(no subject)
~*Happy Momma Day to every Momma, those LIKE Mommas, Dads who PLAY Momma, those who LOVE their Mommas... so on, so forth. :D
I decided to write a little piece, another addition to my little world of Torrin!verse. We're going with another perspective here, however...
Title: Just Like You: Parental Units
Pairing: C/Z, Stan/Stokes
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: This *also* comes as a little gifty for moit, who gives this fic-universe I've come up with a whole lotta lovin'. She got all down-and-out recently, and I swore I'd be doing a fic to make her all grinny and stuff. Alas, my original idea involving Zeke torching Casey's horrible workplace went nowhere. So... enjoy, m'weirdo! :)
Author's Note, Last But Not Least: The card involved is what *I* got from Pan this year. :D
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: It doesn't matter where Torrin is in the world; she's still his mom.
This was the day Stokely would have an early morning full of reflection and deep-thought when it came to what exactly she'd accomplished in life, what she'd accomplished for others and how one of the most important and pivotal decisions made her feel to this very day. It would always come to a good, solid conclusion: she'd done something selfless and wonderful for two of the most closest friends she'd ever had in life, enriching theirs through her own sacrifice and steel-strong will. It wasn't an everyday common occurrence, running into a woman who'd given up nine months of her life for something that ended up being ninety-percent someone else's, the remaining tenth belonging to the woman by the grace of the ones she'd gifted. She's always been proud when this history comes up, especially when the more open-minded people in the world would almost come to fucking tears over her generosity and love. But still, every Mother's Day, Stokely would wake up before her husband and son as if she had an inner alarm clock, telling her that it was time to put on her robe, make some coffee then bring it out onto the back porch where she'd sit for a long, long time by herself.
The home she and Stan had somehow managed to put together was a happy one. Even when times were tough financially, they'd never been out of work; a blessing, in this day and age. After dealing with a hard-ass like Coach Willis throughout all of his high school life, Stan's aspirations had led him to Herrington High after college to snap-up the opportunity to take over for Willis himself. It'd been by glorious chance that Willis had come into money after his rich mother's departure and sprung his early-retirement plans on the school less than a week before Stan had dropped in to see if their alma mater had positions available. Seeing as the school was made desperate for someone without dealing with the hell and drama involving substitutes, Stan had started right after the weekend, only four days after asking, “You wouldn't happen to need anyone in the PE department, eh?” He proved his worth, substance and skill, using a much gentler, kinder approach than Willis had. The anti-bullying program had been introduced by Stan himself-his cause, really, something he backed-up to the nth. At least ninety-five percent of the meeker, less-athletic students would pass, due mostly to Stan's being generous with the 'effort' portion of the final grades he'd give. Those kids knew that if they had Stan as their teacher, they'd try extra hard to try, because just as long as they showed Stan respect and interest in any sort of athletic format, even if they couldn't complete tasks and be picked first by team-leaders, he respected them just as much. Stokely couldn't have been prouder of her man when he'd come home, frustrated and angry for his 'favorite geek' as he'd call Jack Fremont for his getting a beat-down by three of the footballers in the locker room-the idea that their own coach had reported it and made sure they were punished for it, even if it'd cost them the next game's win had made it known to every student there that it didn't matter who you were or how well you did on the field. To Stokely, it was more than that. Stan was her hero, always had been, but he'd reached demi-god status in how he'd gone about defending the kids who needed him.
Stokely's solid grasp on mathematics meant that they never missed a mortgage payment, car payment or any of those dreaded surprises that'd crop up out of nowhere (“It's official... the kid needs friggin' braces,” Stan had confirmed five years before, while their eleven-year old stomped angrily upstairs in his room to sulk). Though her being a librarian didn't buy them a beach house, it was enough. Stan knew that his wife had always yearned for a quiet, more solitary way to make a living and didn't make any demands. Their weekend vacations at Lake Erie were enough-it was the memories that mattered, not how much money was poured into their excursions.
Memories. The breezy but pleasantly warm May-day brought Stokely back to why she sat out here, silent and alone. Summer's on its way; the sun was barely over the horizon, but she felt the bright orange glow's effect. Before she knows it, they'll be unpacking suitcases in their tiny, cramped but adorable beach cottage rental right on the lake, Joshua will insist that this is THE summer where he'll finally learn how to stay upright on water-skis... after that will come their next trip, no room-rentals needed. “Mi casa and whatever,” Zeke always said, and their home's guest room was nice. They'd see Torrin for about an hour at his birthday party before he and Joshua returned to holing up in his room for endless hours of video-gaming, or their leaving the house altogether for the park and-or mall and-or the all-ages club's concerts and-or... whatever else teenage boys loved attending.
Stokely smiled in the here and now. It did her heart good that the boys are brothers and they not only know it and like it, but love it. Close in age and personalities enough to make them all wonder if the kids were actually twins. It makes them all family, open and honest. There will always be that ultimate connection that pulls them together, makes them miss each other, call on a whim. But these thoughts always led to Stokely's annual dwelling on the tiny, almost invisible amount of guilt she's carried against her will. She needed to get them all out in this Mother's party-of-one coffee hour (though it's always at least double that, if not triple), where she feels safe enough to think what she wants. Stan is too intuitive and can tell when something's bothering her when she herself doesn't realize she's bothered; Joshua always puts his teenaged-ennui to the side on days like these, and needs her full love and attention. She took up the pot of coffee she dragged in here with her, not minding that it's gone tepid. The second-cup-sip went down at the same time her mind opened up to the usual.
