Triangles (24 page)

TMI. Are you guys made up now?

I think the answer is obvious.

WILD WATERS IS PACKED

Hot weather and water parks pair

nicely, unless the desert works her mischief, lifting thunderclouds overhead to zap lightning down toward tall, wet structures like slides. Right now, the sky is clear. “I have to change,” I tell Holly.

“Can you try to find some lounge

chairs, maybe over by the snack

bar?” Harley and I go slip into

our suits. She is quicker than I.

Bri’s waiting for me by Viper.

I’ll see you a little later, okay?

“Whenever you get hungry.

I packed a healthy lunch.”

I brought my size-eight suit—

a floral one-piece, with a cute

little skirt to hide the dappled thigh flab. When I exit the bathroom,

the sun makes me squint, but

I locate Holly easily. How could

I miss her? Every guy here is

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ogling the buff bronzed woman in

a pink crocheted bikini that leaves absolutely zero to the imagination.

IMAGINATION

Is a fallow field,

rich sleeping loam

awaiting seeds

of fantasy. It is

where

you play dress-up,

don tiara and chinchilla.

It is where you strip

it all away, right down to

perfect

nut-butter skin,

invite a certain someone

for afternoon gin,

and nothing you request

is

beyond the reach of yes.

Imagination is a meadow

of wildflower dreams,

pastureland sown with

possible.

Holly

POSSIBLY THE BEST DAY

I’ve ever spent at Wild Waters.

Last time I went, I looked about

like a beached manatee. No way

would I have worn a two-piece,

let alone a teeny bikini that makes me feel every bit as appealing as

girls here half my age. Andrea,

of course, does not approve.

Every time a guy meanders by,

copping a feel with his eyes,

she gives him a dirty look. Who

does she think she is? My mother?

Ha. Mama would have grabbed

me up by one ear and given me

total hell for wearing this. Are you up there, Ma? Whaddaya think?

I adjust my sunglasses, settle

back into the lounge chair,

notice a dark froth creeping

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up over the Sierra’s lip. “Storm.”

Andrea assesses.
Maybe. But not
for a couple of hours. The kids
will be worn out by then. And

if it comes, rain will be a blessing.

True enough. The heat has been

relentless, barely a breeze to cool the evenings. The wind kicks up

a little now, though, carrying

the scent of cooking hamburgers.

“Doesn’t that greasy grill smell

delish? I didn’t eat breakfast

and I think I’m starving to death.”
I packed a couple of salads

and some watermelon. Organic.

Help yourself. I can always buy
Harley a hot dog or something.

“No way. I want french fries!”

As I dig for money, a low
varoom
rattles the sky. “Thunder. Not sure your weather prediction was accurate.”
We’ll see.
She watches me get up and start toward the concession

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stand.
Hey, when was the last time
you even looked at a french fry?

Pretty sure it was a rhetorical

question, so I don’t bother to answer.

Nor am I insulted. Andrea will be

Andrea, as Mama would have said.

THAT’S THE SECOND TIME

Today I’ve thought about Mama.

Weird. Maybe she’s the one stirring up the storm clouds. A little

girl runs screaming by, chased

by her own mother. I would

never have made so much noise

when my parents were close.

Quiet as a sigh kept me out of mind.

I queue up for fries, salivating

just a tad. Andrea was right, actually.

I haven’t given in to temptation—

food temptation, that is—in a very

long time. But all that running

has to allow giving in to temptation once in a while, right? At last,

my fries come up, sizzling oil, and I know every calorie invested will be worth the extra distance run tomorrow.

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Andrea is munching salad when

I get back, but her eyes glom on to the cardboard container, piled

high with crispy shoestrings. No way could a person resist. “Have some,” I offer. At her hesitation, I add, “Please.” There is something intimate about

sharing food, which I suppose is why you only do it with a partner,

a child, or a very good friend. People worth the threat of germs. People

who, in the most basic sense, you want to survive. Thrive. For Andrea

and me, this is a bonding moment.

Or, more accurately, a rebonding

moment. Between our daughters’ falling-out and our lately disparate goals, a wedge has formed between us. Grown.

Probably more my fault than hers,

and so when she puts down her fork, 456/881

forgoes lettuce in favor of sharing fries, the gesture is not insignificant.

WE ARE ALLOWED

A solid four hours of Wild Waters

before the sky bubbles ebony clouds and the rumbled threat of thunder

becomes the promise of lightning.

The kids might stay anyway, but park officials let us know we have no choice.

We jam our stuff into canvas bags,

sprint for the car, and reach it just as warm, fat raindrops splatter the parking lot, raising a hot, wet asphalt smell and smearing the dirt on Andrea’s

windshield. When I glance into

the backseat, Harley and Bri are side by side, wearing a sun-toasted glow and heavy-lidded eyes. They’ll be asleep before we hit the freeway. The rain begins to fall harder, in solid sheets, and suddenly the windows ignite.

