McKayla's Miracle Revisited

"Then we'll go meet him tomorrow," I said gently.

****************

I felt like I was going to melt into the bed.

When I first met McKayla, I knew she was smart. But I didn't quite realise how smart she was until we were together for a couple of years. She was the kind of person who could pick up a new language with ease. She was always naturally curious, and when she put her mind to something, it came to her very easily. As a result, she engaged in a wide variety of activities and picked up a gazillion skills throughout her lifetime. Somehow, she passed this trait on to our daughter, who was smarter at 14 than I was or ever will be.

Between her freshman and sophomore years in college, McKayla spent a summer as a whitewater rafting guide on the Gauley and New Rivers in southern West Virginia. She earned black belts in karate and judo. On the weekends when she wasn't taking us to a Renaissance Fair, she dressed up in her killer metal bikini that made Star Wars nerds drool at Dragon*Con. McKayla once spent an afternoon explaining to me why Tom Baker was the best of the Doctors. She also taught me how to hang shingles, lay tile, make the perfect cheese fondue and all about salsa, both the dance and the sauce.

So it was that I found myself face down on our bed with my wife—and newly-minted licensed massage therapist—digging her palms into my back. If I hadn't been lying down, my knees would have turned to jelly.

Maureen was two years old and sleeping in her room down the hallway. The windows were open and a cool evening breeze blew over us. The sound of waves washing up on the shore echoed across the sand dunes.

Every muscle in my body was completely relaxed. We were both nude. McKayla had always given the most wonderful erotic massages, but now that she had learned to give the therapeutic kind, they were sooooooooooooo much better.

Her fingernails raked my skin, her featherlight touch drawing a line of goosebumps across my back. I felt her hair brush across my shoulders then her warm breath on my neck.

"I love you," she whispered.

My toes started to tingle as her warm lips pressed against my skin. I swear my nipples were so hard they could cut glass!

I felt her teeth run the length of my spine, from top to bottom and back.

Her hands pushed me back down into the bed when I tried to roll over. I don't consider myself a meek person, but in bed I have always been on the submissive side. In my regular life, I don't like to be controlled in the sense that my significant other holds things over me or manipulates me, but in bed I like for someone else to have control.

McKayla was always the dominant one in our sex life. I never minded because she had earned my trust. When she put a blindfold on me or tied me down, I never felt fear, or that I was going to be abused. There were so many things in McKayla's life that were bigger than she was—the Huntington's Disease for one, and later the cancer that took her life—that she wanted to have as much control as she could.

My college boyfriend also liked to be in control in bed. I think I gave in to him just because it was easy. Don't get me wrong; our sex life was pretty good (at least until I found out he couldn't keep his dick out of the pothead who lived in the apartment right underneath us), but sometimes he would just bang me. On some occasions, I was just a quick suck and fuck for him, and I just accepted it because I thought that's just how sex worked.

Then I met McKayla.

She spoiled me on all future lovers. The funny thing is, we didn't really have sex that often. Usually we just held one another. She showed me that the simple act of kissing can be more intimate than fucking like rabbits for an hour.

I loved feeling her against me. Her skin was always so soft and warm. Her hands never pawed at me. Our touches were soft and gentle caresses. That's not to say we didn't have some wild, hot monkey-love or that we never had mind-blowing, wake-the-neighbours orgasms, but for her the object of sex was never just to get off.

McKayla wanted to be close to me, and I wanted to be close to her. She made me feel sexy and loved in a way no one had before. Or since.

Her hands continued to work over my back, even as her lips caressed my skin.

"How's your headache?" she asked with a mischievous giggle. "All better?"

"Not quite," I breathed, although in truth, I wanted for nothing and really felt fine. But there was something else she wanted, and who was I to deny her?

Her hands ran up and down my back one more time. Then she gently flipped me over. I was so relaxed that I couldn't move on my own if I wanted to.

McKayla's body pressed against mine. She brushed the hair out of my eyes and cupped my face. Her lips pressed against mine, not hungrily, but sweetly.

"I love you, Elven Princess," she whispered the most secret pet name we had.

