Forbidden Passions

She turned the page of her book but had to turn back after realizing she hadn’t really been paying attention—her mind was wandering. She started again from the last paragraph, really focusing this time, and flipped the page again.

She never took herself to be a romance reader. She always thought women who enjoyed those types of books were desperate. Lonely. Ugly, with no chance of being fixed up. That’s why they tore into these storylines, wasn’t it? To experience romance? Those who experienced love, romance, marriage in real life didn’t need to escape into it. Or so she always thought.

The images they cooked up on these covers were embarrassing, reducing women’s desires to a formula: flirty frocks and torn-open shirts. Fiery tones. A woman in a risqué nightgown or prairie dress, a man with too-long hair and a strapping chest. Covers of this genre rolled through these various poses, rotating hair colors, skin colors, eye colors, and all the women adorned in slightly different dresses, standing demurely in stables, estates, or countrysides; more to the point—all these novels looked the same. She glanced over at the big box of books, confirmed her theory, and then dove in again.

Never one for shopping, she hadn’t so much as stepped into a bookstore for years, let alone bought a book. Most books she read these days were decided by a women’s group from the church. They all agreed and then got the book from the library or from a group order. She had started this women’s group, but her loudmouth friend Bev quickly pushed her out of the leadership role and took over. She hadn’t been responsible for picking the group book for almost eight years now. She glanced over at the burst-open box of books sitting in the middle of her bedroom. This selection wasn’t for her women’s group; it was for the church fundraiser at this Saturday’s Church Rummage Sale. The member of the congregation who had donated the box couldn’t make it on Saturday, so had entrusted the books to Roz. Roz reminded herself that she wouldn’t be keeping it. She would be handing over the box—to sell its contents. Its living in her bedroom was only temporary.

She had been driving the box around for two weeks, and that afternoon, while gassing up the car and gazing at her reflection in the back window, her eyes adjusted to the stack of books in her backseat.

Forbidden passion, forbidden love.

The tagline cut through her mouth in the reflection.

Forbidden passion, forbidden love. She read it again and pulled the nozzle out of the gas tank.

She drove home thinking of the line, amusing herself with all the various possible forbidden passions. Had they meant fetishes? Were they implying a teacher/student situation? A fling with a married man? Her imagination was cut short when she heard heavy metal music blaring from a car speeding by. She glimpsed her two teenage sons in this car, filled with other teenagers. All of them smoking.

She ducked down in her seat and watched them fade away in the rearview mirror. Relieved she wasn’t spotted, she turned down a residential street. No one was ever out in their yard in this town. They all had them, but never seemed to use them. She’d never understand the behaviors of the people in this small, rural Midwestern blip on the map. These weren’t the kind of people with passion—forbidden or not.

She pulled into the driveway to find two more of her kids playing with the hose. She drove over it, pinching the water to a stop, and considered parking on top of it to end their game, but decided it would be less work to let them continue to amuse themselves.

They started screaming with excitement when she opened the car door and instantly swarmed to her. They were wet and were immediately tugging on her purse and telling her all sorts of things she couldn’t follow and didn’t care about. The fastest way to keep them away from her was to ask them to help with something. “Could one of you help me with this box?”

As though she had sprayed a poison, they dashed away, running to the front yard, laughing loudly at each other. She opened the trunk and grabbed the box. It was heavier than she had expected.

She made it up the back steps with the box, opened the door to the kitchen, and immediately tripped over a pile of shoes. Another of her kids was sitting at the table, watching TV and eating a bowl of cereal. She wasn’t blinking and barely seemed to register that another human had entered the space. Roz glanced up at the clock. 4:22 p.m.—way too late for a bowl of cereal, and way too early for one. But what could be done. The child’s eyes remained glued to whatever cartoon they were watching, so Roz continued through the kitchen without further disturbing the scene.

In the hallway she could see the front door was open, where the mailman had tossed the mail on the rug. The rug itself was halfway bunched up. She knew that meant someone ran down the stairs so fast they slid across the room and yet did nothing to correct it. Well, she wasn’t going to either.