Holy crap!
says Trace, exercising his adolescent First Amendment

rights.
Did you see that lightning?

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Harley snorts.
Jeez, dude, we’re not
blind.
Thunder punctuates her sentence.
That one was close too.

Andrea is a cautious driver.

It’s a slow, slippery drive home.

As predicted, the kids zonk out

before too very long. When it gets

quiet, she says,
Hey, I almost forgot.

Guess who called and asked me out.

I scan my memory banks but

can’t come up with a single name,

except her ex’s and … “Geoff?”

No, although I did bump into him
and got the impression he might.

Robin. You know, the Aussie?

“Really? He was totally cute.

You did say yes, right?” She hasn’t gone out with a guy in ages.

Not yet. He called just as we were
leaving. And I wanted to think it over.

We don’t have much in common.

“It’s just a date, Andrea, not a commitment.

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He’s got a penis and you’ve got a vagina.

What more do you need in common?”

God, Mom. I can’t believe you

said that.
Trace’s complaint drifts over the headrest.
You are disgusting!

MY FACE FLOWERS HEAT

Way to talk in front of my son,

who is not quite a man, but old

enough to understand I just told

my friend she should go get laid.

“Sorry. But call him and tell him

okay. Okay?” I’m more excited

for her than she is for herself.

Still, she sort of promises,
Okay.

“And don’t be so lukewarm

about it when you talk to him.

A guy likes to believe he’s alluring, you know?” I have to quit talking

about it because Trace comments,

Like you’re such an expert, Mom?

“I … well, I used to … uh,

I read a lot of novels, remember?”

Trace laughs, and that makes Andrea laugh, and now the girls are stirring.

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I force myself into silent mode

so I don’t make a total fool of myself.

WE PRACTICALLY SURF

Up the driveway, water rushing

down in wide rivulets. Brianna

begs to let Harley stay the night.

Neither Andrea nor I dare say no.

The kids grab their stuff, rush inside, ducking. As if that could keep them dry. I gather my things. “Thanks

for thinking of this. It was a great day.

Now go call Robin. A little male

distraction would do you good.”

She tells me again that she will.

I slog through the door, dripping,

take the wet towels to the laundry

room. When I turn back toward

the kitchen, Mikayla is standing

there.
Hey, Mom.
Her expression is dour.
Um, I heard back from

Leon Driscoll today. Come on.

I want you to read the email.

Her posture tells me the news

isn’t what she hoped it would

be. “You know, whatever he said,

it’s okay, honey. I’m pretty much

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resigned to not finding them.

I’m still grateful to you for trying.” She turns.
You don’t get it, Mom.

I think we did find them. It’s just …

Well, look and see.
She leads me to her computer, where there’s

an open email from Leon Driscoll.

It says: HELLO, MIKAYLA. IT WAS A SURPRISE

TO HEAR FROM YOU. MY Ex SHOULDN’T HAVE

GIVEN YOU MY NAME. BUT I’VE ALWAYS

BELIEVED MY BROTHER, PAUL, SHOULD

HAVE MADE HIMSELF AVAILABLE TO HIS CHILD, SO I FORWARDED YOUR EMAIL TO HIM. IT IS

MY OPINION THAT HE IS, IN FACT, YOUR GRANDFATHER. HOWEVER, THIS IS HIS RESPONSE:

“
PLEASE INFORM HER THAT I HAVE NEVER

HAD SEX WITH ANYONE OTHER THAN

MY WIFE, SO I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE RELATED

TO HER
.” I’M SORRY HE SEEMS UNABLE

TO COWBOY UP AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY

FOR SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED

FORTY YEARS AGO. VERY SORRY. BEST

I CAN DO IS GIVE YOU TWO THINGS.

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The first is an attached photo of the man, who doesn’t look a lot like me, except maybe for the slope of his cheekbones.

The second is, perhaps, the bigger gift.

It is a name. Sarah Hill. Likely, my mother.

COWBOY UP

It’s a phrase delegated

to a certain culture,

but one that speaks

boldly, should you care

to listen. It means to

live by

embracing the cowboy

spirit—a love of the planet,

nature, and your fellow man,

regardless of his belief or

homeland. It is adhering to

the code

of courage—fearing none

but the Maker. Protecting

the helpless. Owning up to

doing wrong, always keeping

in mind the highest badge

of

honor one can wear is honesty.

As the Lone Ranger said, All

things change but the truth,

and the truth alone lives

on forever. The ethos of

the west

is straight-shooting living

and hard forward riding across

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the ever-varying landscape.

Marissa

THE WEST

Has had its fair share of unusual

weather this summer. Yesterday’s

downpour was unexpected,

but also appreciated. It scrubbed

the air, scented it heavily with damp sage and sand. Cleaned it enough,