Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [89]
Her own son, her firstborn, a potential teen killer. It was simply more than a mother could bear. And then after one month at the facility, he called her on the phone. “There’s something I need to tell you” he said. And then in a muffled, high-pitched voice identical to the voice of “Zoe” when she had called her on air, he quoted verbatim from the first letter she received: “Peggy Jean, my ears always perk up when I hear your voice on Sellevision. You are my favorite host. You are so professional and friendly, and I just love your hair! Speaking of hair, I just want to tell you this, woman to woman: Peggy Jean, I have noticed many times in close-up pictures how very hairy your earlobes are.”
Zoe was her son.
Hearing this, she had instinctively reached for a Valium. Then the awful reality set in. The reality that there would be no more of that. And that she had to face this dreadful truth, stone cold sober.
“But why?” she had asked, blinking away the tears.
“Because I had a lot of repressed anger, a lot of self-esteem issues in terms of feeling infantilized by you. And your lack of physical affection, well, it just cemented my already latent feelings of inadequacy and failure. I’ve also got major control issues.”
He’d been undergoing extensive therapy since the bombing.
“Do you hate me?” she whimpered.
“I did,” he told her. “But I’m moving through my anger. And it’s something we can work on—together, with a therapist—when I get out.”
He also told her that when he got out, he was going to apply to the Vidal Sassoon Academy in Venice, California. He was going to become a colorist.
As for her two youngest boys, she no longer charted their moods and even allowed them to drink nondiet sodas on weekends. She didn’t force them to go to church. And she was learning to throw a softball. Her therapist called all of it progress.
Life was a journey.
Peggy Jean saw her exit up ahead. She moved into the far right lane and turned on her blinker. The sun had nearly set. She would have just enough time to check into her room at the Quality Inn and have a refreshing shower and a quick dinner. Being on tour was exhausting, but also very rewarding. Most importantly, what she was doing was God’s will. And who was she to argue with God? After all, they were business partners now.
The blue neon sign in front of the Poco-no-no Motor Lodge in the heart of the Poconos advertised “Heart Shaped Hot Tubs!” and “Free Cable!” The beige shingled building was set back from the street and nestled among tall pine trees. The “no-no” was clean, comfortable, and only $39 a night. Frequent daytrippers, John and Nikki had checked in just after lunch, registering as father and daughter. But even at three-thirty in the morning, the games were still going strong.
“Mr. Smythe, I’m going to need you to take a deep breath and then let it out very slowly,” Nikki said, placing the cold stethoscope against his back.
John shivered. “That’s so cold,” he said.
Nikki smiled and placed the stethoscope in the front pocket of her white L.P.N. uniform. “Now, now, now, I hope you’re not going to cause me any trouble today,” she warned. She wagged her finger at him.
He licked it.
She slid the finger deeper into his mouth. “Mmmmmm,” she moaned, “Nurse Nikki thinks you’re just what the doctor ordered.”
John reclined on his elbows, knocking the remote control onto the floor. The television suddenly came to life.
Nikki screamed and brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she cried. Her eyes bulged in disbelief.
John turned toward the screen. He gasped.
Nikki laughed viciously. “Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?”
“Shhhh,” John said. “Where’s the volume? Where’s the remote?” His erection immediately deflated.
“You knocked it on the floor. Hurry.”
He reached over and grabbed it, stabbing at the volume button.
Nikki leaned forward with her mouth wide open.
John snickered through his nose. “Jesus, Nikki. Even I never imagined she could sink so low.”
Nikki shook her head slowly from side to side, frowning. “Her roots must be half an inch!”
John scratched