Triangles (16 page)

is a sprite. A wood nymph, in

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disguise. Who could guess, by

looking at her, the mystery within?

IT’S NOT A NICE MORNING

It’s absolutely perfect—temperate

air, hovering under blue topaz

skies, scalloped with puffs of clouds, the kind you find pictures in.

“Look, Shelster. See the sailboat

in the sky? And over there—that’s

a teddy bear. Do you think it’s made of cotton?” She knows cotton balls.

Shelby looks up, tries to figure out what I’m talking about. She giggles.

C-ow-d
. A good approximation of “cloud.” Now she points.
G-o.

“Go? Well, okay, if you say so.”

We swing down the sidewalk,

toward the hem of the mountain.

Though we live at the top of a hill, the walks here are relatively level, making for easy pushing. Front

yards are striking in summer bloom.

I tell Shelby, “Every flower has a name.

There’s Rose. Coreopsis. And that one’s Lily. Ooh. Can you smell the perfume 286/881

they’re wearing?” We are steeped in it, and in the green scent of grass. Today is one of two sanctioned lawn

watering days, and sprinklers chirp, wasting just a little in a fine mist.

Shelby laughs at the cool, settling against her sun-warmed skin.

We walk at a decent pace (might as

well ratchet up my heart rate), past neighbors, working in their gardens.

I wave, and most smile as they return the gesture. But now we round a corner and almost bump into an elderly poodle, pulling his elderly owner along.

She stares at Shelby, openmouthed.

My first instinct is to snap, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you staring

is rude?” She hurries on, and I force my temper onto a back burner. “See

the birds, Shelby?” Robins. Sparrows.

Jays. I am not monster mommy. “Oh and look. Those are insects.” Dragonflies.

Butterflies. Bumblebees. Shelby tries 287/881

to repeat the words. If I close my eyes, she is almost normal. And I am a regular mommy, out for a stroll with her daughter.

ALL SENSE OF REGULAR

Comes crashing down with the approach of a raunchy little car. Not sure what kind, only that it has seen much better days. It is in dire need of a muffler, but its noisy exhaust has a hard time competing with the deep bass rumble spilling out the window, along with a good deal of smoke. When the car

draws parallel, slowing to assess

Shelby and me, the smell of marijuana is overpowering. Five teens are inside.

One ducks down in the backseat.

“Shane?” I say out loud, though he

can’t possibly hear me past the radio.

The kid riding shotgun pokes his head out the window.
Holy shit. Check out
the retard. Or maybe it’s an alien
from the planet Ugly-As-Uranus.

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Hey, do aliens dig weed? He takes
a big drag, exhales out the window, and the driver punches it. The ugly car does its best to accelerate.

“Shane!” I yell, knowing it’s stupid.

“I can’t believe …” But they’re gone.

Shelby, of course, has no clue what just happened, or how hateful those words were. Her attention returns

to a painted lady butterfly, floating by on a gentle current of breeze.

I, however, am seething a nasty brew of anger and hurt, plus a shot or two of incredulity. How could Shane be

a part of that? He is many things, but I’ve never known him to be cruel.

“Okay, Shellcake, we’d better go

home. The wind is coming up.”

We reverse direction, walk away

from the sun, into our own shadows.

WISH I COULD BLAME THE WIND

For the way my eyes look

by the time we get home.

Red. Puffy. Underlined by

thick, dark smears. I take

Shelby inside. Settle her back

in bed. Vacuum her lungs

with the cough assist, a bit

of precaution. As I finish,

I hear footsteps and anger

threads its tentacles through

my veins, pulses. “Mama

loves you, little explorer.”

I’m careful to close the door

behind me before rushing

down the hallway. “Shane!

What in the hell—”

I skid to a stop at the sight

of him—hair disheveled and

tee shirt torn. Blood drips from

his nose and split-wide lip. One

eye is swelling closed and will

wear a raccoon-style bruise

tomorrow. Before I even ask,

he says,
I stood up for her.

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Told him he was a no-good

shit-leaking asshole. He’s pretty
good with his hands, though.

I think I might need stitches.

STITCHES

Would that you could

repair every injury

with needle and thread;

that the right stitch in

time

might salvage a friendship

torn by betrayal, or

a career ripped by backroom

politicking. But life

doesn’t

offer that option. Nor

can we patch a marriage

worn thin with age,

zero reason, zero

rhyme

to the discontent. No,

we have little choice

but to lick our wounds,

bind them tightly

with

resignation, and move

on, certain only that

a stitch in relative time

isn’t always able to save

nine.

Andrea

TIME IS RELENTLESS

In its forward march. And while

science insists it’s impossible, anyone with most of their brain will say that time picks up speed as you age.

One day pours into the next,

fills a week. One week spills

into the next, completes a month.

One month surges into the next,

swells into a year. One year

overflows into the next, and

the next thing you know, you

are up to your neck in decades,

no way to work your way out

of them. No way to cycle back

through them and change what

you would, if only you could.

If you only knew that from

the start, and believed it, how

differently you might mold those

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years, day into week into month.