She'd never say it out loud, but fact was and IS fact: it'd been hard to hide the disappointment when Zeke had won that ridiculous bet. She'd had hope in seeing Casey's two-pair hand, queen high; her jaw had tightened when Zeke's smile practically ate his face as he revealed that damned flush. Hearts, jack-high. She almost made the suggestion that the BOTH of them hand over their baby-batter to see who had the strongest sperm. But they needed to be proof-positive, no DNA tests involved; a deal was a deal, a bet a bet, so she'd put any reservations aside to crack jokes upstairs with Zeke as to how well he'd filled that turkey baster, or how Thanksgiving was never going to feel the same way ever again. They came up with new material for each attempt, and when her pregnancy test came back positive a mere three months later (“Your little swimmers get Olympic gold,” she'd said while tapping the two-lined result in the air) she made every preparation she could. She'd had three men on her side, a woman's ultimate dream; never in want and paid up the ass when it came to medical costs, food, or the monthly day-spa visitations. No one could say that Zeke wasn't one of the most grateful, generous men in the world; she would've gotten it all, Zeke's trust-fund involved or no.
But she always preferred Casey's being around, sometimes even more than her own husband's doting and worrying. The one thing Casey avoided at all costs was drama. Not every ache or morning-sickness episode-though why it was coined 'morning' was beyond Stokely, at least in the first trimester when she may as well have attached a toilet to her chest and chin-warranted an ER visit, and Casey understood that perfectly. He'd listen to Stan's worries as to how she hadn't gotten sick with Joshua and what her green-faced days did to him, or cut Zeke off from the computer, where he'd damn-near crash the entire internet to discover what the color of Stokely's puke meant... or whatever other ridiculous question he needed definitive answers to. Casey, the voice of reason, bringing calm with him every time he stepped into the house. It didn't mean that he himself didn't have concerns, and seeing as Stokely had been his confidant for what felt like ages, she was his safest respite.
She always went back to the day she'd put an end to his, “It's these damned allergies,” excuses and told him to spill-it. And spill-it he did, in both words and tears. “I feel like an asshole, I really fucking do,” he'd said as his opening before he shook off the emotional weight. Stokely had said nothing in that next twenty-two minutes of his admittances and worries, knowing that Casey needed to unburden himself when it was safe, almost as much as she needed Twix bars dipped into marshmallow topping. Almost. Fact was, Casey had always been a sensitive young man, and however much he felt like a jackass for saying, “I wish I'd won, I wish he was mine,” it was Stokely's job to let him know that he WASN'T an asshole. She got to admit in hushed tones that, yes, she too wished he'd gotten that fateful flush, and it wasn't due to her thinking Zeke wasn't good enough.
“If you ever change your mind when it comes to having more than one, I might be able to help you out,” she'd said before all but leaping from the bed, rushing to the bathroom and sticking her head into the toilet for the usual. Casey had recovered enough to chuckle while patting her back.
“I love you too much to do that to you, sweets,” was where they'd left off and moved on, Casey never needing to consult Stokely again. She knew, and that'd been enough for him.
What had to be the most irritating guilt came from her own heart. She had Stan, she had their baby boy, a house, the hatchback with phenomenal gas mileage, a litany of best friends in the form of two floors full of books... and that other person who'd come from her loins but lived somewhere else. On August 21st, two hours before her water broke, her only thoughts consisted of being freed from the chains of this pregnancy and tossing the kid over to the guys as if Torrin was a football... “Are we there yet?” had been the question posed to Stan for a full week, at least twice a day, which made him laugh every time.
On August 22nd, she'd stared at the bloody-but-beautiful bundle of flailing arms and legs, really strong lungs punching out loud cries and thought, He looks like a 'Jamie'. That'd been their first possible name-choice for Joshua before changing their minds, and she always told Stan, “IF... and that's a big fucking IF, I bother shoving another human being out of my guts, we'll go with 'Jamie'.” So as she laid back and watched the nurses tend to Torrin, Casey and Zeke hovering to give awed, new-father gazes at the newborn, Stokely had a handful of seconds where she wanted to yell, “Get away from my baby!” before demanding the nurses hand the baby-boy over to her. Stan had stayed by her side instead of going over, and for the first time, he didn't ask, “What's wrong, honey?” He'd probably chalked-up her hard frown and trembling upper lip to her just transforming from full to suddenly empty-which was exactly how Stokely had felt, only it was emotion that was gutting her, not the feeling of the afterbirth being expelled.
Yet it'd been with perfect understanding when Torrin had, in fact, been brought to her to hold. The honor had been Zeke's, telling her, “He's gorgeous. Just fuckin' gorgeous, babe,” before slipping Torrin gently into her arms. No matter the poor thing's bright-red face and trollish expression, Zeke was spot-on. When Torrin's evolutionary instincts made him turn his face to her barely-covered chest and seek out his first-ever nourishment, the other promise she'd made to the boys popped in her mind.
“But won't that be like... hard for you to do?”
“I did it with Joshua up until you guys knocked me up, the fuck you say, 'hard for me to do'?”
“I mean-like, I mean, it might-hurt.”
The freshest, best start came directly from the mother herself, Stokely insisted, as she was to hand over the healthiest baby possible. Still, when her hand had gone to lower the insanely-inadequate hospital jonny, Casey had crossed his arms and bit his lip. “Don't feel... like you have to,” he'd said.
With a groan and cocked eyebrow, Stokely had simply said, “Shut the hell up and let the kid eat,” before bringing Torrin's mouth to her nipple, letting him make voracious sucks upon it. In the precious, endorphin-drenched four minutes of feeding, Stokely's perspective shifted. The glow Casey wore was that of a new father's, his gene-pool being part of this process or no. He'd all but bought-out every bookstore in town when it came to kid's books, his son being a reader one of his most important wishes. If everything Stokely had ever seen in Casey was total truth, Torrin was going to have the best father the world had ever seen.