"And I love you, my queen," I pulled her down to me and kissed her deep and slow. Her lips went to my neck and I sighed contentedly.

We had been together for just over three years and she knew every inch of my body as if it were her own. She knew that by nibbling on my collarbone, my sex would moisten. She knew that by squeezing my breasts just right, I would surrender to her every desire. She knew that by clutching me to her magnificent breasts, my heart would be hers forever.

McKayla made love to me long and slow. She covered every inch of my body with soft, gentle kisses. Her hands caressed me, her nails just barely raking my skin.

All I could do was lay back and cherish each intimate touch.

In the fourteen years or so that we were together, not a day went by that McKayla didn't tell me how much she loved me or how beautiful I was. And not a day went by that I didn't thank her for being such a loving wife and mother.

I think that she gave me five or six orgasms for every one that I gave her, and I think she wanted it that way. There are some lesbians who think they are men who were born into a woman's body. They adopt a very masculine appearance or even undergo gender reassignment surgery. Think of a guy like Chaz Bono.

McKayla was a lipstick lesbian. She was always very feminine. She never wished she had a penis or thought that her breasts and vagina were burdens to be shed or hidden. She simply knew from the time when she was about eight that she was different, and when she was twelve or so, realised that she was attracted to other girls.

For my part, I was attracted to her first as a person. The fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous was secondary to the fact that she was the smartest and most kind soul I had ever met.

My wife loved me because I was also very feminine. She loved to hold me and touch me. I loved the attention, and I loved how safe she made me feel. The physical pleasures she brought me were the absolute epitome of ecstasy, and despite all my attempts to reciprocate, she was almost always the aggressor and "top", if you will.

Once our daughter was born, I had to learn to hold the screaming in.

Her hand ran up the inside of my thigh, sending a chill throughout my body. As she kissed me, her hand brushed my swollen labia.

"Right there," I whispered into her ear. My hips began to buck against her hand.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" she asked. That was her way of asking if I wanted her to get the strap-on out.

"No," I replied softly. "I want you to love me."

I bit my lip as her teeth raked my neck. I pulled her close to me, even as her fingers worked between my legs.

My hands went to her backside and I pulled her against me. I let out a soft moan as her hand left my sex and cupped one of my breasts.

She pinched my nipple and I felt my pussy flood with warmth.

McKayla shuddered as I took her fingers in my mouth. I sucked on her fingertips, which only excited my wife even more.

We began to move in a soft, easy rhythm, the mounds of our clean-shaven pussies brushing together. Her round breasts pressed against me. She was just past 32—six years my senior—but her body was still nothing short of perfection.

I ran my fingertips up and down her back as she pressed me down into the bed.

My head tilted to the side as her lips pressed against my jaw, just behind my ear. My fingernails dug into her back as she nibbled her way down to my shoulder.

Our movements came faster. She varied her pace and I matched her stride for stride. After three years, we had gotten pretty good at reading one another.

My lips sought hers out as I felt the tingling start in my toes. Faster and faster.

It wasn't a Jesus-take-me-now orgasm, but I didn't need one. The room started to spin. My bride pinned my hands above my head.

"Oh, McKayla," I whispered as every muscle in my body tensed for just a second, then released as my clit brushed hers.

I pulled her close to me and her tongue sought mine. I brushed her hair out of her face and caressed her cheek. She kissed my hand.

And then the baby started crying.

We both giggled and I pulled her close to steal one more kiss.

"You'll have to get her because I can't move," I snickered.

McKayla only smiled. She withdrew to attend our daughter, pausing only to retrieve a short robe from a hanger on the back of our bedroom door.

I dozed off waiting for her to return.

When I awoke the next morning, McKayla was spooned up behind me, her naked body pressed against me. Her breath was warm against my neck. One hand cupped my breasts, the other was under the pillows.

I wish we could have stayed like that forever.

****************

I waited nervously on the back deck to the house. The late morning sun was well over the horizon. A warm breeze blew through my hair. Maureen was inside, doing whatever it was that teenagers do to amuse themselves. I sipped absently at a glass of iced tea. The comforting sound of the ocean calmed me as best as it could.

For the gazillionth time, I checked my watch.

