Triangles (39 page)

first—lateral passage;

or to some courageous soul,

willing to cede all control

over

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personal safety and collapse

backward into the arms

of strangers in a slow-motion,

up-and-down leap of faith.

Marissa

FAITH

Whatever small measure of faith

I once owned was lost years ago,

buried beneath a monstrous heap

of self-pity. I can’t believe it took finding out about my husband’s

long-term love affair to yank me

out from under the morass. Time

to disengage inertia, create forward movement. I’m just not exactly

sure how to start, or what I want

to move toward. Entrepreneurship,

I think. Can’t imagine going to work for someone else, punching a time

clock, being told what to do. Not

now that I have fewer shackles.

Or at least they’re a lot looser.

Christian hired Pamela to come in

twice a week. Two consecutive days

out of every seven, allowing me

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a measure of freedom I’d forgotten

even existed. Christian also took

Shane to get his driver’s license,

and once he passed the test, bought him a decent used car. Scary,

to think about Shane driving.

I made a deal with him—we’ll

pay for his insurance as long

as he promises not to drive under

the influence. Ever. His response

was typical Shane.
Jeez, Mom,

do you think I’m a total stoner?

Call me Mister Lightweight.

Wonder what he considers

a heavyweight. Anyway, he gave

me his word. At this point, I trust him more than I do his father.

Regardless, I will not ask Christian to leave, at least not right now.

The weekend was not the romantic

getaway he’d hoped for, but neither was it a complete failure. We talked, an accomplishment in itself, though 772/881

difficult. It was like someone pulled back a big rock to let the truth,

all ugly and fanged, slither out

from underneath it. It coiled there between us, hissing and rattling,

until it finally exhausted itself.

WHEN CHRISTIAN GOT HOME

He hit the ground running, of course.

He’s halfway to St. Louis by now.

And yes, Skye is with him. The thing is, even if I asked Christian to transfer her to one of their other offices, he’d end up in that city eventually. Do I want her fired? Not really. Work

may have hooked them up in the first place, but at this point, if they want to be together, they will be. If I ever discover that has happened, there

will not be another chance. Christian requested the damning cell phone back, and I gave it to him, but not before emailing a copy of those photo files to myself, for two reasons. One, in case I need them to back up a demand for alimony. And two, I’m kind of

thinking if Pamela proves dependable, I’d like to go to some of those very same places. Greece? Yeah, it’s been 774/881

on my list for years. And Costa Rica.

And New Zealand. World travel is on my to-do list. With or without Christian.

BUT IT’S BACK TO ROUTINE

For me at the moment. Afternoon

CPT coming right up for Shelby.

Before I can exit the kitchen,

Mom comes in, carrying an armful

of packages.
Look what I got for
your sister’s birthday. She opens
a Macy’s bag, extracts an oversized red leather purse. Sooo not Andrea. Must have been on sale. “Really nice, Mom.

Did you talk to Andrea about dinner?”
I tried. She seemed awfully tentative
about her plans for Friday night.

Something going on with her, I think.

But whatever it is, she’s not talking.

“New man, maybe. She tends to stay

pretty close-lipped about them

anyway. Burned once too often.” I tell Mom the short version of the Robin

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story, omitting the sex-on-the-beach scene. I mean, Andrea
is
her daughter.

IT IS KIND OF NICE

Having her stay here for a while.

After living in such a tiny space

for so long, she definitely knows

how not to be intrusive, while

still being available. She hasn’t

pushed me to discuss Christian

or our weekend or any decision

I might have come to. But she’s

here for me, if I want to talk.

I’m not much more forthcoming

than my sister is. We are our

mother’s daughters, after all.

Maybe one day, when our kids

are having partner problems,

Andrea and I will open the flood-

gates, spill stories in an effort

to give our children our best shot

of advice. Meanwhile, however,

“It’s time for Shelby’s CPT. Why

don’t you give Andrea another call?

If we’re doing dinner and a movie,

I need to make sure Pamela is available.” 778/881

The movie was Harley’s idea.
Chick
flick bonding,
she called it. I can’t believe she started high school.

When was the last time I even saw

her? Two years ago? Three? She is

on my mind all the way to Shelby’s

room. “Dark in here, Shelbs. Close

your eyes for a minute so Mommy

can open the blinds.” I closed them to keep the early afternoon sun at bay.

This time of year, it angles in harshly until around three p.m. “There. That’s better. Now I can see my girl.” I turn from the window, toward the bed.

And I don’t like what I see at all.

Shelby could camouflage with

the sheets, her skin is so pale. I yank back the covers. The rise-fall

of her chest is shallow, though she doesn’t sound anymore congested

than usual. “How ya feeling, little fortune cookie?” Shelby manages

a tiny smile and a weak
Goo …,

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but when I roll her whisper-frail

body, it offers no resistance. Routine finished, I go straight for the phone.

