Triangles (18 page)

Marissa

PERSPECTIVE

Is something gained with experience.

A byproduct of living. Back-paddling through time, trying in vain to slow the current-driven journey. But we

just keep moving forward toward

our destiny. Never really in control, despite our best efforts to manipulate outcomes, because no one makes it

through untouched by the will of others.

Perspective might have hinted that

leaving Shelby with Andrea while I took Shane to the ER would lead to a bad situation—one that managed to wedge Christian and me even farther apart.

Do you not have a lick of sense?

he demanded.
Your sister has no clue
what to do for Shelby when she starts
to aspirate. If I hadn’t come in …

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I should have kept quiet. Instead,

I stabbed back, every sharp word chiseling a well of silence we have yet to climb out of.

ALL DECKED DOWN

In cheesecloth-thin jammies,

I’m sitting alone in the kitchen,

trying to avoid scalding my tongue

on my first cup of coffee, when

Shane shimmies in. He takes one

look at me. Scowls.
Jeez, Mom,

how old are those pj’s?
He goes to the cupboard, extracts a mug.

Anyway, you gotta get dressed.

Gram and Gramps are coming over.

First I’ve heard of it. “How do

you know?” I watch him pour

coffee, add too much sugar and

a big splash of milk. Definitely

not his grandfather’s style.

Gram and I have been talking.

We don’t think it’s good for you
to stay home so much, so Gramps
and I will watch Shelby while you
ladies see a movie and go shopping.

Shane arranged this with my mom?

My son is full of surprises.

“I think you’ve been watching

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too much Lifetime.” But it pleases

me that he’s worried about me.

Still, my first instinct is to argue.

“I’m not sure …,” I start, but the way his expectant look flatlines makes

me reconsider. “Well, maybe just

the movie. Shelby is a big responsibility.”
I know, Mom. One you handle

all the time, without much help.

Gramps and I can take care of

her for an afternoon. I promise
she’ll be just fine.
He smiles, and I glimpse a ghost of the child

who used to race me across

the playground. The one who

loved to swing and always begged

me to push him higher. Longer.

I have to admit I’m starting to

feel like a hermit. At times, like

a lunatic hermit. “Okay, you talked me into it.” It will be nice spending some time with Mom. Even though

she very well might be the one whom I inherited “lunatic” from. She’s what 331/881

some call quirky. “I’ll go clean up.

And Shane? Thank you.” Suddenly

I don’t feel completely unloved after all.

AN AURA OF NERVOUS

Excitement bubbles from me as I shampoo my hair. Shave my legs. Exfoliate my face.

I feel like a teenager, getting ready for a date.

Okay, it’s a date with my mother. But still.

A movie. In a theater. I don’t even know what’s playing. When was the last time I saw the inside of a theater? It was …

I can’t even remember the movie now, but it was a
real
date, with Christian. And after, we went to dinner. And after that, we came home. Drank too much wine. Had amazing sex. The next thing we knew, I was pregnant with Shelby. For the ensuing months, much excitement. Happiness unfathomed. Until …

Until no more movies. No more dates. No more afternoons with friends. They peeled away, one by one. And who could blame them? Who wants to hear about a baby who 333/881

will never walk? A child who will never talk?

A daughter who will never wear a wedding gown?

GETTING DRESSED

Takes a while. I’m not much

into fashion anymore. At home

I wear jeans or shorts and tee shirts.

In the winter, sweats. My rare

trips out are generally for

appointments. Groceries.

No need to look decent for those.

Everything I own is years old. Guess I could use some new things after

all. I dig through my closet,

find a simple sundress

that I used to love. It hasn’t left its hanger in a very long time, but it still fits okay. I comb my hair,

which could use a trim,

smooth lotion over too-pale

skin. A little makeup might help,

but all I find in the drawer is lumpy foundation, dried-out mascara, and

a sift of peach-colored blush.

At least my cheeks can have

color. I give each a soft upward

stroke, trying not to chide the woman 335/881

who stares back at me from the far

side of the mirror. Not easy.

I EMERGE

From my room, looking half-

way okay. A low-key thrum

in the living room tells me

Mom and Dad have arrived.

They’ve been camping nearby

for a couple of weeks now,

but this will be the first time

I’ve seen them since their last

trek out west. Three steps

down the hallway, my eyes find

them. Dad, his salt-and-pepper

hair braided long down his back,

looks every minute of sixty-three

years old. Mom has aged better,

though she worries no less.

She keeps fit, and that might

be why. Dad is round. Mom

is straight and slim and wears

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skinny jeans with all the aplomb

of a woman thirty years younger.

Shane is in earnest conversation

with Dad, but turns his attention

my way.
Whoa. What happened

to you, Mom? You look like a girl.

That makes me laugh. “I still

clean up pretty nice, I guess.”

I go over, give Dad and Mom

consecutive pecks on the cheek.

