4 comments/ 71358 views/ 8 favorites In the Way Ch. 01 By: JaiBee *Author's Note: All characters referred to in this fictional story are - you guessed it - fictional characters, and any resemblance to any person living, dead or otherwise is probably stretching your fantasies a wee bit too far. However, in the event that you do come across my characters in real life, please do remember that I don't exist. Oh, and nobody was harmed - at least, permanently - during the making of this hopefully-incredible fictitious account of some people and their shenanigans. "Dr.Chivago will see you now, Mr. Kane," said the nurse with the pretty legs, pronouncing his name as Shee-vago, with a hint of European ancestry in her voice. "Please do come in." Since there was nothing interesting to read in the waiting room - deliberately, I suppose - I obliged. I have always held psychiatrists to be somewhere near as useful as a lawn-mover in winter and snowshoes in summer. Contrary to what the nurse with the pretty legs (there was really nobody else there, but how else can I tell you how pretty the legs of the nurse with the pretty legs were) had said, the good doctor was not doing me a favor by seeing me, because I had never heard of him before he called me up the previous day to fix up an appointment. The only reason I showed up was because he said my wife was his patient. And that he had already spoken to my daughter. Two facts - assuming they were true - which I did not know until then. He wouldn't say anything more about what it was except that it related to the mental health of my wife, to which I had retorted that a specialist of his kind was hardly qualified to talk about anything else. True, she had been shopping for a good shrink for some time now, but she never told me she had found one with a nurse who had pretty legs. I figured it was some kind of a con where he could bill her a few extra hours spent asking me how many beers I had a day. I was undecided until he told me that he had already billed her for an appointment with me the next day, and it would have to be paid whether I visited him or not. "And my nurse has pretty legs," he said, finally convincing me. So I kept my eyes on the ground - or thereabouts, you could say - as I walked into his room, my hand accidentally brushing against the heavy bosom of the nurse with the pretty legs, until I had passed her and there was no longer a reason to look like a blushing bride. She went out, closing the door behind her, cuing Dr.Chivago to step forward and shake my hands. He gestured to a couch placed against the glass wall on the other side. It would have been a nice view of the ocean except for the few other buildings that crowded around us. I hoped the glass was thick enough, because those concrete walls right across the street were enough even to make a regular guy like me claustrophobic. "Didn't I tell you?" he said, handing me a can. "Pretty legs." "But the tits are fake," I told him. He shrugged. "This is LA. Aren't they all?" We didn't say anything for a few minutes as we sipped our beers. My opinion of the slim, bald man sitting across me went up a notch - it was good beer, just the right temperature. You can tell a lot about a man from his beer, my dad had always told me. "Nice view," I told him. Simply because I wanted to say something. He winced. "I bought it without seeing the place. The brochure promised a startling view of the downtown. It took me a few days to realize that they took that picture from the top of the Hollywood sign." He shook his head sadly. "These real-estate guys are pros at the con game." I was about to tell him about pots and kettles when he smiled and stole my line. "I know, kinda like the pot calling the kettle black, right?" Now it was my turn to shrug. "Like you said, this is LA. Everyone's got a con." "That's an interesting point of view." He pulled out a small tape recorder from his pocket and shook it. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?" "As long as I get to take the tape home when I leave," I told him. That made him laugh. He left the device on the table between us without pressing the red button and held out his arms at his sides. "You want to pat me down?" I shook my head. "You can keep your secrets. Mind if I smoke?" "Thanks. I've got my own." We both lit up at the same time. "I don't usually offer drinks or cigarettes to my patients. That should tell you I don't see you as a patient." "That makes us even. I don't see you as a doctor either." He refused to get mad. "I can understand how you feel about me. You were a private investigator for what, fifteen years? You are understandably cynical about what you see around you, about a guy who calls himself a shrink and offers you beer and does not ask you to start talking the minute you step into his room. I understand -" "You use that word a lot, don't you?" I asked him, dropping ash on the carpet as I shook my hand. "Understand." "It is what I do, Mr. Kane. My job is not just listening, it's about understanding. It's about reading between the lines, knowing what is being said and what is being conveyed. I need to know what makes each person tick, and I have to understand everything about a person for me to do that. Because every single person who walks through those doors need me for a reason even they may not have fully understood themselves." He paused. "Do you know what I bill my patients?" I told him. "Yeah, that's right. A hundred dollars a week. Which means that my time with you was paid for before you even agreed to see me. And the same goes for your daughter too. And your wife can call on me at any time as long as I am free... Does this still seem like a con job to you? I do this because I care, Mr. Kane. You must have checked me out with your sources. I've got an inheritance I can live off without ever having to lift my finger, without having to take the trouble of listening to, of understanding, people with problems. People like your wife." He took a deep breath. "Like I said, you are not here as a patient. You are here because your wife needs you to understand a lot of things she hasn't been able to tell you in person. Things that I can explain to you if you'll only allow me the slightest credibility. You need to trust me - or, at the very least, not mistrust me. It has to be Gerard Kane, the husband, who I talk to, not Gerard Kane, the retired private investigator. We can't move forward unless you want it to." I stared at him and he stared right back with a surprising amount of defiance. There was something in his eyes that spoke the same thing that he had said, that he cared, that he wanted me to accept what he said, no matter how tenuous my acceptance was, but at least an acceptance. Not the outright dismissal of a retired PI who had seen too many things to take things at face value anymore. I took a sip of my beer. It tasted smoky, reminding me that I had taken just a couple of puffs on my cigarette that hung its burnt ash in front like a limp... I tapped it on the potted plant next to the couch, there being no ashtray, and placed it in my mouth. It tasted a bit like beer. I looked at him again. Dr.Chivago was busy grinding out his piece on the soil of the plant nearest to him. He caught me looking at him and grinned. "I am not really much of a smoker." I followed his example and put out my smoke. I leaned back on his couch, getting myself comfortable. Whatever it was that he wanted to say about my wife, I was already sure I wouldn't like it. The only question was, what would I have to not like? "Go on," I told him. "You have my full attention and a bit of my faith." He began by mouthing a line about his not being a judge, merely a counselor. I said nothing when he waited expectantly for a smile, and the message finally got across that I was no longer interested in idle chit-chat, even if his nurse had pretty legs. He cleared his throat and asked me if I knew what the Electra complex was. "Sure," I told him. It was an insult to my intelligence, but I let it pass. What the hell, my intelligence has been insulted more times than I can count - what's one more? "It's that Playboy chick, right? The one who's acted in a couple of movies?" There was a strange look on his face, as if he was unsure whether I was pulling his chain. He shook his head when I said nothing more, and pulled his chair closer. "Let me get this straight," he said, all serious now. "You really don't know what the Electra complex is? A guy who's put fifteen years on the road as a detective has no idea what it is?" I shrugged. You learn something new everyday. I made a mental note to myself that I should look it up when I got home, which I erased when the resident Dr. Freud - Dr.Chivago here, in case you were wondering - explained it to me a few seconds later. But I am getting ahead of the script here, so let me go back to my shrug after his question. "What about the Oedipus complex?" If this were a cartoon, a bulb would have gone off over my head. If it were a sci-fi movie, you might probably see all those currents zipping across the circuits as the AI came up with the answer. In real life, though, the only thing that happened was his sigh as I told him. "Him I know. The guy who killed his father and married his mother, right?" "You got it. The term Oedipus complex is used to refer to a man's infatuation with his mother, or sometimes a person in a motherly role to him. Dr. Freud - that's Sigmund Freud, I assume you've heard of him - suggested that there was a similar, shall we say, proclivity in females as well that tends to an obsession about their fathers or other father figures. Actually, the jury's still out whether he coined the phrase or not, but he was certainly the first one to give an explanation that could be accepted as science." "You are wrong," I interrupted him. "What?" He had that same expression on his face he had had a few minutes earlier, one of surprise and puzzlement. "He's not alive anymore." "Yes, he died in 1939." "No, he didn't. That must have been her grandfather." "Whose grandfather?" "My wife's. Rachel's. Her father died only in 1979." He groaned. I kid you not, the guy in front of me actually clutched his hair and groaned. I pulled out my pack of Anta-Mintz and passed it on to him. He said he didn't need it. "I was talking about Dr. Freud. He died in 1939. I know Rachel's father died in 1979, she told me herself." He took a moment to compose himself, while I used that same moment to put the mints back in my pocket. "Now, where were we?" "You were telling me my wife was lusting after her own father..." "Did I say that? I don't think I did. Maybe -" "Sure you did. You said it your way, obsession or something, I said it my way." "You've misunderstood me." I lit up, you could say, both literally and metaphorically. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. You shyster my wife into paying for counseling she doesn't need, then have my daughter brought in - and that's made me mad enough - and now you have the guts to sit there telling me my own wife admitted to you that she wanted to get nasty with her old man!" I wasn't as mad as I pretended to be (which should explain why I was pretending - because I was not mad enough. Gotcha!) I already knew about her feelings towards her father, a secret we had shared for over two decades. I just didn't know that it was a complex. He seemed to shrink in his seat. I should have made a comment then about shrinks shrinking in their seats but I didn't want to ruin the moment. "Oh, yeah?" I said, using the tone I usually reserved for crack addicts down at the pier who wanted to borrow things from me. Like my wallet and watch. "Then why don't you tell me exactly what you've brought me here for instead of talking Psychology for Dummies?" He relaxed slowly, which is to say I had to take my eyes off him and look at the certificates framed and hung on the wall. There were quite a few diplomas which I had already known about through my only 'live' source these days - Google. Most of his research and papers were on human sexuality. "Why don't they call it husbandry?" "Huh?" I gestured to a particular frame of his. "Awarded to, blah blah, on the subject of human sexuality. Why don't they call it human husbandry and animal sexuality, instead of the other way around?" It took him a few seconds to get the joke. He laughed loudly at first, too loudly, before reducing it to a chuckle. The fear of being pounded into his sofa's leather - or being thrown off the glass walls into the street below - had suddenly evaporated. I wasn't sure if it was a good thing, but I was still curious why I was here. It was definitely not to see another man piss in his pants or pass out on me or both. "I get it. You were razzing me, weren't you?" I shrugged. So sue me, I do it a lot. I am a married man. "Just trying to figure out whether you paid for these," indicating the diplomas, "or you earned them." "I usually deal with people who are depressed. People who know they've got a problem, but not what it is. You are not that kind of a person, Mr. Kane. I must say I made the mistake of underestimating you. You are simply a guy who's confident about himself." "I assumed we were here to talk about Rachel." "And we will. But I think I have made such an impression on you that it would be infinitely better if you listened to what your wife herself said. I have a tape of our consultation from two days ago, and I will play it back for you. If you have any questions, feel free to interrupt at any point." "Isn't that a breach of your ethics? Recording the conversation?" "She knew it was being recorded, Mr. Kane. I have her approval on tape, as you will presently confirm for yourself. As for ethics... as long as the use I put it to are in her best interests, the means I choose are irrelevant, at least from an ethical point of view. Unless you have a problem with that, I think we can proceed," I shrugged. He smiled conspiratorially and pressed the button that played the tape. I prepared myself to imagine, to conjure up a video of sorts from the audio available. The only sound in the room was the whirr of the mechanism as it rotated the spool and fed the tape over the head. I give this information so that those of you who thought I was an imbecile can disabuse yourselves of that notion. After all, detectives and tape-recorders are synonymous with each other - why do you think they make them so small and concealable, anyway? And then it was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. "Please come in," boomed the voice that belonged to Dr.Chivago. Of course, somebody else could have mimicked it - the detective in me had to come up with that theory - but I did not dwell on it. If it was not his voice on the tape, Dr.Chivago would, I am certain, have had a different expression on his face than one of who is in love with his own speech. There was the sound of the door closing, and I could imagine the nurse with the pretty legs pulling it shut behind my wife, who must have extended her hand as she spoke to the doctor. "Dr.Chivago... it is so good of you to see me on such short notice. Jenny - Ms.Catterson - spoke very highly of you." "I am flattered that she did, and quite pleased to make your acquaintance," he replied. I could see him shaking hands with my wife. Did he linger too long, or was it a professional, a perfunctory handshake? Had he already noticed the wedding ring? Was she wearing it? She must have been... "Would you like to have a coffee or something?" "No, thanks," she said, hesitation in her voice. I assumed it was because of suddenly finding herself committed to counseling, of having put herself in a position where she would be forced to confide to a stranger things she couldn't tell even her loving and supportive husband of