WHAT I WANT TO HEAR

From Dr. Malik is a dismissal

of my concerns. But as Shelby’s regular doctor, he knows her almost as well as I do.
Take her to emergency at
St. Mary’s. I’ll meet you there in forty
minutes. Better to err on the safe side.

Apprehension begins a noticeable

gnaw in my stomach. I enlist Mom

to help me swaddle Shelby in a light cotton blanket, carry her straight to the van, and strap her in. “Will you come with me? Please?” I try hard

to keep my voice from betraying any hint of fear, for Shelby’s sake. But Mom knows I’m scared.
Of course, honey.

In less than fifteen minutes, we pull into the ER parking lot. Mom goes for help, returns almost immediately with a young orderly, tugging a gurney.
I’m
Gordon. Dr. Malik let us know you were
coming. Let’s get Miss Shelby inside.

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Gordon lifts her gently, as he might an antique porcelain doll. His voice remains calm, his manner relaxed.

Struggling to stay likewise,

I walk beside the gurney, holding

Shelby’s hand. “Dr. Malik misses

you, Shelster. He asked if we could drop in and say hi. You don’t mind, do you?” In answer, her fingers wiggle against mine, the closest thing to

a squeeze she can manage. Inside,

bleach and alcohol flavor the air

so heavily I want to gag. We’ve been here before. Many times. But there

is something new this time—some

ridiculous lick of panic, lifting goose bumps all over my body. Together,

Gordon and I wheel Shelby into

an exam room.
I’ll let Dr. Malik
know you’re here. Gordon gives

my shoulder a reassuring pat.

When the doctor arrives, he asks me 782/881

to step outside while he and a nurse do an assessment. I join Mom in

a nearby waiting area, where an aged TV is showing a blurry
Friends rerun.

We sit, half watching. And we wait.

I CHANT A SILENT MANTRA

Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Everything’s fine. But when Dr. Malik appears at last, his expression shouts,
Everything’s not fine. Everything’s not fine.

At his approach, I stand, but when

he reaches me, he sits and indicates I should too.
Mrs. Trask, I’m afraid
the news isn’t good. He clears his throat.

You know SMA is a debilitating

neurological disease, one that leads
to muscles wasting away. Once we
believed it only affected the skeletal
muscles, but recent research shows
it can also affect the heart muscle.

I’ve ordered more tests, but I believe
this is what has happened to Shelby.

His words sink through the low buzz inside my brain. “Her heart isn’t

working like it should. But what

does that mean? Is there a machine …?” But I know the answer. No machine.

No drug. No treatment. At age four, 784/881

Shelby’s heart is all used up. As summer dies, so does my beautiful angel.

AS SUMMER DIES

June promises wither, fuel

October passion,

a sensuous mingling

inconceivable

in spring—tangles of auburn,

sienna, and honey gold.

Fall’s arrival surprises

the valley, and it reverberates

with hurried

preparation.

Cacophonous instruments—

chain saws, chippers, shredders,

and mowers—play

a dirge for September, ready

her remains

for the funerary fire.

A strike of the match,

and the pyre bursts color,

auburn, sienna, and honey

gold, threaded blue beneath

a sheer shroud

of morning. Autumn hovers,

incense, masks the scent

of early winter. Settles in

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like sea-heavy fog,

blankets the corpse of summer.

Andrea

OFFICIALLY, SUMMER

Still has three weeks to go. But our usual stifling Labor Day is a temperate seventy-five this year. Autumn, come to call early. What that means as far as winter is anyone’s guess.

And officially, I am thirty-seven today.

But when maintaining a death vigil, birthdays don’t seem very important except as reference points. I have

already celebrated many more

birthdays than Shelby ever will.

The strangest thing is, though we

always knew this time would come,

no one expected it. When Mom

called to let me know, I felt like

a freight train had just jumped

track and landed in my living

room, engine still screaming and

belching diesel. The doctor gave

Shelby maybe a week, sent her home

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to hospice care. Her little heart

is tired, her hummingbird body

flimsy as cellophane, her colorless skin almost as transparent.

Yet she wears a perpetual smile,

as if she looks forward to leaving

us. The hospice worker is a stout

woman named Stella. She comes

once a day, but there isn’t much

need. Mom and I are here to help

Marissa with whatever she needs.

She only leaves Shelby’s bedside

to use the bathroom, or when Chris

manages to talk her into stretching her legs. He flew straight home from wherever he was when he got

the news and seems as devoted

as Marissa is to Shelby’s comfort.

It’s touching, really, especially

when he sings to her, and that

is often. At the moment, he is