She continued upward to the second floor. With the box in her face, she used blind faith to take one step at a time, only hoping the stairs were clear of debris. Once on the second-floor landing, she could hear that her oldest daughter had friends over. Sounds of teenagers laughing and listening to music covered up the sounds of her creeping across the landing and fumbling with her bedroom door. She could smell that they were smoking in her room, but it was too much to patrol everyone all the time. It was impossible. They were going to do what they did no matter how much she yelled. She had stopped trying.

Finally in her room, she dropped the big box near her bed. She locked her bedroom door, and then she locked the bathroom door so her kids couldn’t come in the other entrance. Once she felt secure, she flung herself down on her bed to discover Forbidden passion, forbidden love.

Almost instantly she felt herself disappear. Float away and crash into another world. She devoured the pages, bending back the mass-market paperback in her hands. She turned on a lamp as the evening crawled on. It was 5:30 p.m. Her husband would be coming home soon. She needed to keep reading before any disruption of the evening occurred. Imagining herself as the woman on the book cover, she glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair hung long to her shoulders. Dull. Limp. She didn’t know how she let it get like this. She was surprised to not recognize this woman.

She crawled under the covers and kept reading. These characters were so alive. She couldn’t remember when her blood throbbed for someone. When longing kept her up at night—if it ever kept her up at night. She mostly was up with anxiety. With stress. With anger. Not a fiery passion driven by desire for a love forbidden. She followed as the woman in the story designed a plan to sneak away and meet up with her lover. She let her book rest on her chest and stared up at her ceiling fan. With its stillness she could see the dust thick on its blades. The fan, once white, was now an off-yellow color. She heard her children running up the stairs.

They parked outside her bedroom and pounded on the door. “Mom?! Mooooooom!??”

Why did they always want something from her.

She lay quietly. If they didn’t hear her, maybe they would think she was napping. She heard them run to the other door, traveling through the second bedroom to the connecting bathroom. The doorknob jiggled. “Moooom!”

Within seconds they multiplied—now one was at the bathroom door, and one was at the bedroom door. They had her surrounded. They were shaking the door in its frame. “Are you in there?” She withheld a response. “Mom!!!” If she remained quiet, they’d eventually lose interest, go away.

She looked over at the clock—5:40 p.m. She sighed. She could tell someone had just then come into the house by how the two at her door stepped away with distraction. Within about thirty seconds her husband was downstairs yelling, “MCDONALD’S! WHO WANTS TO GO TO MCDONALD’S??”

Her children stampeded down the stairs like thundering bulls. She was immediately relieved they were pulled away, and then that relief was replaced with anger. Can’t he ever make them a meal? McDonald’s. Did he even see that their children were shaped like 40-year-old football fans? Does he only know one restaurant? Was it even considered a restaurant? McDonald’s.

“Where’s your mother?” she could hear him ask loudly from downstairs.

“She went to church,” one of them said. Her car was obviously in the driveway.

“No, she’s upstairs. She’s sleeping.” All their voices sounded the same to her.

“Ask her if she wants to go,” her husband said to them. “I’ll be in the car.”

She rolled her eyes and rolled over in bed, clutching her book.

“MOOOM?” one of them began yelling from downstairs. “We’re going to McDonald’s! Do you want to come?”

She held her breath. She couldn’t give up the game now. She waited in silence. Counted the moments.

“Moooom??”

Hold onto it. Hold onto yourself.

Eventually, the house settled into silence. They had left. She stood up and went over to the window and peeled back the curtain. She was right—his car was gone from the driveway. She measured the importance of this moment. At most, she had about an hour if she stayed put. Weighing her options, she knew she had to use this time wisely and leave the house.

She changed out of her daytime outfit and put on some black slacks and a low-cut top. She dabbed her lips lightly with lipstick, mussed up her hair a little, and slipped her feet into some cute but practical loafers. She knew in her absence someone would come into her room and dig through her things, so she covered her box of books with a blanket, shoved the one she was reading into her purse, and quietly tiptoed down the stairs. From the kitchen she could hear the loud heavy metal music pull into the driveway. Her heart stopped in her chest. If she faced her sons, she’d have to ask them where they were. Who they were with. She’d have to say something about the smoking. They’d probably say something shitty. Or ask her for money and pretend to like her until she gave them some. She couldn’t stomach it. She turned and headed for the front door.

