Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

Bananapants: Chapter 32



“Laughter is a protest scream against death, against the long goodbye. It’s a defense against unhappiness and depression.”

― Mel Brooks, All About Me!: My Remarkable Life in Show Business

Did you eat all your soup?” My mom picked up my tray and peered at my bowl. “Good job.”

I stared forward, my arms crossed, and glared at the TV while my brain engaged in a familiar debate.

You’re worthless. You’re a burden. You’ll always be a burden.

No. I’m not a burden. She loves me and cares about me and she doesn’t mind helping me from time to time. I help her from time to time and she doesn’t think she’s a burden. People who love each other help each other. This is the same. If it’s too much for her, I’ll admit myself to a facility willingly. I’ll hire a nurse. I trust my mom to tell me if it’s too much.

No real man needs his mom at twenty-five. You’re pathetic.

I sighed. And so it went. I stared at the television, not watching whatever show, while I used my coping strategies and logic to try to talk myself out of the shame and self-recrimination. But, honestly, I hated that my chronic illness meant I required a caregiver sometimes. I think, more than anything, that’s what I hated the most about being bipolar. Like a fucking baby.

Or that man-turned-cockroach in Kafka’s short story The Metamorphosis. I remembered reading that story when I was fourteen and identifying SO HARD with the cockroach. Like a fucking cockroach.

“Ava will be off work in an hour. Do you want to go to the pool? Are you ready for that yet?” My mom carried the tray into the kitchen area. We were in my hotel room and she’d been stopping by daily, taking care of me, making sure I ate, making sure I took my meds, telling me jokes and relating her most recent research facts of interest, and heading home when Ava got off work.

I nodded, even though I didn’t know if I was ready to go swimming yet. My energy was at one of its all-time lows, but I wanted to get better so fucking bad. I’d spent an hour on the phone with my psychologist this morning. That had helped a lot. She told me not to rush, to give myself time, to be patient.

She’d also sorta chewed me out—again—for skipping those previous visits leading up to my depressive episode. It was okay. I deserved to be chewed out.

I’m not a failure. This is temporary. I’m not a failure.

My mom reappeared in my doorway. “Did you not hear me? I asked if you wanted to go to the pool.”

“Oh. Sorry. Yes. I want to go.” MOVE YOUR LEGS AND STAND UP, RAZ! “Hey, so.” I debated whether or not to ask her about my dad. I hadn’t seen him since he left right after my panic attack. My mom and Ava hadn’t brought him up and neither had I.

She crossed to the bed, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV. “What’s up?”

Part of me wondered if I’d imagined him being here. Part of me dreaded that he’d actually been here and had seen me like that. Another part of me, however, hoped it had been him. This part was loudest. If he’d been here, if he’d been the one to help me come through it, that meant he had a better understanding of my disorder, right? Maybe he’d be open to talking about it. Maybe he’d want to know me again. Maybe.

“Desmond?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” I wasn’t ready to ask her. I wanted the possibility to exist a little longer before finding out the truth, especially if the truth was the opposite of what I hoped.

“I’ll get your swimsuit and walk you to the pool. Oh! And Alex asked me to tell him when you’re swimming. He wants to join you.”

That had me sitting up and moving my legs. “He did?” That’ll be nice.

My mom smiled. “Just think, if you lived in Chicago, you two could go swimming all the time. Sometimes he takes his kids in the morning.”

I felt a burst of energy at the thought. I loved his kids. They were fun kids. Weird and fun. I’d taught the younger two—the twins—a few judo techniques about how to fall and they’d taken to it like naturals. “I can get my suit.”

Standing, I mindfully stretched and inhaled deeply, making sure to step into the sunbeams coming through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, letting the rays warm me.

“Then I’ll head out after you leave.” My mom walked around me to make the bed. “I’m hosting the knit night tonight since Elizabeth’s kitchen is being remodeled.”

“Mom. You don’t need to do that. I stay at a hotel because it has housekeeping. When I can’t make my bed or get it together, having someone else clean really helps.”

She continued making the bed. “I’m almost done. You’ve made this area like a little nest, you used to do the same when you were a kid. Did you know some birds don’t make nests? Gentoo penguins make structures out of rocks called scrapes and they line them with feathers and moss.”

“Aren’t gentoos the ones who prostitute for rocks?” I twisted to the side, stretching my obliques.

“Those are Adélie penguins. They also use rocks to build their nests. This behavior was first noticed in 1998 by a group of researchers.”

“Oh. That’s right.” It was Ava’s dad who’d told me about Adélie penguins.

Turning to bump my mom out of the way—and force her to stop making the bed—I caught her by the arms and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you for loving me, Mom. And thank you for taking time out of your life to help me.”

Her arms came around and squeezed my torso, her head resting on my shoulder. “No need to thank me. You know I like helping you when you need it.”

“Even so. I want to thank you. I love you and I know it’s a lot.”

She shrugged even while we hugged. “When you have a kid, it’s a lifetime commitment. I like that about being a parent.” We let each other go and she gazed up at me. “I can count on you and Natalie needing me forever and that comforts me.”