close-to-twenty-happy-years. Dr.Chivago stepped in, chivalrous as usual, or just trying to be smart and impress my wife. "I assume you are here... because of intimacy issues, aren't you? That is what I usually deal with, and without violating her confidence, it is why Ms.Catterson had consulted me. But I am sure you know more about that than I do, being her close confidante and all that." "Not really," Rachel said, laughing nervously. "But you are right about me. I do have some..." a pause, "intimacy issues, as you call them." "Before we proceed," interrupted Dr.Chivago, his tone polite and gentle. Was he still holding her hands? Was he across his desk, or were they on this couch, sitting beside each other? "I would like to record this session on audio tape for later reference. In fact, it was switched on when you entered... Do you mind?" "Whatever I tell you is confidential, right?" "Absolutely." I shot him a look. He shrugged. It must be contagious. I decided to let it go. "In fact, it's been running since you entered. If you want, I can put in a fresh tape." "No, that's okay," Rachel said. "I haven't said anything incriminating. Yet." Another nervous laugh. I wondered where he had been keeping the recorder. The voices were clear and loud, so it had to have been in the open. Where were they sitting? "Is that it?" she asked. "Yes." "My husband has one like it. It's got those tiny tapes inside, doesn't it?" "Your husband, is he a doctor?" "Oh, no, not Jerry. He's a PI - I mean, he was. Until he retired a couple of years ago. He used to carry one of those around all the time he had his agency." She lowered her voice. Maybe moved closer to the table, closer to Dr.Chivago. "I gave it away to a charity when he retired. He's been searching for it ever since." So that's what happened to my little black box. I still missed it, especially when I wanted to record one of Nicole's promises. She always forgets them the next day. "So what does he do now?" "He finds things to keep himself busy. You know, chores that need to be done, laundry picked up, repairs, gardening." "You mean to say that he is always around." "Yeah, except when I need him to lay down the law for Nikki." "Nikki would be... I presume, your daughter?" "Her name's Nicole, but Jerry's always called her Nikki from the day she was born. Now she answers only to Nikki - and usually only to Jerry." "Hmm," hummed the male voice. A short pause, and then, "Exactly what do you mean by intimacy issues, Mrs. Kane?" The tape rolled in silence for a few long seconds. He broke it by prompting her again. "Is there any tension between your husband and yourself?" "Exactly what do you mean by intimacy issues?" she threw his question right back at him. She did the same thing when we argued, and she was pretty good at it. He was quick with his reply, giving me the distinct impression that it was standard fare. "I don't mean to be crude, Mrs. Kane, but I find that intimacy issues usually occur when 'he has a hard-on all the time' or 'she has a headache all the time' or both. In broader terms, it's hard for people to remain a couple when one - or sometimes both - participants feel that the other is encroaching their private space, or demanding too much, or too little. It is my personal belief that the most relationships fail the moment the partners no longer feel a need to give in to the raw animal urges of lust." "Hmm," hummed the female voice now. "You mean like, if they no longer have sex or want to?" "It's not quite that simple," he answered. "But it's acceptable if you want to start from there." Another pregnant pause. He let her break the silence this time. "Maybe it's better if I tell you what I've been going through. I've never been good at organizing things. It's always been Jerry's talent." "By all means, let's get started," said the doctor, and I had visions of him reaching for my wife's hands again. That was the problem with imagination - you never knew when it was running wild. In the Way Ch. 01 "Er, before we start, I need to get one thing straight. If I tell you something in confidence, even if it is illegal, are you bound to report it to the police?" "The jury's still out on that," he told her. "It's still a gray area whether a doctor is duty-bound to ignore the vow of confidentiality when there is a question of the commission of a serious crime, especially if the crime is yet to be committed. To answer your question honestly, Mrs. Kane, unless you are going to kill somebody and I have sufficient cause to believe that you are serious, I do not have to - and I will not, certainly - divulge it to anybody else. You can think of me as your lawyer, but nicer." "That's okay," she said, sighing, "I think." Then she said nothing else for the next minute. I counted the seconds. At the sixty-seventh mark, Dr.Chivago prompted her, "Well?" I stopped counting when she said, "My husband is having an affair with our daughter." In the Way Ch. 02 "Are you sure?" he asked before I could turn the damned thing off. "What the hell was that?" I shouted at him. "She's lying!" He sat there, calmly taking in my reaction. Of course, he could afford to be calm - it was not his wife who had just told a perfect stranger that her husband was fooling around with their daughter. He held up his hands in a placating manner even as I took a menacing step towards him. "You," and I pointed my finger accusingly, "You put her up to it. If that is even her on the tape. You are going to pay, mister." At this point, I suppose he started to get a bit worried. This time, I did not have to pretend to be angry - I was fucking mad at him, excuse me ladies. He jumped out of his chair and pushed me, which was his mistake. A gumshoe, you must know, believes that Newton's third law rules the universe. I shoved him back, and he fell back on his chair that then teetered back, almost toppling, before I pulled at his pants and raised him upright. And then I punched him in his stomach. Normally, this is where you expect the hero to knock the bad guy out, aim at the jaw and put it there, but I stopped myself at the last moment. An unconscious Chivago was no use to me, though he must be infinitely less irritating. I tugged at his collar and let him fall back on his chair. He was gasping for breath as I picked up the recorder and prepared to fling it at one of his framed diplomas. "Wait," he croaked. He coughed. He coughed again. "Wait," he croaked again, and coughed again. Jeez, had I really hit him that hard? For a second there, I wondered if I would have to call for the paramedics. I waited, arm cocked as if I were about to throw a javelin. He took his hands off his stomach to motion for me to put the recorder down. Or to sit down or both or maybe to see if he was still alive. It took him a few minutes to regain his breath, during which I did not stand as if I would throw anything anywhere. I sat down across him, the same as before, but the recorder remained with me. I did not bother taking out the tape - I had already decided that the moment I walked out those doors, it would too. "I guess you are innocent," he said. I glared at him and cocked my arm again - only this time, I was aiming for his neck. At that range, he knew I could not miss. He amended his statement in the same breath. "No, I mean, I *know* you are innocent." "What the hell is all this about?" My arm dropped down to my thigh. "Believe me, I know you are innocent. I spoke to your daughter too, remember?" "You have her on tape, you piece of shit?" "No, she didn't want to be recorded. And I would appreciate it if you don't direct that kind of abuse at me anymore." "And I would appreciate it..." I mimicked him, and nobody told me I did not sound like the petrified bastard sitting in front of me. "What are you, some kinda shrink?" When he opened his mouth to answer, I shook my head. "Don't answer that. Jeez, even I don't know why I asked that question." "I know you are upset." "You are really good at this, aren't you?" I asked him sarcastically. A bit of color rushed to his cheeks, but he did not say anything. "What the fucking hell is all this?" I do not normally condone profanity, but I excused myself. This fucking asshole deserved whatever fuck he got for fucking with me. So there. "Maybe you should just play it back," he said, gesturing to the recorder I still held in my hand. "Maybe you should just tell me everything, and I'll play it back on the way home," I told him. I received no argument. I suppose he must have wondered whether I had a player in my car that I could run the mini-cassette on, not realizing that I just had myself a good one for the price of a whole lot of bullshit. He nodded, as if he had any choice in the matter, cleared his throat, sat up straighter and began his salvation. "If you would play that tape a bit longer, you will hear your wife admitting that she does not have any actual evidence that you are sleeping with your own daughter. She simply believes - or, I should say, she prefers to believe it. I told you about the Electra complex, didn't I? That's one form of penis-envy. There's another, though -" "Come again," I interrupted. "What was that? Penis-envy?" "That's how Dr. Freud saw it," he said it almost referentially. "He suggested that because the daughter does not have a penis and therefore feels possessive about the dominant male who has it. Often, this is translated into a jealous attitude victimizing her mother who is seen as the reason for the girl being without it. In other words, Daddy's penis belongs to Mom, and it just ain't fair." Like I said, learn something new everyday. But I would certainly prefer it if they came with instructions attached. "Jesus," I exclaimed, not really meaning it. I am an atheist. "And people actually believed that crap?" He stiffened for an instant before remembering how his stomach had collided with my fist quite recently. "It's not crap, Mr. Kane; it's a very good piece of psychological science. It helped us understand the human psyche as we know it today." On any other day, I would have asked if a psyche was what you called a female psycho. Today, I let it pass. He continued because I had not interrupted, "I believe it, and so do a lot of other psychiatrists across the world. It's based on science, logic and research, quite different from the kind of prejudice that people with misguided anger have." I did not have misguided anger, I felt like telling him. I didn't miss his solar plexus, did I? "But enough of that," he said, clapping his hand once. It did not come out as sharply as he wanted it to, and for a moment there, the frustration showed on his face. It sounded as if someone had slapped a dog's rump. Possibly a Chihuahua. "You keep mentioning all these complexes," I reminded him. "And I keep telling you that her father died a long -" I stopped myself as a thought struck me. "Shit, is it Nikki? Is she the one with the Electra complex?" "No, no, no, no, no," he said, echoing himself. Was he the hollow man, you might wonder - but I didn't care at the time. "You've got it all wrong. Once again, Mr. Kane, you've jumped before the horse." I pointed out that he had mixed up his idioms, and he replied that I was mixing up his digestive system. "So we're even," I told him. "Now why don't you cut the crap - I think I am repeating myself here - and tell me, please, what this is all about." Maybe it was the 'please' that did it, maybe he was tired of the comic routine he was running for me, maybe he needed to go to the bathroom because his digestive system had worked too well, or not at all, or maybe he felt sorry for me. "I'll spell it out for you, but please don't interrupt me. I hope we are agreed on that. No, don't say anything, just listen. For once in your whole goddamned life, just listen. And then you can ask me questions at the end." Should I raise my hand? Oh, shuddup! "Your wife does NOT have Electra complex. Now. She had it once upon a time, when she was just into her teens, long before she had met you, a time when she thought her father was her soul mate. Her one true love, I believe was the phrase she used, and she told me you know all about her and her father. That nothing happened, that he died of a heart-attack at their table during dinner and that she blamed her own mother for a long time afterwards." I knew all that, and a bit more. If he had not died, she might never even have become my girlfriend, let alone my wife. She had admitted as much to me when I took her to my apartment the day after I had proposed to her. I also knew that she had not forgiven her mother until after she too had passed away. It was only that evening, with her sobbing at her parents' graves, that I knew that finally, her love was all mine. Nikki came barely a year later. "Her counselor at the time managed to convince her she was not to blame, but I don't think he did enough to keep her from transferring that on to her mother. That hatred remained long enough for Rachel to decide that she would never be to her daughter what her mother had been to her. A hurdle." I wanted to interrupt but didn't. He was on a roll, and I did not want to derail him into things that made less sense. What he was telling me sounded something like Morpheus would tell Neo - if you can believe this one thing, then everything that flows from this must also be true. It took me ten times to understand what the Matrix was all about. I had a feeling I should have recorded Dr. Chivago's monologue - maybe he went to the same writer the Wachowski brothers did. Therefore, I did what everyone else does when they don't really understand. I kept nodding. "I don't really think that Rachel woke up one morning and decided that she would allow her daughter to have a physical relationship with her father if she so wished. It was more likely a gradual change in her attitude and acceptance, and maybe it so happened that one day, she asked herself what would happen if, and she realized that she didn't really mind. Not only that, but she really didn't want to be the reason it never happened. It was such a strong sentiment that it scared her - what if they were really in love and never realized it because she was always around, maybe ruining what could have been the defining, or redefining, moment in their lives." "Damn," I said, unable to help myself. "What?" he asked anxiously. I did not blame him - somebody says that in my house, my first instinct is to wonder if the guy's lost his bladder. "I really should have recorded this. I don't have the faintest idea what you said just now." He smiled patronizingly. "I don't buy this act of you being as dumb as you try to let me think you are. Impulsive, yes, but not dumb. Your wife told me you are one of the sharpest knives in the drawer." He did not say that, actually. I wanted him to, but what he did say was, "Let me rephrase. Your wife promised herself that she would never interfere if you had an affair with your daughter. In fact, she would try to stay out more often so that you could have more privacy. Do you understand?" I understood what he was telling me. It was exactly the kind of situation that had let to an increasing number of spats in the household over the past few months. Ever since my last case, when I had escaped death simply because my bullet was a tenth of a second faster than that of the guy whose head it went into, she had alternated between fussing over me and suddenly withdrawing herself, going off for hours and leaving me alone with Nikki, for whom I had actually taken the bullet. The simmering tension over her signing up for overtime at her hospital, working well into the night, would boil over from time to time once I had recovered completely. I would tell her to relax, take some time off, spend some of it with me, and she would accuse me of not being supportive enough in