Forever Pucked(24)

           



       

She looks up from the head of broccoli she's started on and gives me a  bright smile, like I didn't flash her my beaver moments ago. "We'll let  Alex sleep until dinner?"

"Sure." I stand in the middle of Alex's kitchen, which is also my kitchen, at a loss. "Can I help?"

"I bought a few bottles of wine. The whites are in the fridge. Why don't you pick one and pour us each a glass?"

"Okay." I open the fridge and find Daisy's stocked us with serious  groceries. It's loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables and the  wholegrain bread Alex likes-the stuff with all the seeds and nuts in it,  like someone dumped in a box of granola and messed up perfectly good  food. Daisy's also picked up a loaf of enriched white Wonder bread and a  brick of lactose-free cheese. For me. Three bottles of white wine line  the middle shelf, all my favorites.

I'm overwhelmed with emotion. Which has kind of been the way of things  for the past few days. Daisy always tries to be helpful. And she also  likes to be heavily involved in her children's lives, which sometimes  means she gets a little meddle-y. But that doesn't seem to be her  intent.

Her ability to keep it together makes me worry about exactly how fail  I'll probably be as a wife. I can't cook-at least not good food. Sure, I  can manage Kraft mac ‘n' cheese or putting a pizza in the oven, but  other than opening a can or heating something from the freezer, I'm  fairly unskilled.

I couldn't even hack Christmas dinner, and that's just turkey and  potatoes and some veggies. Or at least that's what I thought. Turns out  it's a huge production. Daisy was here to help me manage that. In  actuality, she usurped my kitchen, and I was mostly a bystander, taking  orders.

I don't even have to clean this house. Not that I'd want to clean four  thousand square feet of living space, but I can leave my underwear in a  pile in the middle of our bedroom, and they'll disappear once a week and  reappear, clean, in my drawer every Friday.

But I can give a mean blow job. And I have a great rack. So there's that.

I can't decide whether I feel grateful or useless. I decide it's  probably a combination of the two. Stupid tears fall as I take the  Niagara Riesling out of the fridge and retrieve two glasses. I choke  back an annoying sob.

Daisy sets down her chopping knife. "Violet? Are you okay?"

I wave the bottle and the glasses around in the air and nearly hit  myself in the face. "I'm fine." It comes out all high-pitched and  unconvincing.

She takes the bottle and the glasses, likely so I don't maim one of us  with them, and places them gently on the counter. Then she pulls me into  a hug. I turn my head in time to avoid her helmet of hair and rest my  cheek on her shoulder pad.

She pats my back while I cry. I'm such a mess. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I sniffle.

"It's been a difficult few days."

I nod into her shoulder. It makes a crinkly sound. It feels like it's filled with foam.

"He's going to be okay now, though. He's a strong man. He'll get through this. And you'll be here to help him."

"It's going to be so hard for him." I pull back and wipe my nose on my  sleeve, leaving behind a disgusting snail trail. "Not playing for the  rest of the season? I don't know how he's going to deal with it. Hockey  is his world."

"Alex has always been an intense person." She smooths her hands over my  hair. "When he's passionate about something, he puts all of his energy  into it-and that's not limited to his career. He's a very driven man,  and sometimes he has difficulty with moderation. When he's in, he's all  in; he'll bury himself in something so he can be the best. It's what  he's been doing for the past six years with hockey, and before that he  was just as involved in school and figure skating."

"I can see that."

"And now that's how he is with you as well." Her voice is soft, and so is her expression.

"He loves hard." And for once I don't mean it in a pervy way.

"He does everything hard." I'm almost certain Daisy doesn't mean that in a pervy way either.

I also don't think Alex will be doing anything hard right now. I'm not  even sure he can get hard. Well, okay, he can get hard. I saw him  sporting a semi a few times in the hospital, but I don't know that he  has the energy to do anything with it.

"Sitting around isn't going to be easy for him. He gets pent-up a lot."                       
       