ALL IT TAKES

To make you start thinking

about time is three birthday

cake stickers, decorating a

single month on the calendar.

August is still a few weeks out,

but there will be many candles

upon a trio of cakes. Holly’s

fortieth falls on the ninth, and

she is the definition of a Leo—

Confident. Adventurous. Proud.

Melodramatic. Pretentious.

Not that I follow astrology.

But Mom and Dad do, or at

least they used to. My birthday

is the last day of the month.

That makes me a Virgo. Dad

always said I fit the description—

someone more comfortable

with routine. Reliable. Helpful.

Inflexible. Skeptical. The reason

I know about Leos is because

Missy’s birthday is the twenty-

first, which puts her on the cusp.

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A little Leo, a little Virgo. Together, more than a little schizophrenic.

HER SON MIGHT BE SCHIZO TOO

Most of the time, Shane’s placid

as pudding. Today, however, he got

into a fight. Missy had to haul him off to emergency to get his lip stitched.

She called me at work, close to panic.

Her voice was a loud staccato.

P-please, Andrea. You h-have to
c-c-come. R-right now. I tried

to get h-hold of Christian, but he’s in
a meeting and c-can’t be disturbed.

I took an early out, hurried to Reno from Carson. By the time I got here, forty-five minutes later, Shane looked pretty awful. But it was clear to me that he’d be fine. Missy doesn’t need more drama. Why must she create

unnecessary hysteria for herself? Kids get stitches all the time. Okay, Harley 298/881

probably never will. That girl is too much like me—cautious, to a fault.

RIGHT NOW

She and Brianna are hanging

out, and though they think they’re

totally sneaky, I happen to know

they’re cooking up a birthday

surprise for Holly. Thirteen-year-

old girls aren’t great at secrets.

In fact, they pretty much lay it on the line. And when they think

they’re whispering? Not so much.

I didn’t really have to eavesdrop.

Forty is, like, so over the hill,
I overheard Brianna say.

She can’t be that old,
said Harley.

No way.
She paused to consider.

Maybe she’s lying about her age.

Brianna thought about that for a

second. Cracked up.
If you lie about
your age, you don’t say you’re older.

Oh,
said Harley, all serious.
Yeah,
I guess you’re right. At least, not
when you’re over twenty-one.

IT

WAS

ONE

OF

THOSE

CONVERSATIONS

That hinted at what the girls will

be, once they hit maturity. They

are so close now, it scares me.

I’m happy that Harley has

Bri. It’s not like she’s

her only friend, but

she’s the only one she has

bonded with quite so tightly.

In that too, Harley is much like

me. One really close friend is worth ten decent acquaintances.

Especially when you’re plotting

something like a surprise party. It’s a big undertaking, particularly for a kid Brianna’s age. The girls are creating lists.

Guest list. Food list. Decorations list.

It’s totally sweet of Bri to dream it up, though I’m not sure she can

pull it off. All the giggling and

whispering will likely give

them away. But at least

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they’ve got something to talk

about besides boys in general and

Chad in particular. If I hear Harley call him
walking, talking awesome
one more time …

A FEEBLE COUGH

Rattles the intercom. Shit.

I hurry to Shelby’s room.

“Hey, baby. It’s Auntie Andrea.

Let’s take care of those lungs.”

I haven’t actually done this

myself, but I’ve watched Missy.

Let’s see. Antibacterial for my

hands. Turn on the cough-assist

machine. Check the pressure.

Damn. What should it be? It says

thirty/thirty. Is that right?

My hands start to shake. What if

I screw this up? As I stand here

stupidly, Shelby tries to cough

again. The problem is, she can’t

cough well enough to bring up

whatever mucus is tickling

her alveoli. The cough assist forces air into her lungs. Draws it out

again. Pressure in, thirty, pressure out, thirty? It will just have to

do. Wait. What’s this other

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machine? God, I should know

the routine. Suction. Yes, that’s it.

Shelby looks at me helplessly.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got it

now.” Please, God. Let me have

it now. I start to put the mask

over Shelby’s face. Count.

I’m supposed to count to …

was it five?
Move. I’ve got it.

Christian pushes between me

and the bed, jerks the mask

from my hands, goes to work,

coaxing green crud from his

daughter’s lungs. As it gurgles

into her mouth, the second

machine sucks it out, carries

it off. Disgusting. Fascinating.

Wait. “Can I do something?”

Christian shakes his head.

Like what? It’s under control.

It seems to be. He’s cool. Efficient.

Shelby relaxes as her breathing eases.

I am, approximately, an idiot.

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Then again, I would have

figured it out. Nerves got me.

But I wouldn’t have given up.

BRAIN CRAMMED

With conflicting emotions,

I back out of the room, wander

into the living room, stand looking out the sliding glass door at their breath-stealing view. Some people

would be envious of this beautiful

house. At least, until they peeked

beyond the façade and into these rooms, emptied of happiness, vacuumed

of hope. Despair hangs heavily

here, like the ocher velvet draping the windows. I haven’t seen Shelby

in a while and, even beyond her