I made a face. “How does Natalie need you? She’s got all her shit together.”

My mother’s expression turned sly. “Ha. You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no one has their shit together, Desmond, and all kids will always need their parents—or parental figures, mentors might be a better word for it. I needed your father’s parents when I was younger because mine were so terrible, and they helped me—and continue to help me—in ways I probably don’t know how to articulate.

“They are pretty great.” I made a mental note to call my grandparents. Actually, I needed to fly back to Boston soon. I owed my grandpa Eugene a visit and a chess game. For the first time in a while, the thought didn’t feel overwhelming.

“It’s all smoke and mirrors and pretending, honey,” she went on. “Everyone is in various stages of falling apart. All the time.” Stepping forward, she cupped my cheeks between her palms, like she used to do when I was little. “Some people are just better than others with their smoke and mirrors, and how often and how well they lie to others. And to themselves.”

After my swim with Alex, I suspected—but I wasn’t certain—he’d let me win when we raced at the end of our laps, like he used to do when I first started training a few years ago. I didn’t mind. I had my pride, but a good friend letting me win to bolster my confidence after a bad depressive episode didn’t impact my pride negatively. If anything, it made me feel proud to have such a great friend, that I was worthy of his time and thoughtfulness. That boosted my confidence so much more than the winning, even if I’d earned it.

It’s amazing what a little bit of time buys, a little bit of caring about another person. Showing up mattered. I always wanted to be a person who showed up for my friends and family, like Alex and my mom—and yes, even Uncle Dan and all his pushiness—did with me. Even when I didn’t ask. Even when I thought I didn’t want to see them, showing up mattered.

In a slightly better mood, my body tired and sore in a good way, I walked into my suite and spotted Ava’s purse and suit jacket draped over the back of the chair straight ahead.

Not a moment after the door clicked shut behind me, Ava called from someplace unseen, “I brought you something! Come see.”

Kicking off my flip-flops next to her high heels, I walked into the living area and spotted her by the kitchen. She wore her little pencil skirt—which meant she probably had on nude thigh-highs and a garter belt—and a button-down shirt. It would take me less than ten seconds to unbutton that shirt.

“What is it?” I hesitated near the chair with her stuff on it.

We hadn’t made love since the day she went back to work, the day before my panic attack. She hadn’t brought it up but I had a while ago, once I was through what I hoped would be the worst of my depressive episode. I’d asked if she was upset with me about the lack of sex. She’d said she wasn’t upset, and that we should wait until I was feeling better, more stable. She’d also said she didn’t want me to force myself or feel pressured, and she hoped I would never push her if she were to go through a hard time in the future.

I appreciated how she’d spelled out her thoughts and set this boundary for both of us. It meant I could trust her to set boundaries in the future and be honest with me. My therapist had also agreed it was a good thing, a concrete sign of Ava’s emotional health and intelligence. See? Even my therapist loved Ava. How could she not? Ava was the best.

Presently, my favorite person lifted up a foil-wrapped rectangle block. “Zucchini bread! Ta-da!”

“Oh!” I speed-walked over to her, my mouth already watering, and I grabbed for it. “May I have some?”

She batted my hands away. “Yes. Be patient.” Carefully, Ava unwrapped the package. It was double wrapped in foil and parchment paper. “I couldn’t wait for it to cool all the way this morning, so it might be a little too moist.”

I pressed my lips together to stop from saying something about the word moist being the most offensive word in the English language. My mom told me so when I was little and, now that I was older, I agreed.

“But it should be good-moist, not bad-moist. Here”—she cut me a slice—“I don’t think it’s too moist. What do you think?” She cut off a triangle from the slice and lifted it to my lips with a fork. “Is it too moist?”

Wait a minute.

“Are you saying that word on purpose?” I asked, and then accepted the bite.

The little sparkle behind her eyes answered for her, but she feigned ignorance. “Who? Me? What word? Moist?”

Ahhh. That’s right. She knows I hate that word.

I shook my head at her but also chewed and swallowed the zucchini bread happily. “Is this the same recipe as before? From when we were kids?”

“That’s right. You made me butter chicken a while back—my favorite—I thought I’d make you this. Sorry I left early this morning, I wanted to bake this before work. Does it taste the same?”

“It does.” I forced her hand to cut another piece and feed it to me with the fork.

Ava watched me eat, cutting pieces and feeding me until it was all gone. “Good?”

Stepping closer and staring at her lips, I captured her hand and brought the back of it to my mouth for a kiss. “Bunny, my love, I hope you know I will eat anything you put in front of my mouth very happily.

She tried to flatten her expression but a small, amused-looking smile betrayed her. “Are we doing this again?”

“What?” I asked innocently, widening my eyes, and definitely planning to “do this” again.

For the last two days, I’d decided to make everything—as much as possible—an innuendo. First, because it was fun to see her blush. Second, because she liked it and it made her laugh. Third, because I loved her laugh. Fourth, I wanted her to know that—even though I might be working on myself, being depressed and sad—I still thought of her. Constantly.