A gazillion times later, I heard the sliding glass door open.

"Are you ready, Mommy?"

Not really, I thought, but that was not an acceptable response. "Whenever you are."

"Let's take Mom's car," she said softly. When we got to the garage, she surprised me by getting in on the passenger's side. As was our custom, I slipped my shoes off and drove barefoot. We pulled out of the garage and the breeze blew through our hair.

Neither of us spoke as we drove to meet Travis. I had made up my mind that whatever Maureen decided to do, I was going to support her. If she backed out, that would be okay. If she wanted her father to be a part of her life, I was going to make that happen, too. I glanced over at her a time or two and saw her hands shaking.

I had to keep mine on the steering wheel and shifter or she'd have seen the same from me.

Everything about this meeting was planned by my daughter. I wanted her to be in complete control of the circumstances. Travis offered to host us at his house. Maureen thought that would be too awkward. I told her that he could come to see us. I told her, "That way, if you don't like him, we can give him the boot."

That made her smile, but she wanted to meet him some place neutral, but private.

I drove to our family's favourite place, a little Italian restaurant not far from where we lived. It was where McKayla and I had our first date. They knew us by name and never gave us menus. We had celebrated anniversaries and birthdays and graduations there. When McKayla died, they sent more flowers and food than we ever could have needed, and refused to take a penny from me. When I tried to slip some money to one of their employees afterwards, I found out they gave it to Hospice in McKayla's name.

So when I asked if Maureen and I could reserve one of their back dining rooms for lunch, they closed the entire restaurant for a "private party". As much for myself as my daughter, I wanted Maureen's first meeting with her father to be somewhere that was familiar and safe. Plus, I knew if she didn't like her father or if he started acting like an ass, Alan would kick him out of his restaurant.

I told Travis of my intentions prior to our meeting and as we drove up, I saw his car in the parking lot. He knew we would be arriving after him.

"You don't have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable," Maureen said softly. I smiled. The truth is: I had to do it. I owed them both that much.

"Sweetheart, you deserve to know," I reached over and squeezed her hand. "Come on, let's go meet your father."

We walked through the front door. The owners greeted us with wide smiles and familiar hugs.

Maureen stood mutely by the hostess stand. Travis was sitting at a table by himself. Their eyes met. Neither moved or said a word.

"He's been here for almost an hour," Marissa whispered to me. We weren't late. She reached out and squeezed my hand supportively.

With a gentle prod, Maureen took the first tentative steps towards a man whom she knew nothing about, but had given half of her DNA. Travis stood slowly, his eyes wide. He took a couple of steps, but she crossed the room quickly.

I don't think he knew what to expect. Hell, I didn't know what to expect.

My daughter—my wonderful, gregarious, warm-hearted daughter—opened her arms and gave Travis a big hug, as if to tell him, "Everything is going to be fine."

It wasn't until I let out a sigh of relief that I realised that I had been holding my breath.

They held one another for a long moment, then she stepped back.

"Hi," she whispered. "I'm Maureen."

Travis's mouth was moving, but no sound came out. My daughter giggled, then stepped into his arms again. He was easily a head taller than she; height was not something she inherited from his side. Travis closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head.

"It's nice to finally meet you," he finally managed to say.

We sat at the small circular table. Marissa had made sure that there were only three place settings. As we sat down, servers brought us bread and drinks. Travis had a glass of now-warm iced tea in front of him, but it didn't look like he'd touched it.

None of us ate much. We started out making small talk, as Maureen and I got to know the man her father had become.

He had been married for almost sixteen years; his son was fourteen and his daughter was twelve. Maureen told him about going to the high school that was about three miles from his house, and how her studies were going at Duke.

As I watched them talking, I absently fidgeted with my wedding band underneath the table, praying I had done the right thing.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the restaurant, Travis and Maureen catching up like old friends. After an hour or so, I got up and went to the restroom, partly to give them some private time together, but also because I needed a moment by myself.

Maybe it was because she had been away at school for most of the last year, but as I watched her talk and laugh and move and smile, all I could think about was McKayla. Our daughter idolised her Mom, even more so since her death. Even growing up, I noticed that she mimicked McKayla's mannerisms, but it wasn't until we were sitting together that day that I realised just how much alike the two were.

