Triangles (11 page)

skin, a heady combination. The deep, dark forest folds in around me.

IN THE DEEP, DARK FOREST

Where treetops dodge

the slanted light, wind

loses voice midst the silent

creep of shadows and

all

creatures shed their skins,

disclose the luminescence

within. In that hallowed place,

truth is survival, and so

secrets

scatter, lie exposed upon

the leaf-strewn loam, carrion.

There, in the belly of time-

wearied woods, façades

are

peeled away and the fruit

that lies beneath may be

elegant or insect-ridden.

Integrity and sin will be

revealed.

Marissa

THE FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND

Doesn’t mean much to me, except

Christian will be spending time at home, like it or not. Coming off a three-day business trip to New Orleans, he isn’t in a hurry to say good morning. He’s asleep.

Or is he? A strange noise leaks from the intercom. Singing? In Shelby’s

room? Yes, and it’s definitely Christian.

Blackbird singing in the dead

of night. Take these broken wings
and learn to fly…
He used to sing that song when she was a baby,

back before we had any idea that

something was wrong with her.

But it’s been years since I’ve heard him so much as hum, and lately

he barely even talks to her. A massive lump forms in my throat. Coffee.

That will wash it down. The kitchen 183/881

is relatively cool for July. Our usual stifling heat wave hasn’t hit yet. In fact, most of June was misty cold. Not Nevada weather at all. I would have welcomed the gray.

But moisture isn’t good for Shelby.

Through the intercom, I hear Christian take on morning CPT, another job

he almost always avoids.
Okay,

little girl. Let’s play some drums.

Shelby does her best drum

impression as her daddy thumps

the crud loose from her lungs.

She must be in heaven, having

so much masculine attention.

God knows it’s been a hell of

a long time since I’ve had any.

Not that I’d know what to do with it.

I sit at the counter, elbows against the cool granite, looking out

the window at the mountain’s

steep angles. The Sierra drew

my parents here three decades

ago. It has long been a presence

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in my life. There are people who live without mountains, but I’ll never be one of them. There are people who

live without spouses and children.

I’m not so sure I could never be

one of them. I almost am now.

I DRINK MY COFFEE BLACK

And I brew it strong.
The way coffee
was meant to be
, my dad told me the first time I tried it,
with
asugar and way too much cream. I miss

Mom and Dad, who opted for

a nomads-in-an-RV lifestyle some

six years ago. Right before I got

pregnant with Shelby. They swing

through the area a couple of times

a year, reliably including Labor

Day weekend. They are Burning

Man devotees, don’t ask me why.

God-awful hot on the playa in

early September. And dusty. Dirty.

No, that celebration of the carnal

is definitely not for me. But they’ve gone every year since 1993.

This year, they decided to summer

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on the West Coast, so they’ll stop

by any day now, en route to California.

I should probably check my email,

see if they’ve sent any updates.

They refuse to keep a cell phone,

but Mom has a laptop and whenever

Dad spies a Starbucks, they stop

for coffee (
the way it was meant
to be
) and free wireless. That’s my parents. Too chintzy to spring for

cell service, but willing enough to pay for overpriced but good coffee.

I take my strong-brewed, supermarket-brand coffee to the little dining room nook where my computer resides.

This dinosaur Dell has been my main source of sanity for the past four

years. If I have to be sequestered at home, at least I have a way to bring the world to me. One day I’ll venture 187/881

out into it again. But for now,

cyberspace will mostly have to do.

MY INBOX

Is relatively empty. There is a message from Mom:
In Elko. Spending a day
in Lamoille Canyon. See you soon.

Spam message. Spam message. And

one from Drew.
Have you seen this?

There’s a link to an article about

a new drug that the FDA has approved for clinical trials. Stem cell research and molecular therapy have focused

quite specifically on SMA and in recent years have produced some promising

leads. This one is a motor neuron

replacement product, derived from

embryonic stem cells, and it looks

like it could be the miracle so many SMA parents have been not so patiently waiting for. “Christian! Come here!” Expectation surges through my veins, making my heart work really hard.

This probably couldn’t “cure” Shelby, but it might make her better. “Christian!” 189/881

What is taking him so damn long?

Has he gone deaf? I push back from

the computer, speed-walk down the hall to Shelby’s room. “Christian. Did you hear me? I need to show you something.” He is sitting beside the bed, tumbler in hand, watching a Thomas

the Tank Engine DVD with Shelby.

She doesn’t seem to mind the smell

of scotch, but it makes me want to gag.

I fight to keep my voice steady. “Christian, can I see you for a minute, please?”
What?
He looks up at me with droopy cocker spaniel eyes.
Oh, okay. Daddy
will be back in a little while, baby.