her career growth. She was a nurse, which is the reason I usually scoffed at her when she said this. Now I understood why she was acting as if I didn't need her, as if she no longer mattered to me. Pushing me away from herself and into our daughter's arms. I asked him if she really thought that. He nodded gravely. "It's slightly more complicated than that, but you've understood the fundamentals." "Does anybody else know about this? I mean, Nikki? Your nurse?" "I wasn't as graphic with Ms. Kane," he said. "What I mainly wanted from her was confirmation of your actions one way or another. She convinced me that you were either a terrific father or a terribly impotent one." He smiled at his own joke - at least, one of us appreciated it more than it was worth. "No, she doesn't know her mother wants to set it up so that the two of you can have an illicit relationship with each other." I was really impressed that he had managed to describe the alleged incestuous union - hey, now I'm doing it too - without ever having to use the F-word. Kinda reminded you that there were other words in the English language too. "And your nurse, with the pretty legs?" I asked him, jerking a thumb at the door. "With the fake tits?" he added, and it convinced me that the room was definitely not bugged. She had to be in on it if it were a con job - a possibility I still hadn't dismissed - and I was sure would never take kindly to being addressed as a bimbo with silicone jobs, even if half the silicone in the entire world was concentrated within twenty square miles of where she was. "Nah, she knows nothing. I keep her so that I can get guys - like you - to visit me. I do my own filing because she doesn't know what comes after Q, and she does not have a key to this room. I could have a heart-attack in here and she can't come in unless she kicks the door in." "With those legs? Wouldn't be worth it," I told him, grinning. He said, "Amen to that, brother." Look at us - five minutes ago, I was all set to murder him. Now we sat around, chatting about a woman we hardly knew, like a couple of friends from college. It's the air, I tell you. It makes you do strange things. I once even heard a defendant say that under oath and the jury let him walk. Of course, he walked into a speeding car just outside the courts and was no longer concerned about the air by the time he hit the pavement, and the driver, who was actually the brother of the girl the deceased defendant had murdered a year ago, tried the same tactic in the same court to a different jury and got ten years. Must be the air, I tell you. "Are you sure? That no one else knows?" I asked again. "Look, when I told your wife I wanted to see you, I asked her not to say a word about it to you or your daughter. I made the same request to your daughter, too, and she promised me she wouldn't say anything about it until after you had seen me. I called you up personally on my cell phone, and if you remember, all I told you was that your family had been in to see me, my time was paid for anyway, and my nurse had pretty legs, all of which is perfectly true. And you've got that tape, which I want you to return as soon as you've heard it all so that I can make copies of it and sell it on eBay." Thanks, I said, and he asked what for. "Letting me keep the recorder. It's so nice of you, Dr. Chivago." "Damn, I always listen to a tape before I go to sleep." "You pervert," I told him. "You are supposed to be helping people, not jacking off listening to their intimacy issues." "What else?" he remarked as I glanced at my watch. "You thought I was in it for the money?" We had another beer each, in companionable silence. When I finished, I brought up the subject of what my daughter had said. He shook his head. "She's not a patient of mine, so I can't violate her confidence." I stared at him. Wouldn't you? "You had no problem violating Rachel's confidence, and she's your patient." He took a last drag on his bottle and set it down on the floor. "I told you about Rachel because she would be in trouble if I didn't. I won't tell you about Nikki because she would be in trouble if I did." I didn't understand that, either, but let it go. I figured I could ask her myself. It was a thought that gave me pause. In all my life pursuing suspects, parole-offenders, criminals, witnesses and the occasional client who skipped facts or payments, I had never had a problem asking the right question. Nikki had always been the exception. If I asked her how was her boyfriend, she would retort that I shouldn't care about a guy whose name - even - I didn't know; if I asked her how was Mr. So-and-so, it was always the answer that he was not the current boyfriend. And now all I had to do was sit her down and ask her what she had told a strange, if not weird, psychiatrist - named after a guy who had sold his soul to the Devil, and what was the deal with that, anyway? - about her parents' sex lives, especially one which was supposed to involve her. Ha! For a moment, I wished that I had been the one who had explained to her about the birds and the bees. It should have given me some kind of practice for this sort of thing. Maybe there was a book about it I could order online - like 'How to Ask Your Teenage Daughter if She is Having Sex with You.' On the other hand, maybe, 'Does She Know What I Did to You Last Summer?' might have some useful insights too. I stood up to leave and shook hands. We played the usual my-hand-is-stronger-than-yours game that grown heterosexual men do whenever they come in physical contact, and I would like to say I won because I was not the one rubbing my hand when we stopped. However, just as I turned towards the door, I realized that I had left one question unasked. "So what did you tell my wife in the end, anyway? That she could go home and stop all this nonsense?" His smile was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma surrounded by two rows of pearly white teeth that was definitely high maintenance. "You've got the tapes. Why don't you find out for yourself?" In the Way Ch. 03 I had half a mind to play the rest of the tape inside my car before I started home, but the hot air that rushed out of it shook me out of that notion. It was a hot day for spring even though summer was just around the corner, as they say, and I preferred the cold climate any day of the week better than the heat wave we had been having for the last few days. I considered sitting inside, motor idling, air conditioner on high, and finish the task that was the highest on my to-do list, but I did not want to run out of gas on the way. Maybe I should have done it anyway. Maybe I should have talked the doctor into letting me stay for a bit more time and play the entire tape. Maybe I should have plugged in a pair of headphones and listened to her as I drove home, but I knew I wanted to pay it - and her - my full attention. Maybe I should have driven down to a drive-in, ordered some food and sat in a shady alcove with the recorder plugged in. Maybe I should not have met Dr. Chivago at all. Whatever. Nevertheless, in retrospect, I think I would have played things a lot different if I had done - or not done - any of those things. As it was, I pulled into my empty driveway the better part of an hour later. My wife took the bus to work - it was only a short walk through the neighborhood to the stop, and the route took her just a block south of the hospital where she worked. We had presented her two-door coupe to our daughter on her birthday, and its absence meant that Miss. Kane was still out at the mall with her friends. It was unlikely that she would be back before dark and my wife, as I told you, worked the graveyard shift too- although I suppose that is a politically incorrect term when you work at a hospital. Which meant that I walked in under the mistaken impression that I had the house all alone - except for Buster, our German Shepherd - and the solitude I needed while I played the tape. As a detective, even if retired, I suppose I should have noticed the fact that Buster did not come rushing to my feet the moment I opened the door, which he always does when he has been left alone for any length of time, or that the filter in the aquarium - one of Nikki's more recent hobbies - was switched on, which was usually my task for four in the afternoon. I like to look at the little things floating weightlessly on the water, their mouths opening and closing in a silent opera, the light throwing off reflections on the ceiling... and the significance of the running filter completely escaped me. I shut the door and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. Nikki had her room on the mezzanine floor halfway up the stairs, jutting out over the small pool I had built behind our house when I retired. The door was closed now, as it always was when she was not home. My lounging clothes were on the bed, right where I had dropped them when I had left to see Dr. Chivago. I placed the recorder on a shelf next to the door and dropped my pants. I needed to take a pee before I - "What the?" I asked as I opened the door and a wall of steam rushed out. "Dad," came her scream a moment later. "What are you doing here?" both of us asked each other at the same time across the swirling mist of steam that was rushing out of the bathroom like a fumigator. I suppose I should have been the gentleman - hell, she couldn't be one even if she wanted to, right? - and shut the door straightaway, protecting her modesty, and I am sure I would have done exactly that if a sudden draft of air - channeled through the corridors exactly as I had once wanted - had not cleared the air between us. Literally. I stared as she seemed to appear out of the mist - or maybe I should say fog, just to be technically accurate - like a goddess. Of course, I would never have said that she was not beautiful. What proud father would, even if his offspring looked like something the cat had dropped at their doorstep, and mine had admirers crawling out the woodwork class that she had taken during her vacation. It was not just my opinion, it was a fact that she was a stunning girl growing up into a stunning woman, and it was something I suspected gave her own mother a slight inferiority complex. Maybe that is why she was making all these assumptions about Nikki and me. If you want to give me credit for being so levelheaded as to think all this while staring at my daughter's naked body, think again. I did exactly what I said I did - I stared - and all those silly thoughts like Dr. Freud came to me much later. Like a few minutes later. For the moment, though, I stood rooted to the spot. "Dad," she said, her brown hair plastered to her shoulders and running down her back, one hand across her chest in a partially successful attempt to cover her breasts while the other was between her legs - hold your tongue! - covering her you-know-what. Legs even prettier, with toenails painted a deep red, stood amid a pool of water that was slowly draining away somewhere. "Dad," she said again. "Toss me that towel, will ya?" Managing to keep my eyes on her forehead and above, I reached for the towel that I knew would be hung just to the right of the doorway and tossed it to her. One hand peeled away from her body to catch it, but I had already closed the door by then. I was not that much of a pervert. Yet. A few seconds later, I was still standing next to the door as it opened and she stepped out. We almost collided - almost because she had faster reflexes than I did - and sidestepped me. The smells of her shampoo and soap filled my nostrils almost immediately, which had the same pleasantness to it that I always feel when I am served a Double Whopper With Fries at McDonald's. She was tall, with the top of her head coming up to my nose, which usually made it easier for me to give her a peck on the forehead than one on the cheeks. She smiled at me. "You went to see that shrink, didn't you? I didn't expect you home so soon." I still did not say anything. I was not still staring at her body, if that is what you were thinking; I was wondering if the water dripping off her and on to the carpet would seep through and ruin the flooring. "I really thought you would be calling from a police station somewhere after they arrested you for throwing him off that office of his." "Believe me, that cross did thought my mind," I told her. "What? What did you say?" "I said, that thought did cross my mind." I felt a vague disquiet, as if I had forgotten something and did not know what it was. "No, you didn't." She was shaking her head, and droplets went flying in an arc around her. "You got your thought and cross mixed up." "Wouldn't be the first time today," I told her, handing over a smaller towel for her hair, preparing for a change of subject. "Why are you home so early? And where's your car?" "It broke down a few blocks from here," she said. "So I spent some time over at Rosie's place and came back when she had to go out on some chores. Honest, dad, I really didn't expect you home so early - you know I wouldn't use your steam bath without asking." She sounded worried, as if I would be angry with her, and I smiled at her for the first time since I had seen her naked. "That's okay, honey. I don't mind you using it, but just make sure next time that you don't forget to lock the door when you are inside." "Thanks, dad, you're the best," she gushed, a little too thick, perhaps, and there was the fleeting instant of a Dad's Premonition - that she was fattening me up for the kill - which went away when she gave me an affectionate hug. It was only when I felt her towel-encased body press against mine that I remembered what I had forgotten in the shock of walking in on her. It was forgotten again as I breathed in her fragrance, a mix of soap and freshness I had always believed was unique to her, and gave her a peck on her forehead. "I love you too." "I bet," she said, and I wondered what she meant by that as we parted. Okay, so I was sporting an erection, but my little girl was not supposed to know what that was, right? Not until she got married anyway. She bounded across my room and towards hers, stopping at the doorway to ask a very pertinent question. "Dad," she said, rolling the words off her lips like she did whenever it was a rhetorical question, "What are you doing in your underwear?" Oh, right. I had forgotten again. I gestured to the bathroom and mumbled something about private business. She held up a hand and shrugged - she got that from me. "Never mind," she said as she turned around. "I don't want to know," giving me the distinct impression that she did. From what I learnt later, this is the point in a story where the father jacks off, thinking his daughter has gone back to her room and he has his privacy, only to have her walk in looking for something - a hair clip? panties? a towel? - and catch him. Then, depending on how hurried the author is, it either sets off a situation that eventually sees them rolling in the proverbial hay or jumping into bed right then, because she is sopping wet (duh! she just had a shower.) However, like I said, this was the fruit of later research - I introduced it here because my editor said I had gone too long without a mention of sex. Story of my life. For the record, though, this was where I closed the door and locked it, just to be sure, not because I wanted to masturbate the hell out of my cock - I was not sure what would come out, you see - but I did not want her walking in while I was dressing. I stepped into the now-clear bathroom, did all that I wanted to do - which did not include jacking off, or beating the peter or any other quaint term for what I do every other night, but did relieve the pressure in another way I do not have to tell you about - and came out and dressed in a