Father-s. Two of them, both equal Stokely concluded with certainty when she'd looked to Zeke and almost started laughing at the emotional wreck he'd become... in the best way, of course. He was a new father, and she knew that he'd have been turning his face into a raisin even if Casey had gotten the better hand. After all, Casey wouldn't have bothered putting up with the gay-hating torment his relationship with Zeke brought at times-few and far between, thankfully, but intense all the same-if Zeke wasn't worth it. The empty feeling Stokely had felt began slipping away, completeness intensifying as she lifted Torrin up for Zeke to take. For the next however-many hours, she barely paid attention to the hospital goings-on to do nothing more than enjoy Stan's getting as close as he could without crushing her tired body and watching the new dads stare at, talk to and chuckle heartily over their new addition. She felt like a million dollars after the 'New Mom Meal' of a grilled chicken salad with ranch dressing, accompanied by a banana, apple juice and a full bag of Hershey's Kisses, the last item coming from Casey's messenger-bag for all to enjoy.
That night, their arrangement of Stan letting Casey take the first night to watch over his wife and play 'get-to-know-you' with Torrin went off without a hitch. Zeke had given Stokely a chaste kiss and muffled, shaky, “Thank you, Stokes... fuck's sake, thank you,” in her ear, moved onto kissing the other new dad, their new son-lingering longest there, his fingers brushing over the thick, dark hair on Torrin's head-then plant a third, hard lip-smack on Stan's cheek as they both left for home. Everyone in the room had chortled, nurses included, before the lights were dimmed and Stokely began contemplating how she was ever going to sleep tonight. Looking to the pull-out settee where Casey lay, still holding Torrin in his arms, she'd smiled and said, “I thought I'd pass out the second he was evicted.”
Instead of chuckling and joking-around back, Casey had lifted his head from Torrin to give her an unyielding stare. His eyes had been wet for the first time that night. “You really have no clue about what you just did for us... do you?”
“I haven't been able to take a sip of water without Tory making me almost piss buckets without warning, cut out my salmon-and-avocado roll habit... I know you owe me. Don't worry about that, boy.”
“Yea. No clue.”
All Stokely could do after that was smile before her eyes closed and she dropped into sleep-mode without any warning. She'd been gently woken-up a few hours later, Casey telling her that the nurse wanted her to give Torrin another feeding. “We agreed on a one-time only thing, so--”
“Hand 'im over, I'm good,” she'd interrupted the man before taking Torrin to her breast again.
Almost fourteen years later, she's sat on the porch watching the day arrive. There's not one cloud in the sky, and the birds are making the usual morning celebration. The deep, personal time she'd been enjoying was coming to its end, so she took inventory:
Yes, every now and again she feels a slight pang of loss when it comes to Torrin, still stuck somewhere back in that hospital room where the natural instincts of a new mother had almost made her take it all back and convince Stan that they had no 'contract' to begin with, so the judge wouldn't even bother looking at whatever file Casey and Zeke put together. “He has my eyes,” she'd tell him while hers would fill... but never. Not in a million years. She has something that only the tiniest fraction of women on Earth has.
No, she still can't look at a Twix bar without bile rising up to the back of her mouth. Marshmallow, however, she can still devour without issue. An unopened jar of Fluf was in the cupboard above the microwave; it'd make a great toast-topper, and it'll be a good three hours before the men of the house take her to the breakfast buffet at their favorite restaurant. Nobody expected Stokely to put-off eating for THAT long, even if she could stand to lose a few pounds. She had no one to impress, however. Marshmallowed-toast it was.
Yes, the two men who lived way-too-far away had to be the most awesome dads-besides Stan, of course. Yet Stan had it easy; no one asked, “Which one of you is the father?” with him having to point to someone else. That was yet another thing that Casey had to deal with, something that made him call Stokely every now and again to vent about. Stan didn't have to put up with someone staring between him, his wife and son as if they smelled bad, or wonder if Joshua really DID see him as his 'real father'. Stokely herself cringed and felt uncomfortable, thinking of how that had to feel-especially if sometimes, Torrin would dismiss Casey in a very distinct way, a way he didn't emote when it was Zeke stepping in sternly. But Stokely was convinced that no matter what fuss Torrin could kick up, the voice-cracking, balls-dropping teenaged-brat knew, with every bit of his being, that there could be no 'realer' father than what he had in Casey. Perhaps, Stokely thought guiltily, even more than Zeke. She'll alway fights that thought back, however, knowing the differences and how they couldn't be compared, one valued more than the other. That's what made things end in divorces, custody battles and misery.
Yes, something was buzzing in her robe's pocket.
“What the...” Stokely mumbled aloud before realizing that she'd grabbed her cell from the nightstand before coming down, eager to find out if she'd won that week's Music Match tournament on facebook... that damned site's games had been more addicting than she'd realized before deciding to indulge her mother's constant botheration to battle-it-out when it came to music trivia... 'Oh yea, it's ringing,' she thought as she finally looked to the screen. She snorted, tapped 'talk' and put the phone to her ear. “You're up early, huh?”
Torrin sighed into the phone. “Yea. My last day of the MCAS test was yesterday. I crashed right after dinner... my brain needed to go comatose,” he said.
“Right, that crap. Why you kids won't protest that crock of shit they shove at you's beyond me.” Stokely's smile wrapped over the edge of her mug to sip then continued, “I never woulda graduated if they'd had those tests when I was your age.”