At first it took some extra energy, but it was worth it. She was worth it.

However, now—right now—it felt effortless. A good sign.

“Mm-hmm. Okay. I see how it is.” She mock-glared at me.

I glanced at the zucchini bread. “You know, I think this must be my second favorite thing wrapped in foil.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Let me guess, your favorite thing is grilled sausage.”

Ensuring my voice sounded light and conversational, I said, “No. Actually, you might find this hard to believe, but it’s condoms.”

Her eyes closed and she shook her head slowly, her shoulders shaking despite how she tried to suppress her laughter. “Okay, buddy. I can’t stay long. This is the second to last week of fulfilling my promise to my mom that I would attend the Tuesday knit nights.”

“No problem.” I waited for her to open her eyes before adding, “Thanks for coming.”

She rolled her eyes again but finally allowed herself to grin. “You making everything sound like a sexual innuendo is endlessly entertaining. I guess I’ll be back tonight after the knitting meetup.”

“You weren’t planning on returning tonight?” I asked before I could catch the question. She’d been sleeping over every night since my panic attack. I’d grown used to it, being able to reach for her in the middle of the night and cuddle whenever I wanted.

But I didn’t want her to feel burdened, so I quickly added, “But obviously, if you need space, it’s no problem. You don’t have to sleep here, if you don’t want.”

Ava frowned abruptly and her eyes moved over me. Turning her hand in mine, she captured it and pulled me over to the couch. “Well, unfortunately, I do have something to tell you, but I don’t know if it’s going to ruin your mood.”

She’s breaking up with you. She’s⁠

Shoving those thoughts away as we both sat, I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then I said, “It doesn’t matter if it ruins my mood, Ava. You can’t—we can’t—stop talking because my bipolar might object to the topic. I have coping strategies. I have a support network. I’m taking my meds on time, eating, sleeping, and exercising. All I can do is my best, and you shouldn’t have to withhold information because you’re afraid it might impact my mood. I shouldn’t have to do that with you either.”

Her smile returned, warmer but smaller. “Okay.” Turning her body toward me, her chest expanded with a deep breath. “So, Henri tried to see me today at work.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“He was turned away by lobby security, but one of my coworkers said he made a big scene, ranted that I’d set his server room on fire.”

My head dropped to my chest and I breathed out a ragged sigh.

“Des, I think it’s time you tell me what’s going on with Henri Wickford.”

Looking up to meet her gaze, I had to agree. But I wanted her closer. She let me pick up her legs and lay them over mine, both of us settling in for the story.

One hand on her knee and the other wrapped around her legs, I began, “I have a friend. We met in Boston years ago when I was working at a car wash. He needed a second summer job in addition to his internship during graduate school, that’s how we met.”

I proceeded to give her all the details about Hareem, his patent, the lawyer I’d recommended that screwed him over, what Henri had done to bury the manufacturing and the patent, and how and why I felt I needed to fix this for my friend.

Ava listened patiently, asking several questions about the contract until I finally just sent her a copy. While I detailed all the steps Sue and I had taken to retrieve and destroy all copies, she sat with her head bent over her phone, reading through it.

“. . . that’s why I had to leave town so suddenly. I flew to the Caymans on short notice because he’d pulled his security team out. And it turns out it didn’t matter. He has copies saved places and I have no idea where.” My forehead fell to my hand, a new wave of frustration hitting me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Unless we try again and get really lucky, I can’t see how to fix this.”

Ava laughed.

And that made me frown. “What? What’s so funny?”

As her gaze returned to mine she tilted her head, looking at me like I was the most adorable person on the planet. “‘In my experience, there is no such thing as luck.’”

“What?”

“‘Use the force, Luke.’”

I glowered at her. “Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’ll get right on that.”

“Des, you’re trying to Han Solo your way out of a Yoda situation. It’s like rock, paper, scissors. Paper beats rock. Paper verses paper is a standoff. But scissors . . .” She grinned, another sly one, and leaned closer. “Scissors always beats paper.”

The back of my neck prickled. “Are you saying you know how to get rid of the contract?”

She nodded. “I do. And all it will cost you is a hand massage when I get back from your mom’s place.”

“Oooh! Where?” I wiggled my eyebrows, my hand sliding higher on her thigh. I wanted to touch the tops of her stockings before she left. Just once. And it felt good to finally want it.

She giggled. “No, dummy. You use your hands to massage my hands.”

I gave her an overexaggerated frown. “Fine. But if you change your mind, I’m happy to give you a massage anywhere my hand⁠—”

“Shut up!” She laughed, pushing me back by the sleeves of my T-shirt and then tugging me forward to give me a quick kiss.

But before she could pull away, I slid my fingers around her neck and held her in place, kissing her deeper, longer, leaning into it. A new fire ignited after prolonged dormancy, spurring my movements. It felt so good to kiss her again like this, like breathing fresh air after walking through a long tunnel.

And I was so grateful she’d been willing to stick around, support me through these last few weeks, and meet me on the other side.


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