loose t-shirt and a pair of long shorts. For those still wondering, I was no longer sporting an erection. It was as I was getting dressed that I thought about Nikki and how beautiful she was, how proud I was of her and how her beauty might have given her mother all those fantastic ideas. Not that I am a hunk, or the other extreme, but I have known girls who adored their dads who looked like something the cops dragged in every morning at the local precinct. I suppose that is why Rachel did not find it too hard to believe that I might have some sort of sexual appeal for our daughter. As laughable as that notion is, I have known stranger things to happen. I even met an honest politician once, I swear. Just as I was about to play the tape, there was a knock at the door. "Dad," Nikki called from the other side. "You respectable in there?" "Are you going out again?" I asked, anticipating her request. "You can take my car, but just call the garage before you leave. They'll need to know where your car is." There was a pause before she said, proving that I am a creature of habit, "No, I wasn't thinking about going out. I just wanted to, you know, talk to you. I mean, we rarely talk to each other, I am either gone out or talking on the phone, and you're usually watching TV or reading. But if you don't -" I did not let her finish. Everything else has to wait when your kid says she has to talk to you. I opened the door and pulled her into a tight hug. "Of course, honey. I would love that," I told her, enjoying the downy feel of her hair against my jaw. She must have used her drier on it. "I just didn't think you would rather talk to me than go out somewhere." "Oh, Daddy," she cooed, meaning, you have your moments, old man, but don't expect me to make this a habit. Teens speak their own language. Nonetheless, I savored the moment. The older she got, the less frequent such moments were. It was not just my daughter, I knew, but the whole generation which seemed to speed through their youth with such speed we never know where the years have gone until it is too late. "Go on downstairs and prepare me a glass of your best-selling lemonade," I told her, giving a playful pat on her rump. The lemonade was an inside-joke in our household. When we had not bought her a bicycle for her tenth birthday, Nikki had borrowed our neighbor's cart - he had an old ice-cream cart he had bought at an auction, for nostalgia's sake - and camped across the street selling lemonade. She sold out a full load ten times that day. It was nowhere near enough for a bicycle, but I went out and bought it for her just the same - any little girl who is capable of putting together a business like that deserves a reward. It was only a year later, when she wanted to buy a car, that she discovered that her old man had stood on the corner, bribing everybody he met to buy a glass of her lemonade. It took me three days to break down her anger. In a truly ladylike manner, she was royally pissed off that I had stooped so low as to round up her friends and recompensate them for the juice she sold them. "My lemonade wasn't that bad," she had screamed. "Will do," she said, turning around and giving me a mock-salute. Then, for a moment, she sobered. "Are you all right? I mean, after that session with Dr. Chivago..." she let her words trail off, concern written all over her oval face. Suddenly, I remembered that I had absolutely no idea how much she knew. Mentally, I placed that at the top of my list. Maybe I did not have to go look for a Dummies guide on 'Asking Your Daughter What She Knows' after all. She had just given me the opening I needed. "Whatever that jerk said," I told her, lying through my teeth, "I didn't give it a second thought. Besides, why shouldn't I be all right?" I smiled at her, and this was sincere and honest. "You've just made my day." The grin returned to her face. I watched her go down the corridor, her figure shown off by the clothes she wore - a sleeveless t-shirt that, unlike mine, seemed poured over her and a pair of shorts that looked as if they had grown on her. With the light streaming in from the windows on the west side, she was a silhouette of grace and beauty. I remembered that it was what I had thought of her mother when I realized that I was in love. The coincidence was something I did not care to dwell upon. I joined her on the patio overlooking the pool a few minutes later, utilizing the time to plan a few approaches that I could use to get her to tell me what she told Dr. Chivago without spooking her. I slipped the cassette player into my pocket and zipped it shut. I did not know if she had noticed it earlier, and I did not intend to subject her to the allegation if I could help it. I had a vaguely disquieting feeling that though false, my wife's words had somehow belittled the purity of my relationship with my daughter. I did not want Nikki to feel the same way. My favorite mug sat on the table, full and cool, just the way I liked it. She was already sipping from hers, her back to me, watching the water in the pool slowly rippling even though there was no real breeze. I slipped a kiss on the top of her head and sat down. "Where's the pooch?" Before she could answer, I added, "And this is great, as usual," holding up the glass I had taken a sip out of. "Thanks," she said. I detected a slight blush on her cheeks at the compliment. "And Buster's gone for a walk with his girlfriend." "His girlfriend, huh?" I grunted in mock-seriousness. "Where's she from? I can't just have a mutt show up asking for puppy support, you know." She giggled, a sound that reminded me of small bells tinkling in the wind. "It's Marsha's Labrador." Marsha, for those who want to know, was an elderly lady who lived down the street. "And as for the puppies, I suppose we could market them as German Labradors. You know, an exotic breed." We made some idle chitchat for a few more minutes before it lapsed into silence. Neither of us was facing each other, instead preferring to sit with our backs to the house and watch the sun glinting off the water. The air was quite sultry, and as I mopped my brow with my t-shirt, I remarked, "Hot." She turned around with a silly grin on her face and crossed her arms over her chest. "Me or the weather?" I had heard her use the same tone when she was flirting with somebody over the phone. This is the kind of question that lands you in trouble - say it's the weather, and the next question any woman asks is, "Why, aren't I hot?" On the other hand, while it is relatively safer when it is a woman you are not related to, a daughter is not supposed to be hot to her father. I would like to say I took my time pondering the question, but the answer was out of my mouth even before my mind had fully comprehended the finer points. "It looks like it will keep up for another week," I told her. She deviated only slightly from the script. "So you're saying I'm not?" Rather than answer the question, I threw one right back at her. "What did Dr. Chivago talk to you about, darling?" So much for finesse, so much for planning the whole show like 20-questions. Call me impulsive, and I think the world would agree. Call me a coward, and I would agree. Nikki and I had never actually flirted with each other, and as good as it felt - that she still found me interesting enough and young enough to share the joke - I was unsure where it would head. Our relationship, whether she knew it or not, was suddenly a game of dominoes for me. I had no idea when I would say the wrong thing and break it forever. She turned away. I could sense a sudden hardness in her, an impromptu putting up of defenses it would be hard for me to break. I wondered what it was that could bring out such a reaction in my normally mild-mannered girl. I was angry with Dr. Chivago again for doing this to us, and I was just as angry with Rachel for putting our daughter through all this. God knows what that smiling bastard said to my kid, but I was about to find out. I needed to know the extent of the damage. And I wanted to reach out and touch my daughter, to reassure her that I was still her father, that I would protect her whatever the costs. To console her. But I did not. I let her vent. "That bitch," she hissed, and with a start, I realized that the focus of her fury was her mother. "Why's she doing this to us, Dad? Why's she doing this to you? Why the hell would she even tell him that you are - that you are fucking me?" She picked up her glass and threw it across our backyard. It crashed into the grass surrounding the pool but did not break. "And that too when you've hardly noticed that I am alive," she added, freezing me with those words. She turned around, her eyes instantly softening. "Sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that. But Mom's got no right to go around telling people that we are having an affair." Her hand reached out across the table and I took it in both of mine. My heart went out to her ache. "I am sorry that you have to go through all this." "Sorry? You are sorry?" she asked incredulously. A single tear peeked out from the edge of her right eye. Her lips quivered as she spoke. She gripped my hands tighter. Leaned forward. "She does all this to us, and you are apologizing to me?" Shook her head sadly. "You are too good to her, and the bitch doesn't even realize that." I placed a hand on her lips. "Don't talk about your mother like that," I told her. I did not want to be stern about it, but I did not want her to start calling her mother names. If she started now and nobody stopped her, there would never be an end to it. Daughters should not call their parents names. "Maybe she's going through a tough time," I said, stroking the tear away with my thumb. "Maybe she's in some sort of depression. Maybe she's just jealous because Daddy loves you so much, and she thinks we don't love her enough." She smiled, and it was obvious the effort it took her. "Now you sound like Dr. Chivago." "Tell me what happened yesterday, honey. And him you can call whatever name you want." In the Way Ch. 04 I had her convinced that I was fine right up to the point where she asked me to put my hand on her head. "Which one?" I asked. There is quite nothing like walking into a door. I have had my share of fists connecting with my face in those fifteen years you keep hearing me repeat so that I can impress you that I am a tough guy, but coming up against a wooden door reminded me what it felt like to get knocked out. I must have been out for a couple of minutes, give or take a couple, I suppose. Consciousness returned defying the laws of physics - sound preceding light. I heard my daughter calling out my name, asking me if I was alright, and I was telling her that I was perfectly fine when I remembered that I had to open my eyes. It was only then that I discovered that we had two roofs, two doors - didn't I just bump into one, I asked myself - and two Nikkis. Ergo, my statement. Ergo, Nikki's insistence that we go see a doctor whether I might have a concussion. Ergo, me riding shotgun with ice pressed to my forehead as she deftly maneuvered my car through the traffic towards the hospital. It was only when she stopped that I realized that we had come to the Memorial, and not the Community Hospital, which was where Rachel worked as a nurse. The Memorial was approximately the same distance from our home, but exactly on the other side of the circumference. I asked her why we had not gone to her mother's hospital. "'Cos she is there," Nikki replied curtly as she pulled up in front of the trauma centre. An orderly rushed out with a wheel chair and seemed disappointed when I said I could walk. Nikki gunned the car as if she were in a race and headed towards the parking lot. She was by my side a minute later, giving us a precious few seconds just before the doctor showed up. She pulled my hand away from the bump on my forehead, wincing at the color. "How do you feel, handsome?" she asked me tenderly. I reached out with my free hand and encircled her waist. "You take good care of me, kid." She smiled just as the doctor, a young, competent-looking, no-nonsense chap, announced his presence by gripping my wrist. The next few minutes went by in a blur as he went through the diagnostics I was already familiar with - pulse, pupils, heartbeat, breathing, response and balance. He spoke only after he had administered the morphine shot. "There's nothing a good nap shouldn't take care of," he said as he scribbled a note to my daughter. "It was your head that took the impact, but you certainly have a hard head, Mr. Kane." "Yes, he does," my daughter agreed before I could say anything. "I think he cracked the door." The doctor smiled at her joke. Since I have a good sense of humor, I did not grudge the fact that the joke was actually on me - but what surprised me was the sudden irritation that my daughter should flirt with another man. For some reason, I knew immediately then that it was not the kind of feeling I would have as a father but rather as someone more... intimate. Was I actually getting jealous? Nah, I told myself, it was just her way of releasing stress. It meant nothing. We were advised to remain at the hospital, however, for another hour, "just to be sure." I did not want to stay there any longer, but the doctor persisted and Nikki prevailed. The only compromise that I was able to wring from them was that I would not occupy any room other than the Visitors' Lounge. After I seated myself in the middle of one of the couches - Nikki was afraid I would fall off - I sent her off to fetch us something to drink. I had just picked up a Readers' Digest from the table in front and was about to read an article on household safety when I heard her say, "Oh, God, are you all right?" Rachel had her hand on my head before I could actually register the fact that my wife was here. Her hand brushed against the welt on my forehead, which caused me to wince sharply. "Sorry," she said, taking her hand away as if my face was on fire. "Sorry, didn't mean to hurt you." "Forget it," I told her, wanting her to put her hand on me again. That touch felt so good, so natural, but there was a part of me that was still instinctively angry with her, even though her allegations were not on my immediate recall. "How come you got here so quickly?" "I was on the way when Nikki called," she said, setting her purse down on the table and reaching once again, hesitantly this time, for my face. "I asked the cabbie to turn around and floor it. What happened?" "You slammed the door in his face," Nikki answered for me. Her hands were empty, which told me that she had seen her mother arrive before she had gone too far down the corridor. She stepped protectively between us and dropped down on the couch right beside me, one arm around my shoulder, the other on her thigh. "You did this to him." Rachel just stood there and absorbed the accusation. She did nothing to stop our daughter. Her hand, which had been reaching out to me, dropped limply at her side as she said, once again and in a lower voice, "I'm sorry." "Why are you here anyway?" Nikki asked. "Want to see the damage you've done?" I laid a warning hand on her, whispering, "Nikki, cool it," but she did not heed me. "What's your problem anyway, you bitch?" The invective was hurled with almost frightening intensity, so loud that a couple of visitors who had been trying to ignore us reflexively looked at us. I have this mental image, a snapshot of the scene - me, with a book on my lap, sitting beside Nikki, her face raging, her wrist white and quivering, glaring at her mother who stood wordlessly, hands at her sides, eyes cast downward, accepting of all that her daughter had thrown at her. "You called me," she said after a while. I wanted to reach out for her but found myself unwilling