Not enough for Dad, who

reciprocates with a grizzly bear

hug.
That’s how to say hello, little
girl. I’ve missed the hell out of you.

Save the small talk,
says Shane.

You and Gram get out of here.

“Let me just check on Shelby

first …” I start in her direction,

but Dad stops me.
Shane and I

will take it from here. We’ve got
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our own plans. You go on now.

He propels me gently toward the door.

JULY HEAT

Presses down hard. Mom and I

hurry to the car. And then I freeze beneath the steering wheel. Maybe

this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Uh, where do you want to go?”

Someplace close, I hope. Just

in case.
Andrea recommended

Sierra Summit. Nice theater and
excellent shopping. In fact, we’re
supposed to meet Andrea there.

Another setup? “Sounds good.

I’ve never been there.” Haven’t

been that far from home since

they built the place, and it’s only five or six miles. We head east in

silence, merge onto the southbound

freeway. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mom giving me the once-over.
You need to get some sun.

Your vitamin D count is probably low.

No use arguing. Especially when

she’s totally right. “I know. It’s just hard. Christian has been so busy at 340/881

work, and Shane’s been escaping

lately too. I can’t leave Shelby alone.”
Pack her up and take her with you.

A little sunshine wouldn’t hurt
her, either.
She clucks her tongue—

a forever-annoying habit.
So, what’s
going on with you and Chris?

Straight for the jugular, that’s my mom.

But where did the question come

from? “Who said anything was going

on?” Or did that someone say nothing was going on? “We’re doing okay.”

Mom stares wordlessly out

the window. Finally, she says,

I heard Chris sleeps in the guest
room. That the two of you barely
speak, and when you do it’s always
with anger. A marriage can survive
a lot of things, but not a total
dearth of communication. I know
it’s really none of my business,
but if you want to talk about it …

She waits expectantly. But I’m in

no mood for confession. I could

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ask about her own marriage’s near-

death experience. Instead, I respond simply, “Not much to talk about.”

CONFESSION

The last place any wavering

Catholic wants to find himself

is behind an incense-woven

curtain, waiting to offer up

confession.

A priest might say it’s a tonic,

but the confessor knows

it’s a bitter brew, not sweetened

by the promise of absolution. He

wrings

his hands as he considers how

much time he has this week

for Hail Marys. Should he rattle

off each and every sin, or save

one

or two for next time? Would

God know—or care—if he left

a rotten little secret or five

stashed way down deep

inside

his heart? Would Lucifer

quit whispering to him if

he opened his mouth, let all

his nasty bad habits spill

out?

Andrea

NASTY BAD HABITS

If you needed a definition of “Steve,” that’s what the dictionary would

give you: nasty bad habits. He smokes (tobacco hourly and pot when he can afford it). He drinks (way more than the two per day that are supposed

to be kind of okay for you). He’s on some sort of prescription feel-better pills (allegedly to combat depression).

What’s he got to be depressed about?

He’s working part-time, contributing not much to Cassie in exchange

for a place to live and three square (okay, maybe triangular) meals a day.

And Harley can’t wait to see him.

God, that pisses me off. It almost

makes me hope who she really wants

to see is Chad. Almost. Not sure

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which of those two losers, with very large
L
s, I’m most jealous of. Neither will ever love her the way she deserves.

I’M TORN

About letting Harley visit her dad.

I know she’s being exposed to

things she shouldn’t be. But I worry that if I throw a fit, keep her away, all she’ll do is rebel. Isn’t that what teenagers do anyway? I would have.

But I didn’t need to. As I kid, I was free to experiment with whatever

I wanted, however I pleased. My parents were regular hippies. When I was

little, we lived a communal lifestyle.

Six hippie couples, their children, and the odd stray, farming soggy

ground in Oregon. We had white

chickens. Mallards. Big hissing geese.

Cats to kill mice. Mutts to kill cats.

Guns that went hunting and came

back with rabbits. Squirrels. The choice parts of deer because whitetail were so plentiful that the rest of them was left to rot in the woods.
Don’t fret
about it,
Dad would say.
Something
out there will eat the leftovers.
I’m sure 346/881

he was right. But I fretted anyway. Still do.

NOT QUITE AS MUCH

As I’m fretting about my daughter

right now. She’s with her dad—not

to mention Chad. At least Brianna

is with her. Can’t believe it was so easy to talk Holly into it. Then again, lately Holly’s head is anywhere but where it should be. She called last night.
Hey,
she said.
I need you to
cover for me. I told Jace I was going
out with you.
She hesitated, no doubt wondering how much to give up.
I …

um … am having drinks with Bryan.

Nothing kinky. He’s having some
marriage problems.
Like Holly’s the one who should be counseling

someone about their marital woes?

Whatever. God, if I worried about

Holly every time she did something

stupid, I’d be soot-gray and sea-hag-wrinkled. It’s not like Jace is going to come to me, looking for Holly,

though. Right? Holy crap. Why did

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I say okay? Great. Something else