“You lucked, don't rub it in,” Torrin said with a small snort of amused-derision.
Fuck, his voice got deep... Zeke all the way, Jesus... “So besides flawed standardized testing, how are you doin', kiddo?” she asked.
“Good, good. 'Just thought I'd prove that I know what day it is.”
“You've never missed it.”
“I know, but still. I sent a card too, but a bit late... I got crap for not throwing it in the post office 'til Friday, don't worry.”
“Oh shush, I'll live.”
For the next forty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Stokely and her second-son enjoyed their traditional 'Mom Day' discussions. From, “Yea, I'd commented, didn't you see?” when it came to his asking if she'd seen the youtube video of his last basketball game (one his team had won, thanks to his mind-blowing dunking skills) to talking about their future get-together for his birthday, Stokely had sunk deeper and deeper into the wicker couch's cushions, feeling full and happy. Why he felt like he had to say 'I didn't forget' when he never did-Mother's Day or her birthday, she didn't know. Maybe it had to do with the idea that she wasn't there when he knew she wanted to be. That maybe, as she'd gone over many times this morning, she still felt that tugging at her heart when it came to driving home from the hospital not needing to use Joshua's old carseat-and he knew it, again. Maybe one day, maybe, she'd tell him all about it, just so he knows that he's more loved and cherished than he already knows he is.
It was when she heard footsteps coming from the kitchen that she sat up and said, “Well, hon... I'll let you go. Tell the dads I love 'em. And thanks for calling, I get to missing you sometimes.”
“Hah, okay. Love ya, Ma,” Torrin replied. “Happy Momma Day.”
“You're always gonna be his mom, okay?” Zeke's parting words before setting off for home rang in her head, as clearly as it'd been spoken directly in her ear as they'd held each other at the curb. “I know, sweetie. Love you, too.”
They made their goodbyes. As Stokely smiled at the 'Call Ended' text, a loud yawn came from the now-opened screen door. She looked over to the wrinkled mess of pajama-pants, White Stripes concert shirt and mussed-up, sticking-out-everywhere deep auburn hair that decorated her where the fuck did the time go? sixteen-year old boy. “Haaappy Mom's Day, Mom,” Joshua said in a sleepy drawl.
“Aw, you remembered,” she replied in a dreamy voice, a coy grin on her face. This young man never forgot, either. How they all managed to raise their sons to be as awesome as they were, considering their oddities and not-always-perfect pasts astounded her at times...
“'Course I did. So, where's breakfast?” Joshua asked. When Stokely's eyes narrowed, he stepped back, hands held out in a sign of surrender. “I'm kidding, kidding!!”
“Best be, little boy,” Stokely said with a wink.
“I mean, I wouldn't complain if you wanted to whip something up...”
“But you WOULD if I showed up at your next baseball game with my face painted in Herrington Voc-Tech's school colors and an air-horn... right?”
Joshua made a scrunched-up, pouty smirk at this. “You win.”
Stokely chuckled heartily, stood with a groan and picked up her empty mug and empty pot. Four cups down; she'd be making damned-good use of 'Rosewood Bistro's women's room today, if not before they were able to leave the house. “It's a hollow victory... cos' I'd feel like a jerk, eating Fluf-toast without making you some, too,” Stokely said. She went to the door, Joshua holding it open for her. “I'll put this junk down then we can give a good... morning hug...”
“Like I said, Happy Mom Day,” Joshua said with an impish smile as Stokely stared at the bouquet of roses sitting in a vase, put in the middle of the kitchen island. Stokely dropped her jaw and turned to him.
“Honey!”
“What?”
She shook her head and scoffed. “That had to be expensive!”
“So? I did that work on Mr. Anderson's car last week...”
“I know, that was your money. Hon...”
“Yea... and you're my mom.” Joshua, the smile he always wore when he was too stubborn to let things go wide on his face, leaned in to give Stokely a kiss on the cheek. He had to feel the heat, Stokely turning into a furnace of love and pride as she relented, went over to the flowers and took a long, heavy inhalation.
The toast was put together and the first bite taken when Stan arrived with a card, her favorite Godiva mint truffles and what HAD to be an expensive necklace, the pendant holding another favorite of labradorite. Her initial instinct to splutter and declare it all as “too much!” was forced down to enjoy the treats and trinkets, each one handed over with love.
The buffet was better than ever, of course. The cake Stokely's dad bought from the Italian bakery, the traditional rum-cake enjoyed every Mother's Day afternoon at the Mitchell household was decadent, especially with the actual rum drinks going with the dessert (something Stan's mom enjoyed a little-too-much, but like hell if anyone didn't find her rant about the new 'asshole neighbors' totally hilarious). Getting home and not having to worry about anything but sitting around and making alcohol-flavored burps was bliss. Stokely went to bed early, wishing her boys a “Happy Doing Dishes,” before disappearing upstairs.
And the next day, she came home from work and reached into the mailbox; the Visa bill already paid-off going by the budget she'd drawn up for the month, coupons for the disgusting Italian restaurant on Elm Street desperate for business since their cockroach problem, a flyer from Game Stop addressed to Joshua and a white envelope from Norwich, Connecticut. Stokely smiled and opened it before getting into the house.
Good moms let their kids lick the beater. the text on the front read next to a chocolatey hand-mixer. Opening it, she burst into laughter at what she read next...
Great moms turn the mixer off first.
Happy Mother's Day to a great mom.
So you, Mom. :D
Love, Tory
Torrin's not one for sappy cards, but neither is Stokely. Once inside, the card was set on the mantel along with Stan's, Joshua's, her parents' and the Rosado's. She can't help but make it the most prominent, and she continued chuckling as she made her way to the kitchen. Fluf-toast, again and always.