to do so. For some reason, I believed Nikki would see it as a betrayal - and of the two women in my life, I seemed to have made my choice clear. Rachel seemed to know it already. Nikki dug her fingers into my shoulder, as if acknowledging it. Rachel continued to speak, directing her words at our daughter. "You were the one who sent me a message saying that he had had an accident and was being admitted here." "So what?" Nikki asked, still as belligerent as ever. "Why do you care?" "I thought it was because of me." "It IS because of you," Nikki told her. "I thought he was hit by a car or something," Rachel said, her voice shaking. "You mean you wished," Nikki said, making it sound as if it were a proven fact. Rachel shook her head without saying anything. Her eyes seemed to have welled up, a look I had last seen on her face at her mother's memorial service, and I was about to say something conciliatory when she turned around on her heels. With her back to us, she picked up her purse and pulled a Kleenex out of it. "I'll leave you two alone now," she said as she walked away from us. We did not stop her. Instead, we watched silently as she made her exit, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Even at the distance, it was obvious that she was crying. I would have gone to her and forgave her everything if she had not made that last comment sound sinister, as if both Nikki and I had wanted to exclude her. It was yet another statement of hers that seemed to indicate that my relationship with my daughter was not as pure as it was supposed to be. Beside me, as her mother vanished from view, Nikki still simmered like a volcano threatening to erupt at any second. "Did you just hear what she said?" I tried to placate her. "She didn't mean it," I lied, "Maybe she was spooked when she caught us kissing, and then thinking that I had a serious accident - it must have been the sudden shock and release of it all." I bit my tongue before I could add the part about Nikki's outburst being another reason she decided to leave. "Come on, Dad," Nikki said, turning towards me with a pout on her face. "You are always sticking up for her even when she wouldn't do it for herself. Didn't you just see what I just saw? Didn't you hear what I just heard? She's out to destroy us, Dad. I don't have a fucking clue why, but she wants to pull us apart with all this incest nonsense." Something on my face revealed my skepticism, stopping Nikki in her tracks. There is a gradual dawn of realization on her face. "You know something about this, don't you? That stupid shrink actually told you why she's doing this." I gave her a nod, remembering the cassette player I had stuck into my pockets. Absently, I ran a hand over it. Although hard to tell because of the fabric around it, there seemed to be no lasting damage despite my crash-and-burn. Nikki noticed the gesture immediately and placed her hand over mine. "What's that?" she asked, her voice going up a notch. With her eyes boring into mine, it was quite difficult for me to generate a lie that would prevent her from finding out what her mother had told Dr.Chivago. Besides, I was no longer certain I had the right to keep her in the dark anymore - she had as much, if not more, riding on her mother's delusions as I did. She was not a child I could deceive with fairies and reindeers but an adult who had proven herself mature and responsible. Maybe there was something in it that she might pick up before I did. Daughters are supposed to be closer to their mothers, after all. "It's a tape recording of your mother's session with Dr. Chivago," I informed her as I pulled it out of my pocket. "It kinda explains why your mother's been acting weird lately. At least, I hope it does." "Have you listened to it?" she was asking before I had finished. "No, I guess not." I admitted that I had listened to a part of it. "I shut it off the moment I heard her tell him that we are having an affair. What I do know comes out of the doctor's summary. He tried to explain why Rachel's been saying the things she did but I still find it hard to believe. He seemed to find it reasonable, though." Without a word, Nikki reached into her purse and pulled out the hands-free kit she usually used with her phone. "Will these work with the model you have?" she asked me as she unwound them expertly. It was a good idea, one that I was proud to have had from her. There was still the better part of an hour to kill inside the hospital, and there were still too many visitors in the lounge. Neither of us wanted Rachel's accusations reach another ear if we could help it, and there was a sense of urgency between us that we ought to know why she was making the noise she did. I had to turn the volume up to the maximum level to get a decent experience and compensate for the ambient noise that each of us could hear with our uncovered ear. "Just cue it up a little," she suggested. I obliged her, even though I was suddenly unsure whether I really wanted her to hear her mother's shocking statement. The tape started playing at the point where Rachel talks about intimacy issues for the first time. It felt embarrassing to sit there with my daughter and hear my wife talk about it with an absolute stranger but I kept my mouth shut. I had decided not to play the censor anymore. Though I would glance at her quite often, Nikki did not, not even once, look at me. She was biting her nails, a habit she had quit a thousand times already, her eyes downcast and on the linoleum floor, her concentration evident on her face. There was a sudden intake of breath, sounding impossibly loud because of our proximity, when her mother said, "My husband is having an affair with our daughter." I watched her cheeks turn red; I could see those muscles pull taut. I was expecting her to say something but she did not, letting the tape play on instead. I laid a hand on her shoulder, unsure of what to say if she looked at me. She saved me the trouble by squeezing my hand instead of turning to me. I tried to concentrate on what Rachel was saying, but Nikki's obvious discomfiture was distracting me. Maybe gazing at the floor should work, I told myself. It would be unnecessary for me to transcript the tape when Dr. Chivago had paraphrased it already, but there were a few points he had left out when we had spoken earlier. I did not know if he did it deliberately, wanting me to hear it from her own lips, or if he had forgotten it amongst all the violence I had threatened him with. I did not care particularly one way or the other at the moment, though I did make a note to myself that I should have a word with him later. In person. When Rachel said, "I have my own reasons for believing so," my ears perked up. Having been led to believe that she was being delusional because of her own unrequited feelings towards her father, I found it strange that Rachel should make this statement. Coming from Dr. Chivago, all that mumbo-jumbo seemed, at least, slightly believable - but it was definitely a stretch to believe that Rachel had diagnosed it herself before he had. It had to be something else, something he had not let on. "Why do you say that?" his tinny voice asked in our ears. There was a pause before Rachel answered. If shrugging was my specialty, hesitating seemed to be hers. She answered, in a lower voice I was able to pick up only because I had covered my other ear, "I read her diary." At first, the import of her words was lost to me. It was only when Nikki gave a quick, guilty glance in my direction that I realized whose diary Rachel had been talking about. It was a stunning moment, one neither of us had even remotely anticipated. When Nikki mumbled something that I did not hear, I switched off the player and turned to her. "What did you say?" I asked her, as gently as I could, but I suppose I had chosen the wrong words because she seemed to withdraw into herself. "I didn't think she knew," she said, slightly louder than a whisper, and I felt the breath knocked out of me. I had no idea if I had even entertained a hope that Rachel had been talking about someone else's diary, but hearing it straight from Nikki's lips gave me a jolt that rendered me speechless. Nothing in life ever prepares you for something like this. How long ago had it been? Had her feelings changed? Why did she feel that way? Did she really mean it when she had written it? I had so many questions to ask her, if only I could find the voice to do so. Nikki looked at me again with a look that was both penitent and bold, and I instinctively knew the answer to one of my questions was yes. She had written it, and she had meant it. At least at the time when she had written it. There was something unapologetic in her expression that said that the only thing she was sorry about was that it was out in the open, not that she was having - or had them at one point of time - such feelings about me. As soon as I had reached this conclusion, all those years of being on the job, of finding another avenue to pursue that would explain all the facts, gave me pause. Did I know what they were talking about, what my daughter was actually admitting to? Maybe I had jumped the gun again - it wouldn't be the first time that had happened now, would it? Maybe it was some other guy Nikki had written about, without using his name, and given her preoccupation with such matters, maybe Rachel had jumped to conclusions too. "What exactly did you have in that diary, honey?" I asked her, running my hand through her hair in what I thought would be a fatherly gesture. "What did your mother find out?" She did not say anything for a while, and I was about to repeat myself when she shook her head. "Can we go somewhere else, Dad? Somewhere private?" A moment later, she shook her head again. "No, we shouldn't. Dr. Patel said we should stay." "So let's go to the car," I suggested. "We'll sit in the parking lot and you can tell me. Or we can go home. Screw him - there is nothing wrong with me." "No, let's stay in the car," she said, getting to her feet and pulling her earpiece off. "Come on." Neither of us spoke another word until we were sitting inside my vehicle, with the air-conditioner on high and the windows lowered just an inch. Whatever it was that she wanted to tell me, I did not want to force her into revealing. Her attitude worried me but I put it down to nerves. Maybe she was about to admit that she had lost her virginity to that pimply Jason she had been seeing a year ago, and was afraid that I would explode at the way he had treated her. It was bad news, doubtless, but I think I would have been slightly relieved if that had been what the whole issue was. "Dad," she said, holding both my hands in hers, looking into my eyes steadily. Apparently, she had decided not to hide the truth - whatever it was - from me any longer. There was the same Kane determination on her face as I have been accused to have, by my wife, in another time when she used to comment on such things. "Promise me you won't get mad." I made the promise I was not sure of keeping, especially if it involved the previously mentioned pimply teenager. So I added a clause at the end, 'at Nikki,' and felt better about it. The things fathers do... "Dad," she said, stretching the word out into about three syllables. "I love you." "And I love you too, sweetheart," I told her. No matter how much she had grown up, she was still my little girl. She still seemed to need the assurance of my affection. "No," she said, and by now, you probably have an idea of what she is going to say next. I did not. I just sat there and listened dumbly as she explained, "I don't mean that kind of love. I mean, yeah, I love you because you are my father and all that, but that's not all. I don't just love you, Dad, I am in love with you." She waited for a reaction, which never came. "I have been in love with you for the last couple of years. When you took that bullet for me, I realized that no one could ever love me as much as you did, and you deserved all my love for as long as I am alive." I had my mouth open, probably to say something stupid and inane like, "That's what Dads are for," when she held up a hand and stopped me. "I know, I know," she said, her finger moving towards my lips and shushing me. "You are probably going to say that it's your duty as a father to protect me, that you did this because you thought it was right for you to die if it meant that I would live. Maybe you even felt guilty because it was your investigation into that gang that led to the home invasion. Maybe you thought you had a chance and he would miss both of us." Her words triggered my recollection of that moment when I had jumped in front of my daughter. Not her, I remembered thinking as I realized that the son-of-a-bitch with the gun was aiming for her, please don't shoot her. The bullet had slammed into my chest just as I moved into its line, reflexively firing my own automatic at the time, somehow finding the middle of the shooter's forehead. He was the last of the three thugs who had invaded my house in the dead of night, the two others having fallen already when I had outflanked them before being taken by surprise by the third man. It was the last case I ever handled because it had suddenly dawned on me that I could not risk putting my family in the line of fire again. "I don't know why you did it, or why you think you did it. All I do know is that when I saw you crumple to the floor in front of me, I prayed that I would do whatever it took to keep from losing you. Even if it meant killing myself if... you didn't make it." She shivered as she said those words, her voice losing its steady cadence for a moment. I had no idea what to tell her. "When you were in the hospital, there was not a single moment that went by when I didn't wish it had been me beside you instead of Mom. Holding your hands, telling you that everything was fine, that I loved you, that I was waiting for you. I was insanely jealous of her for having that right." In the Way Ch. 05 Nikki whispered in a low voice, "So that's what all this is about." I said, "Yes." Dr. Chivago said, "You mean like a threesome?" Rachel said, "No, not exactly," and laughed mirthlessly. "You are not a very good listener after all, Dr. Chivago. I don't want to have a threesome with them - I really don't fancy my daughter sexually, and I am pretty sure she doesn't either." Nikki nodded her head, as if agreeing. For some reason, I felt relieved - do not ask me why. If I knew why, I would not have said, 'For some reason' now, would I? The hypocrisy of my reaction never occurred to me until much later, when I would laugh at it. I gave Rachel my full attention, even though I was certainly sensitive to anything Nikki did at the same time. "Then is it like a time-share? You know, you get him for four days and Nicole gets him for three?" "Not unless she wants to share him," Rachel said, a statement that I felt would have been ludicrous on any other day. Today, though, it just seemed so appropriate. "No, I don't want to step in between them like that. When I was young, about the time I lost my father, there was a period when I was quite depressed. A time when I started to fantasize about all those extremes, you know. Bondage. Submission. Being forced to do something. I think the whole point of it was giving somebody else the power to abuse you as they pleased, and it appealed to me." She paused for a beat before clarifying, "I want to give them the power to do with me as they please. Live out their darkest fantasies through me, things they might not want to impose on each other." "Wow," he said, sounding suitably stunned. It was the first time in my life that I had come across a speechless psychiatrist - except for the one who had killed himself by jumping in front of a truck - but I