Fallout (38 page)

BUT SHE’S ON MY MIND

As Dad weaves down the rutted

dirt toward the highway, Kortni

chattering like an irritated crow.

Unusual, considering the amount

of beer they’ve apparently consumed

since breakfast. The smell of cheap

brew, mixed with stale tobacco,

gags me slightly. “Uh, Dad.

You sure you’re good to drive?”

Damn straight. Why wouldn’t

I be?
As if to prove he’s too

damn straight, he pulls out

a joint, hands it to Kortni.

Light that, would ya, babe?

Gotta keep my eyes on the road.

Just perfect. Can I get high

from secondhand pot smoke?

“Uh, Dad? My asthma?”

Kortni torches the blunt

anyway.
We’ll just open all

the windows. You’ll be okay.

They’re smoking. I’m steaming,

despite the fact that it’s pretty

damn cold, moving freeway-speed

with all the windows dropped.

Whatever. Usually I don’t think

much about Kortni at all.

Right now I’m thinking how

much she resembles a Pekingese,

double-inhaling pot smoke

up her smashed-in nose, snorting

a little with each exhale. I bet

she’s one hellacious snorer.

As Dad’s girlfriends go, I guess

she isn’t the worst. Not that I’ve met

them all, or wanted to. A couple

were prettier on the outside, evil

ugly inside. Zoe tops that list. Not

sure exactly where that puts Mom.

Old pictures I’ve seen at Grandma

and Grandpa Haskins’s house prove

Kristina’s exterior was stunning once

upon a time, in a land before crystal

meth. Amazing how fast that drug

can age you. It’s a zombie, sucking

youth right out of you, lifeblood.

Then again, if she hadn’t fallen

into that lifestyle, she wouldn’t have

met Dad at all. And then there

wouldn’t be me. A perverse question

bubbles up. Perverse, because I know

it’s going to bug Kortni. Like wheezy

me cares. “So, Dad. How exactly

did you and Mom meet?” We’ve never

discussed it. And he doesn’t

really want to now.
Um. Why?

You writing an autobiography?

Big word. Wrong word, but big.

“No. That would be
your
memoir,

not mine. I just want to know is all.”

Oh. Here’s our exit. We’ll talk

about it later, okay?
Saved by

Carrows. Lucky Dad. For now.

HOLY CRAP

Can’t believe this place is so crowded.

Must have been a whole herd of mooing

Thanksgiving burgers. We have to wait

outside for almost a half hour.

Dad and Kortni smoke. Regular

cigarettes, thank God. I move upwind,

stand off to one side. Don’t want to

think any more about Mom right now.

So I’ll think about Kyle instead.

I’d rather be spending today with

him, think he probably wishes

the same. Poor guy. Dysfunction

pretty much defines his family

too. His mom died eight years

ago, a DUI fatality. “DUI” meaning

“diving under the influence” into

a fast-running but shallow section

of the Kern River. The coroner

ruled it an accident, but Kyle

believes the act was purposeful.

Sick of Dad’s shit
, he called it.

The bitch went and left us alone

with him. Just goes to show

how little she cared about us.

“Us,” meaning him and his sister,

Sadie. Deserted by their mother.

Left with an alcoholic father

and his own string of girlfriends.

Probably why Kyle and I are

so good together. The old

saying, “takes one to know

one,” definitely applies to us.

I’ve got a saying of my own:

“Takes one to love one.” Mom

told me something like that once.

The topic of discussion was Ron,

who had just left bruises on

three-year-old Donald. I was

on a rant. “How come all the men

in your life have been losers?” I asked.

She barely reacted to the word

“loser.”
I could never have

a relationship with someone

who didn’t understand addiction.

Nice phrasing. Translation:

She could never be with a guy

who wasn’t an addict himself.

No wonder she can’t stay clean.

THERE I GO AGAIN

Thinking about Mom. I have so

got to stop that! Think about Kyle.

Think about Kyle. Think about …

The door opens and a senior-

citizen-type hostess chirps,

Kenwood, party of three.

Not sure you could call us a party.

Then again, Dad is pretty much

a walking, talking party all by himself.

There it is
, he says, opening

the menu.
The Mile-High Burger.

My mouth is watering already.

He orders the cholesterol-

ridden nightmare, plus a beer.

Kortni dittoes. I go for the Mile-

High Turkey Stack. Hey, it’s got

the requisite (for me, anyway)

poultry, plus some vegetable matter,

on a flaky croissant. Homage

to the day! The beer arrives.

Disappears. A second round

comes before the waitress can

deliver our meal. Dad slams

that one too. By the time

our Mile-High feast hits the table,

he’s barely coherent enough to

order another one. “Dad,” I warn,

“I know we’re celebrating and

everything, but maybe you’d

better slow down a little.”

Before he can argue, Kortni

jumps to his defense.
He’s fine.

And anyway, you’re not his mother.

If I were Kyle, I’d simply blow.

Being Summer, I’ll choose

a more covert route to revenge.

In silence, I pick at my sandwich,

watching Dad and Kortni wolf

theirs down and chase them

with even more beer. I wait until

their mouths are full, then venture,

“So, Dad. Tell me how you met Mom.”