           



       

Daisy seems to miss my accidental inappropriate reference.

"He'll find a way to manage himself, I'm sure," she says.

I doubt he'll achieve that by whacking off constantly, but that's where  my mind goes, maybe because I haven't had an orgasm in days, and now  that we're home I can. Not now, but later. When everyone else is  sleeping, I can get out Buddy and give myself a little beaver bang. I  stifle a laugh through the sniffles, so it sounds snort-cryish.

"I can stay as long as you need me, of course."

"Thanks, Daisy. I know how much Alex loves your cooking."

"I could teach you how to make some of Alex's favorites while I'm here, if you want," she offers.

"You'd do that?"

Her electric pink lips spread until her dimples appear. "Of course! He  loves breakfast for dinner, so I thought we could make omelets tonight."

So that's what we do. When dinner's almost ready, I go upstairs and wake  Alex. It takes some coaxing to get him out of bed. He's sore and  grumpy, but when I tell him what we're having for dinner, he gets up.  Getting down the stairs is slow.

Daisy serves him like he's the king of the world, and he shovels in  food, groaning his pleasure. The sound is reminiscent of his orgasm  moan. Or maybe I'm horny.

Except then I look at him, and all the buzzing in my beaver stops. Alex  is eating like a pig. His mouth is two inches from his plate, and he  keeps jamming more food in before he even has a chance to swallow. He's  also eating with his left hand instead of his right, so bits of egg have  fallen off his plate and onto the table.

"This is so much better than hospital crap. Thanks, Mom," he says around a mouthful of omelet.

"Violet helped." Daisy sits primly at the table with her napkin in her  lap. She has amazing manners. My legs are crossed like I'm sitting on a  yoga mat. I rearrange them so I'm sitting nicely, even though they're  visible to no one.

Alex stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Really?"

I focus on my plate. I shouldn't be hurt by his surprise. Usually I take  something out of the freezer and follow the directions Alex's personal  chef has left us. He shows up every Monday to make a week's worth of  meals when Alex isn't on the road.

Daisy pats my hand. "She did a great job. She even made her own omelet."

Alex looks at my mangled, misshapen omelet, and then back at what's left  of his own perfect one, which his mother made. "That's awesome."

"Thanks," I say. I need to stop being so sensitive. Daisy's just here to help, not show Alex I'm poor wife material.

When the guys are on the road, Charlene and I do takeout half the time.  The other half we eat ramen noodles like we did in college, or Kraft mac  ‘n' cheese, and occasionally, when Charlene is feeling particularly  ambitious, she makes shepherd's pie-but with those fake potatoes,  because mashing real ones takes work. Hopefully Daisy can teach me how  to make something even better than that.

Eating takes all of Alex's energy. So as soon as dinner is over, he goes  back upstairs. I plan to help Daisy with dishes. She insists on washing  most of them even though we have a dishwasher, which I usually load to  capacity and often forget to run. The housekeeper takes care of it when I  don't. Daisy seems more than happy to wash them by hand.

I reach for a dish towel to dry, but she puts her hand on my arm.

"I can take care of this. I'll be fine for the rest of the evening. Why don't you go up and see if Alex needs you."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Daisy." I kiss her on the cheek, because it feels right.

Her smile pops a dimple. She pats my cheek and turns back to the dishes,  humming as she pulls on a pair of yellow gloves and dunks her hands in  the soapy water.

Alex is struggling with his hoodie when I get upstairs, swearing under  his breath. I close the door with a quiet click and turn the lock.

"Need some help?"

"I should be able to undress my damn self." He's managed to get one arm out, but he can't get it over his head.

I walk to the bed and pat the mattress. "Come sit, baby."

He huffs, but does as I ask. I tap his knees, and he parts them so I can  get in between. I unsnap his sling and ease the collar over his head,  careful of the stitches and bruises on his face. The bruising on his  injured arm is mottled and so purple it's almost black in some areas.