could understand where he had come from. I had lived with her for close to two decades and I was finding out an entirely new side of my wife I had never even had a fucking clue about. Nikki turned towards me at that moment and mouthed, "Did you know about this?" I am sure my face was flushed when I shook my head. Nope, no fucking clue. The rest of the conversation was a bit anticlimactic after that, with the doctor asking her exactly when she had started feeling that way and my wife replying that it was something that had jumped out at her when she had read about it in a book. There were no more earth-shattering revelations after that. Dr. Chivago segued into her attitude towards us - rather than her fantasies - but all his efforts were in vain. Towards the end of the tape, she reiterated that Nikki and I were sleeping together and that all she wanted Dr. Chivago's help for was to a) ensure that Nikki was okay with my 'advances,' as she called it and b) find out if Nikki and I were sympathetic to her involvement in our relationship. As I said, given the build-up, it was anti-climactic. The tape ended with Dr. Chivago's promise that he would set up an appointment with Nikki for the next day, and with me the day after. She thanked him for his time and left. Shortly after that, Nikki and I were back home. Nikki offered to make dinner and ordered me to bed for an hour's nap. I went along because she was a good cook and more so because I wanted to make my own research into solving this mess. Everything seemed different now from the way it had been before; every time I looked at her, I was no longer able to visualize her lithe, young body as somebody else's, such as Britney Spears or Demi Moore. I was looking at the same body, but it was no longer a sexy figure that had my daughter's face - it was a sexy figure that belonged to my daughter, period. I was ashamed of the sudden change in my feelings for her, despite her admission earlier in the day, and resolved to find a solution to everything before my life, as I lived it now, changed forever. I told myself it was the responsible thing inasmuch as I was still her father and not her lover. Yet. I fired up my desktop and started looking. The obvious place to try, I thought, would be one of those story sites where surely, among their hundred-odd stories, there would be at least one plot that I could associate with my own situation. Do not laugh - I would like to believe Sherlock's statement that there were no new crimes, 'only old ones committed by new criminals,' applied to other aspects of life too. I typed in a few keywords into Google, and presto! I had a list of sites just like that. As anyone who is familiar with the Internet will tell you, searching is never the problem - it is the sorting where lies the devil. For the better part of five minutes, I followed click after click after click into sites that ostensibly catered to requirements such as mine only to find myself, at some point, facing a page that asked for my credit card details. I never subscribed to any of them. As Martin of the Vice Squad used to say, the only thing free these days is porn on the 'Net if you know where to look. I kept looking. Finally, I short-listed about five sites that seemed promising and professional. One of them was a pay-site that looked as if it really did offer the contents it advertised, tempting me with a library that boasted over seven hundred stories. I signed up and started reading everything that suggested it had the father-daughter-incest theme thrown into it, with the occasional one involving the mother as well. Or another relative. Or a friend. Or a gang. Or the family pet. You might probably dismiss this as the most verbose excuse anyone has ever given for perusing porn, but I was really serious - and hopeful - about finding an inspiration among all those literary works written by people who hid themselves behind a pseudonym. Until. The problem, I soon discovered, was not that there was a lack of imagination, although it did seem as if certain plots - 'daughter caught masturbating fucks daddy' and 'drunk daughter fucks daddy' - were actually downloadable stuff that you customized by changing the names of the participants and submitted. It was the kind of mass-produced literature that made you wonder why people even bothered with the effort of writing and submitting it. Or there would be guys - I assume most of these kind of authors are guys - who would actually hinge their whole stories on their characters falling unconvincingly in love with each other - "Oh, Dad... I just realized that I loved you. And the fact that your dick is eight inches long really helps." or "When her 32D boobs winked at me, I knew I had fallen for my own daughter" - and then live happily ever after. I mean, come on - if daughters and fathers jumped into bed just like that, they would have legalized incest a long time ago. There was this particular author who seemed to end every single one of his stories with the daughter getting knocked up by her own father. It was so repetitive that after the fourth story, all I had to read was the blurb to understand the entire line of bullshit that passed of as his - I confirmed from his profile that it was indeed a person of the masculine persuasion - work. And as if this were not enough, another wise guy even had the temerity to have his character declare, a la Caesar, "I came, I saw, I cum-covered." How do people even read this stuff? Why would they even want to? As I said, simple hypocrisies - like the fact that I was browsing them myself - usually escape me. Finally, after about half an hour of searching, I gave up. I was almost convinced that I should whip out my erection - did I mention that I sported one? - and wait for Nikki to walk through that door and swoon at the sight of her daddy's lightning saber. (I made that one up myself, although I would not be too surprised to find it mentioned in one of the stories sometime in the near future.) That would really bring everything to a head, I suppose. I was almost convinced that we would have sex anyway because I had seen her naked, and when a father sees his grown-up daughter naked, it is a given that they will start fucking like jackrabbits before his wife - if she is not blessedly dead because of a drunk driver - comes home to join them. I was almost convinced that if I went downstairs right now, I would find Nikki wearing an old shirt of mine, sans panties, and stretching for that one ingredient that is just out of her reach. Leaving my desk, I picked up my phone and rang Dr. Chivago. He picked it up on the second ring fading into the third. "Mr. Kane?" he inquired instead of the universal 'Hello.' "This is he," I said and immediately wondered whether it was grammatically correct. Screw it, I thought to myself, I was talking to a shrink, not my high school teacher. "Can we talk, or do you need me to come down there for another session?" I did not intend for my question to come across as threatening, but apparently, it was intimidating enough for him to agree, quite readily, that we could chat over the phone. "I assume you've listened to the entire tape," he said when I failed to respond. You might have probably guessed - correctly, I might add - that my usual cockiness had returned. That is probably because I had not listened to a single, shocking revelation in the past thirty minutes that related, personally, to me. I remembered to curb my natural sarcasm at the last moment. When you call someone for help, it does not really help your cause if you insult him or her at the same time. I would have probably said something funny, like, "Wow! You MUST be a psychiatrist." if I had wanted to. "Yes, I did," I told him. "I've got a couple of questions for you." "Shoot," he said readily, and then gave a nervous laugh. "I mean that metaphorically, of course." "Why did you give me the cassette in the first place anyway?" "I didn't give it to you. You took it yourself." It sounded as if he was suddenly wary about being trapped into admitting that he had passed on a taped session with a patient to a third party. For a second, I thought about carrying on in the same vein. Just for a second. "I am not recording this. There. Now nobody can use this conversation in a court of law. Now tell me why you let me take the cassette." He hesitated for just the appropriate length of time again. "I really don't think I would have allowed the tape -" "Christ," I interrupted, getting slightly exasperated. "You could have insisted that I leave the tape with you - hell, you did not even need to tell me that you had a record of Rachel's session. Why don't you just tell me why you thought I should hear all of it with my daughter?" "With your daughter?" Evidently, that surprised him. "You listened to that tape with your daughter." "Of course," I told him. "What else was I supposed to do?" Now it was his turn to take the Lord's name in vain. "How did she take it?" "With salt and pepper," I retorted. "How do you think she took it? She's - never mind that," I was deliberately stringing him along. I was feeling like a detective again. "Just tell me why you thought I should know." He let out a whoosh at the other end before answering. "It's as if the three of you were in three different worlds. Rachel was convinced that you were sleeping with your daughter. Who, on the other hand, has no idea anybody else is privy to her deep feelings about you. And you were simply too caught up in your own holier-than-thou life to see what was going on around you. I wanted to let you know what was happening because you are in the middle of everything, whether you want to or not. It was not just enough that you hear the words - you had to hear them from her lips. Capisce?" "Yeah," I said. That remark about me staying ignorant hit home. "That brings me to my second question." "What is that?" "What should I do now?" "Apologize to me for all the nasty things you said to me?" "Don't be a jerk," was what I wanted to tell him. I amended it to a "No, how should I convince my wife that I am not having an affair with our daughter?" "Have you tried talking to her?" he asked. "No," I answered. "Then do it. She won't trust it coming from you as much as she would if Nikki were to tell her, but I am sure you will agree that Nikki doesn't need it on top of all this right now. Is there anything else?" Deflated, I told him there was nothing more I needed from him for the moment. He wished me the best of luck with my wife and hung up. Nikki was in the kitchen downstairs, telling me dinner was at least another thirty minutes away from getting ready, as I climbed down the stairs. I was slightly disappointed to see that she was not wearing an old shirt of mine and nothing else; in fact, she had changed out of her earlier attire into something a bit more conservative. Her white, sleeveless blouse contrasted quite nicely with the dark skirt she wore that just about covered her knees. Her apron was tied loosely around her waist as she continued chopping the vegetables for the stew. "What are you doing up so early?" she asked, coming over and giving me a peck on the lips, giving me a quick peek down her cleavage. "Need to get some toiletries," I lied. I did not think it would be a good idea to put the two of them together just yet, even as I felt that Nikki did owe her mother an apology of sorts. At the same time, I needed to speak to Rachel before anything else developed. Like me giving in to my desires as well and transforming all those allegations into facts. I was finding my own daughter sexy even in her present attire. It was slightly worrying that I was no longer worried about such thoughts. Go figure. I asked her if she wanted anything, to which she replied that she wanted me back in about half an hour if I wanted a hot dinner. "Nothing else," she added, studying me, "but are you sure you want to be driving with that head of yours?" "It's no big deal. Besides, the fresh air might be good for me," I told her as I grabbed the car keys and left the building through the same door that had delivered a KO to me earlier. I was careful not to smash into it a second time. As I headed down the block in my car, I asked myself once again why I wanted to see Rachel. Of course, there was this matter of the kiss to clear up - which, come to think of it, paled in comparison to all of its implications, which she had already accepted as fact. But was that really the reason I wanted to talk to her? Could I lie to her face, promise that there was nothing sexual between Nikki and me, when the reality - which I accepted now - was that there would always be something there unless she wised up, or I did something stupid. Did I believe that we were now on course for the two of us - Nikki and I - to become lovers? I could not think of a reason it would not happen. Rachel wanted it to, or assumed it already was happening. Nikki had made it perfectly clear she wanted it as well. And there was yours truly, and I would like to tell you that I was the kind of man who could turn down the chance to make love to a gorgeous girl - with my wife's permission, mind you - whom I already loved with all my life. The society we lived in - to borrow from some of the stories I had gone through earlier - had no bearing on the matter for the same reason murders happen even though they are banned in every society. In all honesty, I was not really fighting fate and temptation here. In retrospect, I have to admit that seeing Rachel was not about changing our lives as much as a cover-my-ass-operation in case things went wrong and all the blame was laid at my feet. I was not blind to the possibility that things could go wrong - no relationship can ever be perfect - but the consequences of that happening were what kept me from going back to my house and give my daughter exactly what she wanted. I was more than twice her age, going to rot while she was only going to get more beautiful in the years to come. I fought for the remote. I could be churlish and sulky when I wanted to be. In short, I suspected that I was not quite the Prince Charming she must have painted in her fantasies. Enough said. I called Rachel on her mobile after I had found a parking space close to the Memorial. I always take it as a good omen whenever I am able to park within five blocks of my destination in LA. It is a sign The Man's with you. She was on her break; otherwise, she would have let it ring and called back only later. I asked her to come down to the statue by the entrance. I did not offer an explanation as to why I was there, and she did not ask. She simply said, "I'll be there in a moment." It took her about a couple of minutes to appear, during which time I had already asked myself a few hundred times if I should have told her I had come alone. I had an impression that she was more surprised about my being there at all rather than being there without Nikki. I took a couple of steps towards her and we embraced where we normally would have hugged. It felt quite formal to me, as if she were keeping her distance, and the only way I could react to that was by asking her if she would like to take a short walk. "Can't," she said apologetically. "I really have to be back in a few minutes for a major surgery. You know, for prepping the patient and all that." I nodded. "Okay, that's cool." "I am really sorry," she repeated, placing her hand on my arm for emphasis. "I said that's fine. I mean it. Stop being so damned apologetic all the time." "Sorry," she said before she could stop herself. Though it did not thaw the ice all the way through, it did manage to reduce the tension that had been in the air between us. I took a deep breath and plunged in with a 'Sorry' of my own for the way Nikki had behaved with her. Rachel dismissed it with a