It made me both melancholy and happy. Melancholy in that I missed my wife every day, and I knew our daughter did, too. Happy because I could see that McKayla's legacy lived on: her humour and courage and joy and intelligence and kindness were all wrapped up in our daughter's bouncy curls and infectious smile.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and went back out into the restaurant. Maureen's laughter echoed off the walls, and I knew McKayla was watching over her and laughing along.

Travis and Maureen spent the rest of the time talking and trading stories. He invited us over to his house, but Maureen declined, promising to see him again soon. I tried to pay Alan and Marissa, but they wouldn't take our money. I found out later that Travis had paid for everything in advance.

The three of us stood outside the restaurant. Maureen handed Travis another booklet of pictures. For his part, he gave her a small bouquet of flowers and a gold necklace with pendant. They swapped email addresses and phone numbers, and even friended one another on Facebook right there (yay, smartphones!).

As we walked to our car, Maureen put her arm into the crook of my elbow and leaned her head against my shoulder.

"Thank you, Mommy," she whispered.

****************

My ears popped as the plane took off.

Maureen was ten and McKayla had survived her first bout with cancer. We had just sold our business as were basically retired. How about that? I was thirty-four years old, McKayla was almost forty, and neither of us had to work another day in our lives if we didn't want to.

As always, our daughter pressed her face against the window watching the ground recede as the small jet climbed to a low cruising altitude. McKayla and I sat in the plush captain's chairs side by side, holding hands. We were on our way to pick up some of our dearest friends, McKayla's old college roommate Kevin, and his wife Melanie. Our children got along famously and had grown up as best friends.

We were on our way out to San Diego for Comic-Con, our annual pilgrimage to the heart of nerd-dom. My parents were into SCA (the Society for Creative Anachronism), so I grew up around dorks (and I mean that in the nicest way possible). McKayla was also into SCA, but she and Kevin took things to a whole new level.

Where my folks used to just play dress-up, the two of them spent literally thousands of dollars on clothing, gear and toys that were "authentic". When we got together, Melanie and I could only roll our eyes at how goofy our spouses were. That year, McKayla was dressed up as someone named "Darth Talon". Her outfit . . . excuse me . . . her "costume" . . . was essentially a black leather bikini, a bunch of red and black body paint and some head-dress with two tails on it (called "lekku"), plus some custom-made red glowing lightsaber she had paid a fortune for at some site on the internet.

McKayla may have been old enough to have baby grandchildren at the convention, but her body made her one of the most rockin' Darth Talons in the place. And she was mine, much to the chagrin of all the fanboys there. In private, I called her "MILF Talon". Take that, nerds!

Kevin had invested a small fortune into a set of "hero" quality stormtrooper armour, which he wore at every event the two of them attended as part of the 501^st Legion ("Vader's Fist"). Melanie and I also had costumes which we wore to placate our spouses; she was someone named "Barriss Ofee" and I would be dressing up as my namesake, Amberle Elessedil from the Shannara books. The kids also had costumes, although theirs weren't nearly as elaborate or expensive; they'd outgrow them before next year's trip anyway.

"I love you," she whispered and squeezed my hand.

I leaned over and gave her a kiss. We had the cabin to ourselves, the crew was inside the cockpit and we didn't need an attendant. We would pick up our friends and then be on our way for the cross-country trip to San Diego.

Her hands had just started to shake a little bit every now and then from the Huntington's Disease, but other than that, she had a clean bill of health.

"Do you know what I wish we could do more than anything?" McKayla asked softly. Her eyes had fallen on our daughter, who was still staring wide-eyed out the window. Although Maureen had grown up flying around the world, she still had a profound sense of wonder, something I hope she never lost. I didn't answer. Instead, I just ran my fingertips across the back of her hand.

"I wish we could make another baby." There was sadness in McKayla's voice.

"We can always adopt another one," I said softly. This was a discussion we had a couple of times over the years, but McKayla was hesitant to bring another child into our lives given the uncertainties surrounding her disease.