Tilt (46 page)

She’s “thirsty.” “Think that’s a good

idea? You don’t want to be drunk

when you meet her, do you?”

I seriously think she’s an alcoholic.

She must be reading my mind,

because she half shouts,
First of all . . .

Heads turn our direction. She lowers

her voice.
I don’t plan to get drunk.

And I don’t think you have the right

to tell me how to live my life, or how

to meet my mother. I’m a grown-up, Mikayla.

Act like it, then. “Maybe you are.

But sometimes lately, I wonder.”

I Expect an Angry Retort

Instead, she smiles.
Sometimes

I wonder too. Anyway, being

a grown-up isn’t all that much

fun. You might consider that

before you decide to become one

at seventeen.
And off she goes.

I want to javelin insults at her.

She and Dad don’t seem to think

we hear them when they fight.

But no door in the world is thick

enough to insulate their vicious talk.

The other night I heard Dad scream

at Mom about fucking off on him.

He never uses that word, or at least

he never had before. I don’t know

if Mom is messing around, but I do

know she’s different. And I’m scared

that might mean they’ll get divorced.

Are All Relationships Cursed?

Must they all sputter to a bad end,

dismal failures? I’ve read that it’s

not human nature to stay faithful.

That people are little more than

animals with libidos incapable

of single-mate satisfaction. But

that can’t be right. I don’t need

anyone but Dylan. And I’m sure

he feels the same way about me.

Or at least, he did. He’s been

cool lately. But that’s because of

the baby, not because he’s seeing

someone else. Right? Suddenly,

inside my head, I hear Kristy’s

plugged-nose voice asking Dylan

if he was going to the lake today.

He promised he wouldn’t. Vowed

he wouldn’t. What good are vows if

the vowers don’t take them seriously?

God, Dylan, please don’t go.

Mom Gets Back

Just as they call our flight. We line

up like kids going to recess. Mom

stands behind me, leaking warm breath

tinted with tomato juice and vodka.

Bloody Marys for lunch is my guess.

And now, for no reason I can fathom,

she says,
Anytime you want to talk,

I’m here for you, okay?
We shuffle

down the Jetway, onto the plane. Talk?

About what? Relationships? Infidelity?

Stinking Tahoe barbecues? I’m actually

relieved when, ten minutes past takeoff,

Mom slips into uneasy sleep. Her head

tips to one side. A small moan escapes,

and her arms and legs twitch slightly.

Dreaming. I hate to think about what.

Las Vegas Is Insane

The taxi drives slowly along

the strip. The driver couldn’t

hurry if he wanted to. Saturday

traffic is ridiculous, and so are

the crowds cruising sidewalks,

casino to casino. “God, Mom.

Disgusting.” Billboards and

signboards and giant outside

televisions advertise bodies.

Come view them. Come screw

them. Flesh, everywhere you

look. Boobs. Butts. Girls. Guys.

We pull into the Venetian, where

Mom has booked our room. It’s

fabulous. Beautiful. Fake Italy.

Marble. Pillars. Crystal. Chandeliers.

Our room is a suite. “God, Mom . . .

A sunken living room, and did

you see the bathroom? Can we

stay an extra day?” Our house

is nice and all, but this is amazing.

Mom goes to call Sarah Hill, and

it hits me why we’re here. I tuck

all the craziness inside. I’ll save

it for another day. A different day.

As We Wait

For them to get here, Mom finally

looks nervous. It doesn’t take long,

thank goodness, or she’d be a wreck.

When they knock, she jumps a little.

Oh my God. There’s no doubt that

Sarah is Mom’s mother. The resemblance

is crazy, right down to her shaking

hands, one of which lights gently

on Mom’s cheek.
I was afraid

this day might never come. I’m happy

we can know each other.
She and Mom

stand there, searching for something

in each other’s eyes. Tia—
Aunt
Tia—

comes straight into the living room

without a word. She glances at me

and I see that she’s afraid. Of what,

I’m not sure. But I try to break the ice.

“Hi. I’m Mikayla. Awesome to meet you.”

It’s an Awkward Few Seconds

Of silence. But then Mom breaks

the inertia.
Come on,
she tells Sarah.

Your granddaughter can’t wait to meet

you. And we have some catching up to do.

And now there’s a wave of motion.

Hugs and greetings and sitting

and smiling, all of us doing our best

to relax in a very uncomfortable

situation. I bet Mom wants a Bloody

Mary. I bet Tia wants one, too. She’s got

an edge. Looking at her really closely,

she’s not a whole lot older than I am.

Midtwenties, maybe. And pretty. Not

as pretty as Mom, but almost. Even

though they don’t look that much alike,

they both look like Sarah. Especially

their eyes, which are almost turquoise.

Weird, what genetics can accomplish.

Now the Catching Up Begins

What they learn about us:

Dad is a high-powered lawyer

who keeps us well in a house

on a hill in northern Nevada.

Mom’s a loser. Okay, housewife

with three kids, workout queen

and wannabe romance writer.

I am a high school senior.

Dating an amazing guy.

(We omit the pregnant part.)

What we learn about them:

Sarah’s a preschool teacher,

twice divorced and dating

a “hot electrician.” Turns

out she fancies herself a poet.

Tia’s a social worker, married

to a prison guard. She’s a good

Christian who loves sports.

And (yikes!) is writing a novel.

Overdosing on Small Talk

I kind of space out—fall

asleep with my eyes open.

They’re talking about writing.

Poetry. Short stories. E-book

versus print publishing.

Blah, blah, blah. What I really

want to know right now is,

“Wasn’t it hard to give a baby

up for adoption?” How can

you give a piece of you away?

Sarah doesn’t blink.
Not at

first. No one encouraged me

to keep her, and I just couldn’t

see doing it on my own.