shake of her head. "She's entitled to," she stated simply, letting it hang in there without any explanation. If that was the cue, I missed it deliberately. It was not what I had come here to discuss, and with the limited time that we had, I intended to make every second of it count. "Dr. Chivago gave me a tape of your session," I told her instead, watching her intently for a reaction. Her face lost its composure for just an instant before a mask of resignation came over it. "I see," she said. "And why did he do that?" "He said he wanted me to have the complete picture," I answered, pulling a cigarette out of my pocket. "Apparently, he thought there was a breakdown in communication among the three of us." I took my time lighting up, giving her the chance to say something. She did not speak until I had taken a deep lungful of smoke. "Why are you here, Jerry? What more do you want to know?" "Why do you find it so hard to believe that Nikki and I have nothing going on between us? Nothing. Nada. Zip." To my relief, she did not snort at the question. Instead, in a lower voice, she gave me her answer. "I don't know. I really don't know, but for some reason, I find it more natural to think of you as lovers than otherwise." I was about to say something when she held up her hand. The women in my family never let me speak when I want to. I was reminded of Nikki using exactly the same gesture an hour or so earlier. Like mother, I suppose, like daughter. "I have known - or maybe I should say felt - Nikki's feelings towards you for a long time, perhaps even before she herself was aware of them. Maybe it was as Dr. Chivago said, that I was superimposing my own feelings on her. I would have believed him... if I hadn't read her diary too. It convinced me that she really did fall in love with you." She paused before adding, "But if you ever hurt her, I swear you won't know what hit you. Just so you know." I was surprised at how hard her voice had become. "Come on," I told her, holding up my palm in a placating gesture. "I don't get it. That was uncalled for. Either you trust her with me, or you talk her out of it. You can't have it both ways." In the Way Ch. 06 It is every man's worst nightmare. No man deserves this, I thought, standing there with my dick literally hanging out at half-mast. Sure, women always reserve the right to say no - no argument on that front - but there must be some sort of a guideline that says you should not say no once the man is undressed and reaching for protection. Even if that man is your father. Especially if that man is your father, I thought bitterly, because it is a big enough step just deciding to have an affair with your own daughter. For just a moment there, I even contemplated ignoring her wishes at this point - I could always say, "Father knows best," couldn't I? I have no idea even now what were the emotions that I must have expressed on my face at that moment, although Nikki has always claimed that I looked like a thrashed puppy. Looking at the mirror was hardly my main concern at that moment, wouldn't you say so? There was equal parts irritation, frustration, anger and just the smallest hint of relief that we had not yet crossed that final line. The Supreme Court may say so, but oral sex is not really sex, right? "I guess Mom did not tell you about this part, eh?" she said as she reached for the condom I still held in my hand and flicked it away. "She must have been the one to tell you about the flowers and the champagne and the way I wanted to be undressed by you for the first time, but she must have skipped the part about me wanting to feel you at your rawest inside me." "Oh. So that's what you meant. Oh." "What? Why're you looking at me like that? What did YOU think I was talking about?" And then her smile grew wider as she hit upon the truth. She was shaking her head and grinning at the same time as she said, "You thought I didn't want you anymore, didn't ya? Oh my God... Dad, get real, would you? There is no way on earth I would ever say no to you..." "Yeah, I know," I said, trying to shrug and probably making it look as if I had a nervous tic I could not get rid of. "I mean, I didn't think you were saying no. Not that you can't or anything, you know, anytime you want to stop you just have to tell me..." "Dad," she said, reaching for me, pulling me down on top of her. Our faces were just inches from each other when she said, "Dad. I. Have. No. Regrets. About. Us." She kissed me on my nose. "Unless you stop right now, in which case I might probably have to rape you." "Funny," I said, trying to be funny. You know how I am. Should have kept my mouth shut. "I was thinking the same thing about you." She raised one of her eyebrows. How did she manage to get it that high, I wondered, and those eyes... "You said I could say no anytime I wanted," she pointed out. Thankfully, I was saved from making an even bigger fool of myself in front of her when she gave me another wet kiss on my lips. Rolling over on the bed, we ended up with her squatting on top of me, her knees on either side of my chest, our faces molten together. Her hair fell all around us in a gloriously erotic manner, as if shielding us from the rest of the world. Her beautiful face filled my vision. I doubt either of us would have cared even if a nuke had gone off next door. I do not think either of us even remembered that we had a neighbor next door itself. When she withdrew her face, leaving both of us gulping in a big lungful of air, and straightened her spine, the tip of my cock - now at full mast, to use a cliché I had picked up earlier - brushed against her ass. It might not have been the first time that it had happened, although it was certainly the first time that I was aware it did. As good as it felt against her bare skin, as fantastic as I knew it would be to sink it in her and let go, it would not be a sensible choice. For a second, for just the smallest period of time, reason reasserted itself. "Honey, maybe we should use some sort of protection," I suggested, albeit half-heartedly. There was something distinctly unattractive about the prospect of getting up and trying to get a rubber on me again. Well, not exactly 'again', but I suppose you get the picture. "No," she stated in between kissing her way down my chest. I tried to keep my composure despite the sensations she was arousing around my tummy. "You could get pregnant. Maybe I have AIDS." She raised her head for just enough time for her to remark, "This isn't exactly the time for a rational discussion, Pop." She tickled my ribs, stopping at the end of the scar on my right side. She trailed a finger along its length, her expression suddenly serious, and a single tear made her way out of her eye and fell on me. It was so silent I could have probably heard it fall if I had paid it any attention. I was riveted by the look on my daughter. I knew she was thinking about that day when I had gotten myself shot. If I had to do it all over a hundred times again, and I know that sounds corny, I would do the same thing every single time. And then she tweaked my nipple so hard I nearly threw her off. I reciprocated on both her nipples, and she did scream "Daddy" so loud I was half-expecting the glass to shatter. I grinned like a sadist as I whipped her back on the back and rose above her, pinning her arms with mine. She raised her legs and wrapped them around my waist, leaving just enough room for my cock to slap against her pussy lips as it vibrated rigidly. I looked into her eyes for askance just before I slid slowly into her, and she nodded her permission and closed her eyes. I have not yet come across a single word that can describe how it felt, that first sensation of actually being inside her, of becoming so intimate we were not two bodies anymore but one. A tongue feels its environment quite differently from a dick. Where I had tasted her earlier, I only felt her warmth now. Where I had found her slightly salty, slightly musky, I now found her wet and welcoming. I wanted to savor our first penetration for as long as possible - there was no denying that THIS was sex after all - and pressed against her hymen for a couple of seconds before it sunk into me that I was, undeniably, her first lover. I had never expected to be. Even as I had accepted that her love for me had been there for some time, I had just assumed that somewhere along the line, she might have actually lost her virginity to a boyfriend. Jimmy, for instance. If being your daughter's lover sobers you, imagine that you are going to be her first lover as well. I was shaken to the core of my cynicism. Had she really been saving herself for me? As if sensing my thoughts, Nikki opened her eyes. Yes, they seemed to say, and I hope I will not be one any longer. The father in me stopped the lover in me from breaking into her. God, I ought to kill that guy - stopping me at the threshold of every pleasurable moment that we could share just because he was still so protective of his daughter. Since I could not do that short of committing suicide, I obliged him once again. For the last time, I told myself. After that, even a SWAT team would not stop me from doing what was so damn close and yet so damn far. You must have probably noticed that I am talking about myself in the third person here. In my defense, try having a conversation with your inner self when you are having sex. You will know what I am talking about. Anyway, let it suffice to say that I did pause. And I did tell her, "It's gonna hurt, baby." She contorted her face into her first real expression of frustration. "Of course it's going to hurt," she retorted, placing her hands by her sides, palms facing down on the bed. "I am not a kid anymore." As if emphasizing her point, she pushed herself upwards, thrusting me all the way into her depths. She bit into her lips so tightly in order to suppress the scream that the skin broke and a tiny drop of blood fell on her chin. The very next moment, exhausted, she relaxed. I almost slid out of her as she fell back on the bed. Her legs, though, were still around my waist. I started to fuck her leisurely, even though I was once again fighting the urge to cum inside her as soon as possible. We started to kiss each other wherever we could, as if in a race against time, and those kisses soon turned into nibbles and bites as the tension started to become unbearable within each of us. To this day, I have no idea how I was able to hold it all in as long as I did. At the same time, I would like to say I delayed my release until she started to have her orgasm, but that would be a lie. I came first - I take no pride in that fact, but there it is - and it was perhaps the sensation of my jism hitting the walls of her pussy that finally pushed Nikki over the edge. I can take all night to list all the clichés I can use to appropriately address how I felt at that moment; suffice to say that it was something better than taking a piss after spending a day and a half inside a freezer. I collapsed on top of her and rolled on to my back. She laid her head on my hand and we snuggled together for a long time just basking in that special afterglow that always follows a heartfelt session of sex. We let our bodies cool in the breeze that always seemed to flow through this room. After a while, she swung her right leg over me, once again letting my recuperating erection touch the hint of pubic hair that guarded her pussy. She was still moist with the evidence of our coupling, and I could not help but wonder if I had gotten her pregnant the first time itself. Sensibly, though, I kept my mouth shut. "Dad," she spoke a few minutes later, her voice sounding dreamily intimate. "Is it always this good?" I stroked the small of her back as I replied, "No. Sometimes, it's even better. Sometimes, it may not be this good." "But it will always be good enough for you, right?" There was so much doubt in her voice it just melted my heart. Tilting her chin up and towards me, I told her that it would always be too good for me. "And you will always be too good for me." "Flatterer," she said, digging an elbow playfully into my ribs. "Honestly, Daddy, it was just about as good as my fantasy." "Just as good?" I asked her, feigning incredulity. "It was far better than mine." "You were stopping every once in a while. It was so goddamned frustrating to have to lead you along, you know... what do you mean, your fantasies? Have you been having fantasies about your little girl, Daddeeee?" "Of course," I admitted. "In my fantasies, you usually have a nice young man on your arm who you introduce to me as your husband.'We got married yesterday,' you tell me, 'because the baby is due any day now.'" "That doesn't sound right. How can I have a baby if I got married just the day before - oh, never mind. I get it." She giggled, and ribbed me again. "So is that the only fantasy you've had about me?" "That's the best one," I replied. "The really bad ones I'll tell you later." "Come on," she said, affecting the pout that she knew I always gave in to. "You know mine." "No, I don't," I pointed out. "Your mother knows. She was the one who read your diary, not me." "I'll give it to you, then. Later. It's in my room somewhere." "Your room's just down the corridor," I joked. As I said, I can crack a weak joke anywhere. "Not somewhere." "Oh, you doofus!" She bit me on the nose. I yelped. She laughed. "Next time you make a joke like that, I'll bite you down there." And just to make her point, she gave my erection a squeeze. "So tell me, Daddy. What are your fantasies?" I told her every single one. Oh, you want to know too? Fuck off. I have told you everything else, and still you are not satisfied? Typical. Use your own imagination. She was suitably impressed at my imagination, in any case, and would occasionally 'ooh' or 'aah' at a particularly intriguing suggestion. It pleased me quite greatly that not for one moment, not even for my most risqué fantasy, did she say anything in the negative. "So how long have you been having these fantasies?" she asked me when I had finished. We were now on our sides, facing each other, and she still had her leg over my waist. It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the rejuvenated prick - I am talking about my dick here - especially with the way she was rubbing her leg against mine. I asked her what the time now was. With a quick glance at the clock, she answered that it was a quarter past nine now. "I'll have to reheat the lasagna again," she said, though she did not seem overly concerned about it. I shrugged - it had been a while since I had last shrugged - about the dinner as I did the math. "Five hours," I told her. "What five hours?" "It's been five hours since I started having these fantasies about you," I explained. "Actually, more like six. I was mildly interested in the idea on the way back from Dr. Chivago, but it was only when you kissed me that I let my imagination run wild." "That's it?" she questioned me with the air of one who has been wronged. "So what you are saying is that I could be just a suggestion planted in your head by that shrink you saw?" The idea was so ridiculous I would have laughed if it had not been for her expression. "I've had thoughts about you before that too," I said, trying to placate her. "I was rather hoping it would turn out that you weren't my daughter at all, and then I could fall in love without worrying about anything else. Oh, and you fall in love with me too. Of course, I've also fantasized about the two of us on your bed - no basis, no motivation, just plain sex, hot and sweaty." I let that sink in before I continued, "The idea of somebody else causing me to think of you sexually is ridiculous because I've always found you more attractive - in that sense - than I thought it proper