Fallout (45 page)

I GO TO JOIN THEM ANYWAY

Mostly because they’ll probably

come looking sooner or later.

Just as I reach the kitchen,

I hear a cork pop. Loudly.

Aunt Cora screeches.
Ah!

Where’s my glass?
She turns,

smiling, as I come into the room.

Guess what? We found a church.

I point to the champagne

bottle, foaming merrily down

its neck into a bubbly puddle

on the counter. “I figured.”

Want some?
She glances quickly

at Grandfather, who is scribbling

notes at the table. He shrugs,

so she pours three glasses,

before I even say, “Guess so.”

I’ve had champagne a couple

of times. Always very small glasses.

I’ve never, in fact, gotten drunk.

Glasses raised all around,

Grandfather offers the toast.

To Cora and Liam, and to two

lives together as one.

Who knew he was a poet?

As we clink-and-drink, I offer

my own silent toast to Bryce,

me, and new directions.

The champagne goes down

like a froth of hope. Aunt Cora

refills our glasses, but I’m already

feeling a bit on the “sparkly” side.

My brain fuzzes with thoughts

of the afternoon, and when I catch

Grandfather talking about the relative

merits of orchids versus roses,

I laugh. Inappropriately. Aunt

Cora looks at me. Really looks

at me, head cocked like a pup

at a whistle.
Come here a minute.

SHE PULLS ME INTO THE HALL

Thinks a second, then yanks me

all the way into her bedroom.

Okay, give. What’s up with you?

My throat goes thick and my fingers

numb. “What do you mean?”

Your aura. It’s like … ruby.

Oh my God. Freaking gypsy aunt.

“Um …” Can’t confess. “I, uh …”

You’re in love. Who is he?

She’s like a little kid at a pony ride.

Me too, on champagne. “B-Bryce.”

And why haven’t you mentioned him?

Now my brain buzzes anger. “You … uh …”

Go ahead, say it. “You’re never here.”

SHE DOESN’T DENY

She deflates. Like someone stuck

her with a pin and the champagne

bubbles escaped.
You’re right. I’m sorry.

“It’s okay. I mean, you’re getting

married. It’s not like you should

be thinking about me, anyway.”

Her heads starts to shake.
Getting

married doesn’t mean you’re not

important too. Tell me about Bryce.

We sit on her bed and I recite

the basic information, omitting

everything about today. And babies.

He s-sounds great
, she sputters,

champagne kicking in.
Do you

want to invite him to the wedding?

A member of the family already?

“Th-thanks. I’ll think about it.”

Sputtering a little myself, the first

time I’ve ever had alcohol go to

my head. Makes me laugh. Makes

me brave. Think I kind of like it.

Summer
STRADDLING A THIN WIRE

Three hundred feet in the air.

That’s how I feel.

Safe for the moment.

But not very.

December gray shrouds

the valley.

Nothing new. Except

colder than normal.

I was almost looking forward

to Christmas this year.

Thought maybe

it might be special.

Despite Dad and Kortni.

Because of Kyle.

But now I’m not even sure

where I’ll be.

The wire sways in the wind.

Half of me wants

to hold on for dear life.

Half wants to jump.

IT’S BEEN THIS WAY

Since Thanksgiving. The night

Dad got pulled over, less than

half a mile from Carrows.

When the red and blue carousel

started spinning behind us, we

all knew things didn’t look good.

Still, a guy has to give it his best

try. Dad rolled down the window.

Wussup, S … Off … cer?

The cop leaned to look in the car,

backed up at the smell.
License

and registration.
As if they were all

he was after. Flashlight illuminating

every move, Dad reached for

the glove box. Instinctively,

the cop’s hand slipped down

toward his hip, and the extremely

large pistol poised there.
Slowly.

Dad rooted around for ten seconds

or so.
’S here somewhere. Hang on.

Finally he found the requisite paperwork.

Expired. All of it. But even if it

hadn’t been, Dad was going to jail

after breathing point one two.

A second cop arrived just in time

to help with the breathalyzer.

And, seeing as how Kortni was

also more than a little wobbly, he

ended up driving us home. They

called a tow truck for Dad’s car.

And since it was a holiday weekend,

both Dad and car stayed in lockup

for four days. Kortni slept for two

of them. Woke up, ate some cereal,

then jumped back on the beer train.

Kyle was in Fresno until Sunday.

His dad got pissed every time I called,

so I didn’t even have phone time for comfort.

I was stark, raving stir-crazy. Almost bored

enough by Saturday to get an early start

on my history essay. Almost enough by

Sunday to call Matt. Instead I called Mom.

CALLED FIRST

Around ten a.m.

No answer.

Left a voice mail.

Tried again

an hour later.

Same results.

Second voice mail.

The old saying

goes, “Third time’s

a charm.” Whoever said

it didn’t know Mom.

She never returned

my calls. But the fifth

time, I guess it was

sometime well after

two, she finally

picked up.

I SUSPECTED

She was using again, not only

because she was asleep (crashed)

at two p.m., but also because

she sounded spun. Her voice

was clipped. Staccato.
Hello?

Summer? Is that you?

“Uh, yeah, Mom. How come

you were asleep?” Daring the lie.

It’s Sunday. I don’t work

Sunday. Don’t you ever sleep in?

“Not until two. Anyway, how

was your Thanksgiving?”

You called to ask that?

What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing. I’m fine. I mean,

well, Dad had a DUI….”

You don’t expect me to bail

him out, do you? Does he?

“Uh, no. I don’t … I didn’t

call about that, Mom….”