I decided to write a little piece, another addition to my little world of Torrin!verse. We're going with another perspective here, however...
Title: Just Like You: Parental Units
Pairing: C/Z, Stan/Stokes
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: This *also* comes as a little gifty for moit, who gives this fic-universe I've come up with a whole lotta lovin'. She got all down-and-out recently, and I swore I'd be doing a fic to make her all grinny and stuff. Alas, my original idea involving Zeke torching Casey's horrible workplace went nowhere. So... enjoy, m'weirdo! :)
Author's Note, Last But Not Least: The card involved is what *I* got from Pan this year. :D
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: It doesn't matter where Torrin is in the world; she's still his mom.
This was the day Stokely would have an early morning full of reflection and deep-thought when it came to what exactly she'd accomplished in life, what she'd accomplished for others and how one of the most important and pivotal decisions made her feel to this very day. It would always come to a good, solid conclusion: she'd done something selfless and wonderful for two of the most closest friends she'd ever had in life, enriching theirs through her own sacrifice and steel-strong will. It wasn't an everyday common occurrence, running into a woman who'd given up nine months of her life for something that ended up being ninety-percent someone else's, the remaining tenth belonging to the woman by the grace of the ones she'd gifted. She's always been proud when this history comes up, especially when the more open-minded people in the world would almost come to fucking tears over her generosity and love. But still, every Mother's Day, Stokely would wake up before her husband and son as if she had an inner alarm clock, telling her that it was time to put on her robe, make some coffee then bring it out onto the back porch where she'd sit for a long, long time by herself.
The home she and Stan had somehow managed to put together was a happy one. Even when times were tough financially, they'd never been out of work; a blessing, in this day and age. After dealing with a hard-ass like Coach Willis throughout all of his high school life, Stan's aspirations had led him to Herrington High after college to snap-up the opportunity to take over for Willis himself. It'd been by glorious chance that Willis had come into money after his rich mother's departure and sprung his early-retirement plans on the school less than a week before Stan had dropped in to see if their alma mater had positions available. Seeing as the school was made desperate for someone without dealing with the hell and drama involving substitutes, Stan had started right after the weekend, only four days after asking, “You wouldn't happen to need anyone in the PE department, eh?” He proved his worth, substance and skill, using a much gentler, kinder approach than Willis had. The anti-bullying program had been introduced by Stan himself-his cause, really, something he backed-up to the nth. At least ninety-five percent of the meeker, less-athletic students would pass, due mostly to Stan's being generous with the 'effort' portion of the final grades he'd give. Those kids knew that if they had Stan as their teacher, they'd try extra hard to try, because just as long as they showed Stan respect and interest in any sort of athletic format, even if they couldn't complete tasks and be picked first by team-leaders, he respected them just as much. Stokely couldn't have been prouder of her man when he'd come home, frustrated and angry for his 'favorite geek' as he'd call Jack Fremont for his getting a beat-down by three of the footballers in the locker room-the idea that their own coach had reported it and made sure they were punished for it, even if it'd cost them the next game's win had made it known to every student there that it didn't matter who you were or how well you did on the field. To Stokely, it was more than that. Stan was her hero, always had been, but he'd reached demi-god status in how he'd gone about defending the kids who needed him.
Stokely's solid grasp on mathematics meant that they never missed a mortgage payment, car payment or any of those dreaded surprises that'd crop up out of nowhere (“It's official... the kid needs friggin' braces,” Stan had confirmed five years before, while their eleven-year old stomped angrily upstairs in his room to sulk). Though her being a librarian didn't buy them a beach house, it was enough. Stan knew that his wife had always yearned for a quiet, more solitary way to make a living and didn't make any demands. Their weekend vacations at Lake Erie were enough-it was the memories that mattered, not how much money was poured into their excursions.
Memories. The breezy but pleasantly warm May-day brought Stokely back to why she sat out here, silent and alone. Summer's on its way; the sun was barely over the horizon, but she felt the bright orange glow's effect. Before she knows it, they'll be unpacking suitcases in their tiny, cramped but adorable beach cottage rental right on the lake, Joshua will insist that this is THE summer where he'll finally learn how to stay upright on water-skis... after that will come their next trip, no room-rentals needed. “Mi casa and whatever,” Zeke always said, and their home's guest room was nice. They'd see Torrin for about an hour at his birthday party before he and Joshua returned to holing up in his room for endless hours of video-gaming, or their leaving the house altogether for the park and-or mall and-or the all-ages club's concerts and-or... whatever else teenage boys loved attending.
Stokely smiled in the here and now. It did her heart good that the boys are brothers and they not only know it and like it, but love it. Close in age and personalities enough to make them all wonder if the kids were actually twins. It makes them all family, open and honest. There will always be that ultimate connection that pulls them together, makes them miss each other, call on a whim. But these thoughts always led to Stokely's annual dwelling on the tiny, almost invisible amount of guilt she's carried against her will. She needed to get them all out in this Mother's party-of-one coffee hour (though it's always at least double that, if not triple), where she feels safe enough to think what she wants. Stan is too intuitive and can tell when something's bothering her when she herself doesn't realize she's bothered; Joshua always puts his teenaged-ennui to the side on days like these, and needs her full love and attention. She took up the pot of coffee she dragged in here with her, not minding that it's gone tepid. The second-cup-sip went down at the same time her mind opened up to the usual.