Not in that condition. I nudge

him toward the dining room.

“It’s not even ten in the morning,

and you’re drinking? Not only that, but getting drunk right there beside your daughter’s bed? Are you crazy?” He pours himself into a chair, puts 190/881

his glass down on the table, leans

his head into his hands. Says nothing.

BUT THE WAY

His shoulders tremble, like boulders in an earthquake, tells me he has fractured.

I should go to him. Put my arms around him. Tell him I love him. But I don’t know if that’s true anymore. “What’s wrong with you?” Colder than I meant it to be.

Several silent seconds pass. Finally, he straightens.
What isn’t wrong?

He reaches for the mostly empty glass, helps himself to the last swallow.

She’s failing, can’t you see that? And
there’s nothing we can do but watch.

“No. I was just reading about this new drug. It’s still experimental, but—”
Stop it! Just stop, Marissa. Every fucking
time some new treatment comes along,
you get your hopes up. I used to let you
get mine up too, but not anymore.

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“We have to hope. Every day she’s still here brings us that much closer to a cure.”
God, you sound like you’re soliciting
donations or something
. His voice keeps growing louder.
Look, even if
that new drug turns out to be a cure,
Shelby’s not a good candidate for
treatment. You know that as well as
I do. If it’s still experimental, they’ll
look for kids with the best chances of
improvement. They need poster

children, to keep the funding coming.

He gets up, takes his glass into

the kitchen. Through the doorway,

I see him refill it. “That’s not going to make things better.” So why do

I suddenly want one myself? Anger

crawls up my neck like an insect.

A buzzing, stinging wasp. “Did you

fucking hear me? I said—”

A DOOR SLAMS

At the end of the hallway.

Everyone between here and

Reno can hear you, Mom.

Shane stomps into the room.

If the two of you have to fight,
can you keep it between you?

He pokes his head into the kitchen.

Seriously, Dad. Mom’s right.

What’s wrong with you?

Christian mumbles something.

Yeah, well,
says Shane.
Life pretty
much sucks and then you d—

He stops himself. Moves closer.

Lowers his voice.
What’s the point
of arguing? He wants to wallow.

“I don’t understand why he—”

Shane interrupts me.
Not so hard
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to figure out. It’s all about guilt.

ABOUT GUILT

It’s

something learned

in childhood—this nibbling

of conscience that begins

with denial—I did

not

push my little brother out

of the swing. No contrary

evidence, you think you’ve

gotten away with it until

an emotion

you don’t quite understand

percolates inside of you—

an acidic brew that churns

until you make the decision

to

confess those bruises on

Junior’s forehead are,

indeed, because you shoved

a little too hard. Choose to

ignore

it, and guilt will inexorably

corrode, chewing flesh and

soul until it bleeds you out.

Andrea

CAMPING WITH MY PARENTS

Was never exactly fun. But at least now they have an RV. When Missy

and I were kids, we had to rough it.

Sleeping bags on the ground,

under the stars. Mom and Dad

rated the scruffy tent so they could have scruffy sex on their scruffy

air mattress. Marissa and I got to

hear it all. Nice. Especially the sort of decrepit howl Dad always did

when he finished the deed. Some

things you never forget, no matter

how hard you try. I’m pretty sure

they don’t still have sex, but maybe I should ask. Harley and Brianna

are supposed to sleep inside the trailer, on the sofa bed. I still get a sleeping bag on the ground, under the stars.

Or maybe the backseat of my car.

Especially if there are bears at Prosser, 197/881

and I’m pretty much thinking there

must be. Which makes me wonder how

many bears prowled close by Marissa and me while Mom and Dad indulged

in a little growl-and-howl nookie.

I

DON’T

MENTION

BEARS

TO

HOLLY

We sit at her neat kitchen table, waiting for Harley to help Brianna pack for our overnight excursion into the not-quite-wilderness. I said yes to Holly’s half-ass coffee, though I promised Dad I’d stop by Starbucks in Truckee before heading north on the highway to Prosser Reservoir. “Harley and I are doing Fourth of July in Sparks. You guys want to join us?”
Sounds fun, but we’ve got Aces tickets.

Baseball and fireworks. Can’t get much
more “God Bless the USA” than that.

Trace stomps into the kitchen, carrying a book.
Mom. You left this on the patio.

When did you start reading this crap?

Holly laughs.
I wouldn’t call it “crap,”
exactly. But it’s definitely not great
literature.
She shows me the not-lit in question. The cover pictures a cowboy riding a horse under a full moon, juxtaposed 199/881