for a father, and so I never really accepted that I could feel that way. I would have these fantasies and then pretend, even to myself, that such thoughts never occurred to me. Sure, I started to feel more strongly about the two of us as a couple on my way back from the doc, but that was just because he had given enough indications for me to hope that you were not entirely freaked out by the idea." "You didn't know that for certain," she said. "Yet." I agreed with her. "Yet. When I caught you naked, I was more afraid of the possibility of me starting to have even more fantasies about you than anything else. I still had no real idea what was in your head. That," and I paused, searching for the right word, "enlightenment came when we kissed. I knew, at that moment, that you loved me in the same manner I was afraid of hoping for." Somewhere in the room, my phone beeped as it received a text message. When the silence seemed too long for either of us to have said nothing, I blew air into her ear. Why did I do that? I have no idea. I do thoughtless things sometimes. She jerked her head away reflexively, and then whipped it around to give me a dazzling smile. "Just wait. I'll have my revenge. Only it won't be your ear I'll be blowing." My cock twitched at her words. "Can't wait," I would have said, just to see her reaction; instead, what I did say was, "Have to take a rain check on that, sweepea." I slid my arm out from underneath her, pushed her leg away and got off the bed. I deliberately avoided the look of confusion on my daughter's face that lasted for as long as it took me to retrieve the ice-bucked I had placed by the dresser. I handed the bottle over to her. "To celebrate you." "To celebrate us," she amended as she took the bottle and read the label. For a moment, I wondered if she had had a specific brand in mind in her fantasies. The phone beeped again to remind me that I had an unread message. Leaving Nikki to twist the cork-puller in, I scrounged around our haphazardly strewn clothes for my mobile. Very few people had my number now that I was retired, but I had a distinct feeling it was from my wife. It was. Sent just a few minutes ago, it said, "Op over. Staying Sara's tonite. Seminar at SF tomm for a week. Or more? Love, Rach. PS: Success?" "Who's it from?" Nikki asked, seeing the smile spread across my face. "It's your mother. Looks like she will be spending the night at Aunt Sara's place. She wants to know if we want to be alone for a week or so. Speaking of which, how did you know I had gone to see her?" My daughter rolled her eyes. "The flowers. The champagne. The seduction. The kiss. This room. Just like I've always wanted. Only Mom knew about it, because she had read my diary, and therefore, only she could have told you. Elementary, my dear Watson." "That's brilliant, Holmes. So what reply do you want me to tell her?" Nikki took the phone from my hand and sent the reply herself. I waited until she had tossed it back on to the shelf closest to her before giving the final twist needed to open the bottle. I sent the spray in her direction, bathing her in the finest champagne France had ever produced. "Daddy!" she screamed as she tried to reach, in vain, for the bottle in my hand. By the time she finally won it from me, it was almost entirely gone. What was left was dumped right over my head. We wrestled with each other playfully as the bottle was discarded on the other side of the bed. There was a small thump as if finally rolled over the edge and fell on the thick carpet. For once, I was not worried about staining it. I finally had her pinned underneath me once again. Claiming victory, I fell beside her, pretending to be exhausted by the fight she had put up. "So what did you write to her?" Nikki turned on her side with her head supported by her elbow, looking down at me. "I said a week was fine. After that, we need her to watch the house while we are gone." "Gone? Where are we going?" "Anywhere," she said. "I just want to spend some time with you. Away from home, you know, like a honeymoon." "Honeymoon. I like that. Aren't we supposed to screw each other like jackrabbits when we are on a honeymoon?" "Gosh, I never knew you were such a romantic, Daddy," she murmured sarcastically. "I am also incredibly sensitive," I told her, grinning. "Are you still sore down there?" Suspicious of my smile, she asked, "Why do you want to know?" "The night is still young, and so, it seems, am I," I let my words fade away. She reached for my cock and gripped it around the base. As I groaned, I felt her shift her weight. "I am glad that at least, your cock is a much more sensitive person than you." Her breath fell on the pink flesh, giving me goose bumps all over my body. "All I have to do is touch him, and bingo!" "Do you mind?" I asked her, reaching for her ass. "I don't like it when you call him a separate person. It's an appendage on my body, for God's sakes, not Gerard Kane Junior." "Okay," she replied gleefully as she lowered her face towards my crotch. "But you do realize you need him to make a Junior, don't you?" I stopped trying to get us into a sixty-nine position when I felt her lips surround my shaft. I wondered whether she had ever done it before - and who was the bloody bastard who got to put his godforsaken penis into my daughter's mouth? As more of me went into her mouth, I forgot what it was that I wanted to do to her. Her tongue rolled around the length of my cock, possibly tasting her own juices on it as well as mine, and all conscious thought went out of my head at that instant. She blew me expertly, being very careful not to bite me with her teeth. She almost gagged when too much of flesh went in, but her vise-like grip - and my own sudden loss of motor controls - prevented me from pulling out of her mouth. It would be more appropriate to say that her mouth fucked my dick than the other way around; she did all the work, and I took all the pleasure. When I finally had my orgasm, I was quite surprised - and inordinately proud as well - at the copious amounts of cum that came out. As a man rapidly approaching middle age, my performance was indeed one to cherish. I wondered whether I could make it a hat trick before the night was over. In the Way Ch. 06 Nikki swallowed the whole thing without spilling a single drop, leading me to conclude that she had done it before. She kept licking my cock long after it had turned flaccid, and it almost seemed as if I would be getting my wish - three in three - when she straightened. "No doubt about it," she said, smacking her lips. "Yours definitely tastes much better." "Better than whose?" I asked, rather churlishly. "Than mine," she said, seeming surprised at my question. "And way, way better than Jimmy's too. His was always too watery - ugh, I don't even want to think about it." "Er, not that I want to intrude, but how many guys have you done this to?" I am your father, after all, and I have a right to know. I left that unsaid. "Three," she remarked offhandedly as she climbed over me. "Though I did give Jimmy about ten BJ's more than I gave the other two." "Humph!" "Gosh, Daddy, are you jealous? Daddy's jealous that his little girl was sucking off her boyfriends on her dates so that she could save her virginity for him?" "I wasn't exactly jealous," I lied. "Merely curious. If you want, I can tell you how many times your mother gives me head in a week." "Yew!" she said. I found it funny that she was true to the stereotype of most teenagers finding the thought of their parents' intimacy repulsive - how else could you come into existence, eh, think a stork dropped you at the doorstep? - even as she had just made love to her own father. The thought about babies, in any case, reminded me of the chance that we had taken in having unprotected sex. I was not worried about AIDS - both Rachel and I had ourselves checked for STD's twice a year, and Nikki obviously would not need it as long as I was her only partner. Despite the new direction our relationship had taken, I still wanted my daughter to go to a good college and get a good degree. We had not raised her up so carefully for so many years just so that she could become my slut. Still, the thought of knocking up my own daughter had its positive effects. "In any case," I told her in an effort to sound her out on the issue, "it's better to have oral sex. You can't get pregnant if I cum in your mouth." "I am on the pill, silly," she said, putting my mind at rest. Another part of me was genuinely disappointed. "Mom had me started on them when I was fifteen." "Oh," I said. This was another habit of mine. Saying 'Oh.' "That's good." She seemed to see right through my lie. "No, I can tell you are disappointed. Do you really want me to have your baby?" This is the kind of situation where you hope the other person lets you off the hook by giving expression to a few expletives and changing the subject, but that is all it ever remains - a hope. Looking at her face told me that she would not give up until she had me committing to an answer one way or another. I tried the truth this time. "Okay, so I admit I do want that. I would love to have a baby with you. I think it would be exciting, not to mention downright obscene - and therefore erotic - to see you with a swollen belly, knowing that it is our child. And watching him - or her - grow up, call us Mom and Dad..." I let her see that I was sincere about us being together for a long, long time. "But on the other hand, there are all these scares about incest pregnancies and deformities, not to mention the fact that it will mess up your life for good before you've even had a chance to decide for yourself." I attempted a smile. "Now, if we were alone on an uninhabited island with an excellent healthcare system, I really wouldn't mind getting you pregnant." She placed her palms on my chest, and then her head. "I know that. Believe me, you don't know how badly I want you to knock me up. Nevertheless, I want to graduate first, study something. I don't want a career or anything, but I don't want our kids to grow up thinking that I was too dumb to go to college in the first place either." I did not miss her use of the plural. "Genetic disorders can be cured, fetuses can be treated... we might have to move away somewhere else in order to raise them properly. Too many things will change. I just want to know one thing, Daddy." "What's that?" "After I graduate, can we start our own family?" "Of course, baby. If you still want to." "You keep saying that, as if I might leave you for somebody else." "It's not entirely impossible that you might meet someone more your own age whom you might prefer to be with. Of course, it's a given that he won't be as handsome as me, or as smart, or as sexy -" "Okay, okay, I get the picture," she said, laughing, and I was pleased at the way I had managed to turn an awkward statement around. Having done that, I had to go and undo everything by adding, "I want you to have a normal life too." Well, then she just had to say, "Why? Isn't this normal too?" "You know it's not," I told her. "I am your father. Your mother's hankering to be our very own sex slave. We've got a dog who thinks he is God's gift to bitches, we've even got a microwave that operates the garage door every time we use it." Both of us were laughing by the time I finished. "Okay, Daddy. Let's make a deal. Let's just be lovers for as long as both of us want it. If we are still together when I graduate, I will expect you to move us elsewhere so that we can have our own family. A perfect, all-American Family." I said, "Deal," and we shook hands on it. EPILOGUE. I am sorry if I you suffered a bit of time warping there, but you cannot honestly expect me to recount every single moment over the last five years just so that you can have a complete picture. It took me a month to reconstruct the day Nikki and I first made love, and the only reason I was able to do that is because the first time, obviously, is the most memorable time in anybody's life. When I was a detective, I used to keep notes; when I retired, I burnt my pen and pad along with my license. Nikki has maintained her habit, however, and it was from this record that I managed to reproduce, verbatim, the conversations that occurred then. In the intervening period, just so I do not leave you hanging, the years were good to us. Shortly after we became lovers, Nicole and I toured Europe for about three weeks. We kept to the small towns and villages, stayed in inns and barns, and drove ourselves around, and it was a tour package nobody else could have given us. For those who are wondering, I was never in any sort of financial trouble even when I had been a private investigator - a former client had seen fit to institute a trust for my benefit, which would keep me more than comfortable as long as I lived, his way of saying thanks for saving his fortune from a gold-digger. Even on our trip, Nikki kept tabs on our expense quite fastidiously and we returned home not much poorer. Rachel moved into Nikki's room, and Nikki moved into mine. There was sufficient evidence to the contrary when we had people staying the night, but since it was usually just the three of us, appearances were unnecessary. Rachel would come down in the mornings to find the two of us making out on the kitchen floor, or walk in on us making love in the living room. Occasionally, we involved her in a few kinky activities as well, usually stuff we would not dream of trying out on each other, and she was always game no matter how much it inconvenienced her. The things we made her do are not fit for printing here, although none of us has ever regretted anything. The heady weeks of the romance lasted for almost a year until Nikki was admitted to a college of her choosing. It was too far to commute daily, but she was adamant that she would not go until I moved in with her. I worked as a part-time assistant at the library just to keep myself occupied while she had her classes, and the night would start once she had finished her homework for the day. Whenever it was necessary to introduce me, I was always passed off as her fiancé. The photo of Nikki and I sharing a passionate kiss on the day of her graduation still adorns our kitchen wall. Soon after her graduation, Nikki gave birth to our first son - Gerard Kane Junior. Just over a year later, we had another new member in our family, though she would not let me name her Nicole Kane Junior. We call her Anna now. Ah, and I almost forgot Dr. Chivago. He left LA a few weeks later after our first meeting - when Nicole and I were enjoying ourselves in Europe - leaving a forwarding address with Rachel. We exchange cards and pleasantries, and though we have never actually told him, I think he has a pretty good idea what has happened. My respect for him grows day by day. Nikki runs a kindergarten now, with the assistance of Rachel who watches over the little ones like a hawk. Since raising kids is best left to women - you must have heard the jokes about babies smoking cigars and drinking beer instead of baby food - I help with whatever physical labor is required to keep the place clean and safe. Although all of us work hard, not a single night goes by that Nikki and I do not make love. It often seems as if we share one mind and two bodies - it takes but one glance to steal a quickie in the privacy of her room or an early-morning tryst on the dining table as she prepares breakfast. Occasionally, we would leave the kids with Rachel and head off for a weekend of unfettered passion; even rarer still, we would have another baby sitter over to take care of Jerry Jr. and Anna as we use Rachel to exercise our darker desires. Life's in a rut, and the routine makes it worth living. All said and done, it is not a life I would wish on my worst enemy.