She'd never say it out loud, but fact was and IS fact: it'd been hard to hide the disappointment when Zeke had won that ridiculous bet. She'd had hope in seeing Casey's two-pair hand, queen high; her jaw had tightened when Zeke's smile practically ate his face as he revealed that damned flush. Hearts, jack-high. She almost made the suggestion that the BOTH of them hand over their baby-batter to see who had the strongest sperm. But they needed to be proof-positive, no DNA tests involved; a deal was a deal, a bet a bet, so she'd put any reservations aside to crack jokes upstairs with Zeke as to how well he'd filled that turkey baster, or how Thanksgiving was never going to feel the same way ever again. They came up with new material for each attempt, and when her pregnancy test came back positive a mere three months later (“Your little swimmers get Olympic gold,” she'd said while tapping the two-lined result in the air) she made every preparation she could. She'd had three men on her side, a woman's ultimate dream; never in want and paid up the ass when it came to medical costs, food, or the monthly day-spa visitations. No one could say that Zeke wasn't one of the most grateful, generous men in the world; she would've gotten it all, Zeke's trust-fund involved or no.
But she always preferred Casey's being around, sometimes even more than her own husband's doting and worrying. The one thing Casey avoided at all costs was drama. Not every ache or morning-sickness episode-though why it was coined 'morning' was beyond Stokely, at least in the first trimester when she may as well have attached a toilet to her chest and chin-warranted an ER visit, and Casey understood that perfectly. He'd listen to Stan's worries as to how she hadn't gotten sick with Joshua and what her green-faced days did to him, or cut Zeke off from the computer, where he'd damn-near crash the entire internet to discover what the color of Stokely's puke meant... or whatever other ridiculous question he needed definitive answers to. Casey, the voice of reason, bringing calm with him every time he stepped into the house. It didn't mean that he himself didn't have concerns, and seeing as Stokely had been his confidant for what felt like ages, she was his safest respite.
She always went back to the day she'd put an end to his, “It's these damned allergies,” excuses and told him to spill-it. And spill-it he did, in both words and tears. “I feel like an asshole, I really fucking do,” he'd said as his opening before he shook off the emotional weight. Stokely had said nothing in that next twenty-two minutes of his admittances and worries, knowing that Casey needed to unburden himself when it was safe, almost as much as she needed Twix bars dipped into marshmallow topping. Almost. Fact was, Casey had always been a sensitive young man, and however much he felt like a jackass for saying, “I wish I'd won, I wish he was mine,” it was Stokely's job to let him know that he WASN'T an asshole. She got to admit in hushed tones that, yes, she too wished he'd gotten that fateful flush, and it wasn't due to her thinking Zeke wasn't good enough.
“If you ever change your mind when it comes to having more than one, I might be able to help you out,” she'd said before all but leaping from the bed, rushing to the bathroom and sticking her head into the toilet for the usual. Casey had recovered enough to chuckle while patting her back.
“I love you too much to do that to you, sweets,” was where they'd left off and moved on, Casey never needing to consult Stokely again. She knew, and that'd been enough for him.
What had to be the most irritating guilt came from her own heart. She had Stan, she had their baby boy, a house, the hatchback with phenomenal gas mileage, a litany of best friends in the form of two floors full of books... and that other person who'd come from her loins but lived somewhere else. On August 21st, two hours before her water broke, her only thoughts consisted of being freed from the chains of this pregnancy and tossing the kid over to the guys as if Torrin was a football... “Are we there yet?” had been the question posed to Stan for a full week, at least twice a day, which made him laugh every time.
On August 22nd, she'd stared at the bloody-but-beautiful bundle of flailing arms and legs, really strong lungs punching out loud cries and thought, He looks like a 'Jamie'. That'd been their first possible name-choice for Joshua before changing their minds, and she always told Stan, “IF... and that's a big fucking IF, I bother shoving another human being out of my guts, we'll go with 'Jamie'.” So as she laid back and watched the nurses tend to Torrin, Casey and Zeke hovering to give awed, new-father gazes at the newborn, Stokely had a handful of seconds where she wanted to yell, “Get away from my baby!” before demanding the nurses hand the baby-boy over to her. Stan had stayed by her side instead of going over, and for the first time, he didn't ask, “What's wrong, honey?” He'd probably chalked-up her hard frown and trembling upper lip to her just transforming from full to suddenly empty-which was exactly how Stokely had felt, only it was emotion that was gutting her, not the feeling of the afterbirth being expelled.
Yet it'd been with perfect understanding when Torrin had, in fact, been brought to her to hold. The honor had been Zeke's, telling her, “He's gorgeous. Just fuckin' gorgeous, babe,” before slipping Torrin gently into her arms. No matter the poor thing's bright-red face and trollish expression, Zeke was spot-on. When Torrin's evolutionary instincts made him turn his face to her barely-covered chest and seek out his first-ever nourishment, the other promise she'd made to the boys popped in her mind.
“But won't that be like... hard for you to do?”
“I did it with Joshua up until you guys knocked me up, the fuck you say, 'hard for me to do'?”
“I mean-like, I mean, it might-hurt.”
The freshest, best start came directly from the mother herself, Stokely insisted, as she was to hand over the healthiest baby possible. Still, when her hand had gone to lower the insanely-inadequate hospital jonny, Casey had crossed his arms and bit his lip. “Don't feel... like you have to,” he'd said.
With a groan and cocked eyebrow, Stokely had simply said, “Shut the hell up and let the kid eat,” before bringing Torrin's mouth to her nipple, letting him make voracious sucks upon it. In the precious, endorphin-drenched four minutes of feeding, Stokely's perspective shifted. The glow Casey wore was that of a new father's, his gene-pool being part of this process or no. He'd all but bought-out every bookstore in town when it came to kid's books, his son being a reader one of his most important wishes. If everything Stokely had ever seen in Casey was total truth, Torrin was going to have the best father the world had ever seen.