Once out of the house, she crouched along the side of it.

Low.

Near the bushes.

From her vantage point she watched as her teenage sons and their friends went in through the back door and into the kitchen. Once she heard the door close behind them, she made a dash for her car.

She slinked over to the back passenger side and opened the door, crawling into the back seat and closing the door gently. Safely inside, she popped her head up to peer into the kitchen. She watched them in her kitchen, with their friends. Messing it up even more than it already was. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to care. It was too much. They were always doing something awful. She set her purse in the front passenger seat and then poured her body into the driver’s side.

In one swift movement, she started the car and sped out of the driveway with her lights off.

Out on the street, her heart pounded in her chest. She could breathe. Fully. Deeply. In an instant, a million pounds were lifted from her. She felt light and free. She rolled down all the windows in the car, letting the wind accompany her as she raced through the small residential streets.

Lights were on in the quaint neighborhood houses. She imagined families sitting down to dinner. Perfect mothers making perfect meals, while husbands talked about their days and their children sat politely, letting them speak. Their tables set. And four food groups represented on each plate.

Their houses would be in order. Shoes stacked neatly by the door. Rugs in place. Chairs sitting upright. A tone of calm, a hue of perfection.

How did these women have such endless capacity for it? How did they know so many recipes for dinners every night? Manage to find time to keep their fridges filled? The laundry done? How did they keep a face that didn’t betray a deep-rooted dissatisfaction at every new day? It was as if God granted them so much more patience for the balance than He had granted her. No matter how hard she tried, she never could find it herself. Not just the balance, but the drive, the will, the interest. She never felt it pay off. She was eternally pushing herself up a hill and dragging her entire family up after her. She was tired. She wanted someone else to pull them up. To take a shift. To lighten the load.

She found herself on the main drag of town—South Washington Street. A large road peppered with local businesses, big-box chain stores, fast food joints. She waited at a red light and could feel a carload of teenagers watching her. They were revving their engine and laughing. She looked over at them. A handful of pimpled teenagers sitting with girlfriends who were overly made up to look like adults. She could feel the youth of their whole lives ahead of them mocking her. She revved her engine back. They laughed even harder and revved again.

The light turned green. They both launched across the intersection. She pushed her foot hard against the pedal. Not relenting. She could feel her foot flat against the floor of the car, pushing hard at the accelerator. Her car shooting up to 60 mph. The car of young teenagers keeping up. She cut through traffic with precision, swerving in and out of cars as she sped down the road. The teenagers did the same, keeping neck and neck.

Her body felt hot. She felt her blood pounding. She wanted to close her eyes and feel the excitement flow through her. She dodged around a minivan and ran through a yellow light.

The teenagers were on her tail, keeping up with her, staying in her line of sight. She swerved her car at them. They swerved away, screaming. She smiled. She felt her chest bursting with heat.

Her car soared ahead. She felt every elevation shift in the street. Her stomach fluttered.

Yards ahead of her she watched the traffic light turn yellow. She approached at top speed, and about ten feet before she crossed into the intersection, the light turned red. She slammed on her brakes. The teenagers flew through it. She heard them laughing. Before she could feel irritated, she saw police lights swirl on and pull in behind the teenagers. She turned off the main road and glanced in her rearview mirror to be sure the cops didn’t follow her. They didn’t.

She exhaled heavily, and the sound of her own laughter surprised her.

She continued through the dark residential streets and couldn’t remember the last time she felt so alive.

Left alone with the sound of her own breathing, the excitement of the evening slowed. As she glided through the neighborhoods, the lights from the houses and streetlights became a serene blur as her heartbeat filled her ears. She turned into the Perkins lot and went inside, where the host greeted her familiarly and guided her to the corner booth. Her regular table. She ordered a salad with a side of French fries. As the waitress walked away, she settled into the space, welcoming the silence of being alone.

She pulled the book out of her bag and picked up where she left off.