got it wrong, there would be someone else to carry the conversation. Oh, decisions.

John was waiting for a response. “Harley told me that you guys were having a bit of trouble, but he seemed to think it was all his fault. So maybe I could bring him over and give him a chance to apologize? I know he loves you, Shawn. If there’s anything I can do to get you guys back together, then I’ll do it.”

“He doesn’t need to apologize,” I burst out. “I’m the doofus in our relationship. I need to get on my knees and say I’m sorry by sucking him off until his brain comes out his dick. Not that I keep a strict count or anything, but I owe him about twenty-three.”

There was a little pause in the conversation as we looked at each other, and I realized I had overshared. With my lover’s father. I winced.

“TMI?” I asked tentatively.

He swallowed visibly. “Just a bit.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t sweat it. I’ll just focus on the fact that my boy has a healthy sexual relationship and leave the other images behind.” I couldn’t be sure, but I think he was trying not to laugh. I get that a lot.

In my embarrassment, I quickly agreed to lunch on Thursday, just to get out of there. “I’ll make a salad,” I told John as I dragged my mother away. “Come at one o’clock.”

“Okay. And I’ll take your mum outside to look at the garden if you need Harley to come at about one-fifteen.”

Did he mean…?

I decided that he was a dirty old bugger, and he was definitely laughing at me.

H
ARLEY
MESSAGED
me at 2:33 p.m. on Wednesday.

Just stepped off the plane in Perth. Am I forgiven? I love you. Can we meet to talk?

Of course I missed it, because the Agency counselor was at my house to assess my needs. Mum took that to mean it was “clothing optional” time and insisted on trying to undress. Her motor skills were failing, so her buttons were too much for her to handle. So it was just the pants she removed. Twice.

At one stage, she tried to cut her blouse off with scissors I had not locked up, so I confiscated and sat on them until she growled angrily and went to watch TV.

The counselor smiled at me with sympathy. “You’re doing a great job, Shawn,” she told me. “Don’t ever forget that. Your mother is well taken care of.”

“I don’t feel like it,” I grumped.

“That’s the exhaustion talking. Is your mother sleeping?”

“No. She wanders at night.”

“That’s completely normal for Alzheimer’s patients. That’s why I’m here. What I think is going to work for you, Shawn, is a little bit of day care. There’s a facility nearby that I think may suit you. I had a look at their numbers before I came here today, and I think we can get your mother in for two days a week. It’s very low-key, just a group of other Alzheimer’s patients, usually between ten and twelve on a given day. They spend the day doing art activities, reading books, and other things. You would need to drop her off in the morning, and she can remain there for up to eight hours at a time.”