Father-s. Two of them, both equal Stokely concluded with certainty when she'd looked to Zeke and almost started laughing at the emotional wreck he'd become... in the best way, of course. He was a new father, and she knew that he'd have been turning his face into a raisin even if Casey had gotten the better hand. After all, Casey wouldn't have bothered putting up with the gay-hating torment his relationship with Zeke brought at times-few and far between, thankfully, but intense all the same-if Zeke wasn't worth it. The empty feeling Stokely had felt began slipping away, completeness intensifying as she lifted Torrin up for Zeke to take. For the next however-many hours, she barely paid attention to the hospital goings-on to do nothing more than enjoy Stan's getting as close as he could without crushing her tired body and watching the new dads stare at, talk to and chuckle heartily over their new addition. She felt like a million dollars after the 'New Mom Meal' of a grilled chicken salad with ranch dressing, accompanied by a banana, apple juice and a full bag of Hershey's Kisses, the last item coming from Casey's messenger-bag for all to enjoy.
That night, their arrangement of Stan letting Casey take the first night to watch over his wife and play 'get-to-know-you' with Torrin went off without a hitch. Zeke had given Stokely a chaste kiss and muffled, shaky, “Thank you, Stokes... fuck's sake, thank you,” in her ear, moved onto kissing the other new dad, their new son-lingering longest there, his fingers brushing over the thick, dark hair on Torrin's head-then plant a third, hard lip-smack on Stan's cheek as they both left for home. Everyone in the room had chortled, nurses included, before the lights were dimmed and Stokely began contemplating how she was ever going to sleep tonight. Looking to the pull-out settee where Casey lay, still holding Torrin in his arms, she'd smiled and said, “I thought I'd pass out the second he was evicted.”
Instead of chuckling and joking-around back, Casey had lifted his head from Torrin to give her an unyielding stare. His eyes had been wet for the first time that night. “You really have no clue about what you just did for us... do you?”
“I haven't been able to take a sip of water without Tory making me almost piss buckets without warning, cut out my salmon-and-avocado roll habit... I know you owe me. Don't worry about that, boy.”
“Yea. No clue.”
All Stokely could do after that was smile before her eyes closed and she dropped into sleep-mode without any warning. She'd been gently woken-up a few hours later, Casey telling her that the nurse wanted her to give Torrin another feeding. “We agreed on a one-time only thing, so--”
“Hand 'im over, I'm good,” she'd interrupted the man before taking Torrin to her breast again.
Almost fourteen years later, she's sat on the porch watching the day arrive. There's not one cloud in the sky, and the birds are making the usual morning celebration. The deep, personal time she'd been enjoying was coming to its end, so she took inventory:
Yes, every now and again she feels a slight pang of loss when it comes to Torrin, still stuck somewhere back in that hospital room where the natural instincts of a new mother had almost made her take it all back and convince Stan that they had no 'contract' to begin with, so the judge wouldn't even bother looking at whatever file Casey and Zeke put together. “He has my eyes,” she'd tell him while hers would fill... but never. Not in a million years. She has something that only the tiniest fraction of women on Earth has.
No, she still can't look at a Twix bar without bile rising up to the back of her mouth. Marshmallow, however, she can still devour without issue. An unopened jar of Fluf was in the cupboard above the microwave; it'd make a great toast-topper, and it'll be a good three hours before the men of the house take her to the breakfast buffet at their favorite restaurant. Nobody expected Stokely to put-off eating for THAT long, even if she could stand to lose a few pounds. She had no one to impress, however. Marshmallowed-toast it was.
Yes, the two men who lived way-too-far away had to be the most awesome dads-besides Stan, of course. Yet Stan had it easy; no one asked, “Which one of you is the father?” with him having to point to someone else. That was yet another thing that Casey had to deal with, something that made him call Stokely every now and again to vent about. Stan didn't have to put up with someone staring between him, his wife and son as if they smelled bad, or wonder if Joshua really DID see him as his 'real father'. Stokely herself cringed and felt uncomfortable, thinking of how that had to feel-especially if sometimes, Torrin would dismiss Casey in a very distinct way, a way he didn't emote when it was Zeke stepping in sternly. But Stokely was convinced that no matter what fuss Torrin could kick up, the voice-cracking, balls-dropping teenaged-brat knew, with every bit of his being, that there could be no 'realer' father than what he had in Casey. Perhaps, Stokely thought guiltily, even more than Zeke. She'll alway fights that thought back, however, knowing the differences and how they couldn't be compared, one valued more than the other. That's what made things end in divorces, custody battles and misery.
Yes, something was buzzing in her robe's pocket.
“What the...” Stokely mumbled aloud before realizing that she'd grabbed her cell from the nightstand before coming down, eager to find out if she'd won that week's Music Match tournament on facebook... that damned site's games had been more addicting than she'd realized before deciding to indulge her mother's constant botheration to battle-it-out when it came to music trivia... 'Oh yea, it's ringing,' she thought as she finally looked to the screen. She snorted, tapped 'talk' and put the phone to her ear. “You're up early, huh?”
Torrin sighed into the phone. “Yea. My last day of the MCAS test was yesterday. I crashed right after dinner... my brain needed to go comatose,” he said.
“Right, that crap. Why you kids won't protest that crock of shit they shove at you's beyond me.” Stokely's smile wrapped over the edge of her mug to sip then continued, “I never woulda graduated if they'd had those tests when I was your age.”
“You lucked, don't rub it in,” Torrin said with a small snort of amused-derision.
Fuck, his voice got deep... Zeke all the way, Jesus... “So besides flawed standardized testing, how are you doin', kiddo?” she asked.
“Good, good. 'Just thought I'd prove that I know what day it is.”
“You've never missed it.”
“I know, but still. I sent a card too, but a bit late... I got crap for not throwing it in the post office 'til Friday, don't worry.”
“Oh shush, I'll live.”
For the next forty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Stokely and her second-son enjoyed their traditional 'Mom Day' discussions. From, “Yea, I'd commented, didn't you see?” when it came to his asking if she'd seen the youtube video of his last basketball game (one his team had won, thanks to his mind-blowing dunking skills) to talking about their future get-together for his birthday, Stokely had sunk deeper and deeper into the wicker couch's cushions, feeling full and happy. Why he felt like he had to say 'I didn't forget' when he never did-Mother's Day or her birthday, she didn't know. Maybe it had to do with the idea that she wasn't there when he knew she wanted to be. That maybe, as she'd gone over many times this morning, she still felt that tugging at her heart when it came to driving home from the hospital not needing to use Joshua's old carseat-and he knew it, again. Maybe one day, maybe, she'd tell him all about it, just so he knows that he's more loved and cherished than he already knows he is.
It was when she heard footsteps coming from the kitchen that she sat up and said, “Well, hon... I'll let you go. Tell the dads I love 'em. And thanks for calling, I get to missing you sometimes.”
“Hah, okay. Love ya, Ma,” Torrin replied. “Happy Momma Day.”
“You're always gonna be his mom, okay?” Zeke's parting words before setting off for home rang in her head, as clearly as it'd been spoken directly in her ear as they'd held each other at the curb. “I know, sweetie. Love you, too.”
They made their goodbyes. As Stokely smiled at the 'Call Ended' text, a loud yawn came from the now-opened screen door. She looked over to the wrinkled mess of pajama-pants, White Stripes concert shirt and mussed-up, sticking-out-everywhere deep auburn hair that decorated her where the fuck did the time go? sixteen-year old boy. “Haaappy Mom's Day, Mom,” Joshua said in a sleepy drawl.
“Aw, you remembered,” she replied in a dreamy voice, a coy grin on her face. This young man never forgot, either. How they all managed to raise their sons to be as awesome as they were, considering their oddities and not-always-perfect pasts astounded her at times...
“'Course I did. So, where's breakfast?” Joshua asked. When Stokely's eyes narrowed, he stepped back, hands held out in a sign of surrender. “I'm kidding, kidding!!”
“Best be, little boy,” Stokely said with a wink.
“I mean, I wouldn't complain if you wanted to whip something up...”
“But you WOULD if I showed up at your next baseball game with my face painted in Herrington Voc-Tech's school colors and an air-horn... right?”
Joshua made a scrunched-up, pouty smirk at this. “You win.”
Stokely chuckled heartily, stood with a groan and picked up her empty mug and empty pot. Four cups down; she'd be making damned-good use of 'Rosewood Bistro's women's room today, if not before they were able to leave the house. “It's a hollow victory... cos' I'd feel like a jerk, eating Fluf-toast without making you some, too,” Stokely said. She went to the door, Joshua holding it open for her. “I'll put this junk down then we can give a good... morning hug...”
“Like I said, Happy Mom Day,” Joshua said with an impish smile as Stokely stared at the bouquet of roses sitting in a vase, put in the middle of the kitchen island. Stokely dropped her jaw and turned to him.
“Honey!”
“What?”
She shook her head and scoffed. “That had to be expensive!”
“So? I did that work on Mr. Anderson's car last week...”
“I know, that was your money. Hon...”
“Yea... and you're my mom.” Joshua, the smile he always wore when he was too stubborn to let things go wide on his face, leaned in to give Stokely a kiss on the cheek. He had to feel the heat, Stokely turning into a furnace of love and pride as she relented, went over to the flowers and took a long, heavy inhalation.
The toast was put together and the first bite taken when Stan arrived with a card, her favorite Godiva mint truffles and what HAD to be an expensive necklace, the pendant holding another favorite of labradorite. Her initial instinct to splutter and declare it all as “too much!” was forced down to enjoy the treats and trinkets, each one handed over with love.
The buffet was better than ever, of course. The cake Stokely's dad bought from the Italian bakery, the traditional rum-cake enjoyed every Mother's Day afternoon at the Mitchell household was decadent, especially with the actual rum drinks going with the dessert (something Stan's mom enjoyed a little-too-much, but like hell if anyone didn't find her rant about the new 'asshole neighbors' totally hilarious). Getting home and not having to worry about anything but sitting around and making alcohol-flavored burps was bliss. Stokely went to bed early, wishing her boys a “Happy Doing Dishes,” before disappearing upstairs.
And the next day, she came home from work and reached into the mailbox; the Visa bill already paid-off going by the budget she'd drawn up for the month, coupons for the disgusting Italian restaurant on Elm Street desperate for business since their cockroach problem, a flyer from Game Stop addressed to Joshua and a white envelope from Norwich, Connecticut. Stokely smiled and opened it before getting into the house.
Good moms let their kids lick the beater. the text on the front read next to a chocolatey hand-mixer. Opening it, she burst into laughter at what she read next...
Great moms turn the mixer off first.
Happy Mother's Day to a great mom.
So you, Mom. :D
Love, Tory
Torrin's not one for sappy cards, but neither is Stokely. Once inside, the card was set on the mantel along with Stan's, Joshua's, her parents' and the Rosado's. She can't help but make it the most prominent, and she continued chuckling as she made her way to the kitchen. Fluf-toast, again and always.