Triangles (4 page)

I find it ho-hum, but it pays

the bills, and pays them well.

I watch Jace towel off. At forty-

five, his hairline is sliding back

a bit, and shallow lines have

webbed his eyes. But he stays

fit enough and women, I’m

sure, find him attractive.

Attractive. Reliable. Good

provider. Always home on

time. Even-tempered. Caring

father. Adoring husband.

(Sounds like an obituary.)

What more could any sane

woman ask for, right? Which

says a whole lot about me.

OBITUARY

She decides to write her own,

rather than leave it to strangers;

studies the paper, develops

an obituary template:

In loving memory of

[complete name goes here],

who passed away

[say when, but not

how]

after [number of] years

on this earth. [He/she]

is survived by [spouse, children,

parents, siblings, if applicable].

She considers her life,

how it will end. What

do

you write, she wonders, if

none of those things applies?

What do you say about

someone who realized no

dreams,

who never found love, never

39/881

wanted commitment? What

do you say about someone

who clearly wanted to

die?

Marissa

FUCK HER

I swear that must be what God said

when he agreed to implant me in Good Old Mom’s uterus. I can see it now: The angel of making men horny meets up with the angel of making women

stupid. “Let’s create a problem for some lame earthly couple,” he says.

(Making Men Horny Angel has to be

a guy. Why would a woman angel

bother with making men horny?)

Uh, you mean, like rip a condom and SNAP …

baby? Sounds like a rainy afternoon,
agrees Making Women Stupid Angel.

But we should prob’ly ask the Big Dude
in Charge what kind of baby to surprise
the lucky couple with, and which lucky
couple, out of all the worthy people
on earth, most deserves the surprise.

41/881

So off they go to see God, who’s kicking back with a bottle of brilliant red wine and a couple of cute Waiting on God in Short Togas and Crooked Haloes Angels.

God, who is so not amused, booms:

IT’S BEEN A CRAP CENTURY AND I’M

REALLY NOT IN THE MOOD FOR GAMES.

PICK A RANDOM PAIR OF COLLEGE

BEER PONGERS AND GIVE THEM A GIRL.

AND JUST FOR KICKS, MAKE HER LIFE

A CLUSTER SCREW. LOUSY CHILDHOOD.

MISERABLE MARRIAGE. AND HEY, WHY

NOT TOSS IN A SMART-ASS GAY KID AND

ANOTHER ONE WHO CAN NEVER WALK—

IN FACT, ONE WHO WILL NEVER GROW UP?

MARISSA JOY SNYDER TRASK? FUCK HER!

All I can say is, he must be turning cartwheels up there. Sipping champagne.

Smoking cigars. Distracting himself from the looming destruction of Planet Earth, listening to Broadway music while watching megascreen clips of natural disaster shows, extreme sports outtakes, 42/881

and human melodramas, more than

a few of them starring yours truly.

ONE OF MY COSTARS

Grabs center stage right now.

Her coughing rattles the intercom,

and I run, as I must, to her room.

“Mommy’s here, Shelby.”

I adjust the face mask of the cough-assist machine, a mechanical miracle worker that keeps my little girl

from aspirating. The miracle happens one more time. The cough quiets.

Shelby tries to smile. The noise

she makes is part hum, part

melody, and means,
I love you, Mommy.

“I love you too, Shelbykins.”

Adore her, my baby. Hate her,

for what she is, and that makes

me a monster mommy.

My manicured claws smooth her hair.

Check the tube that sends necessary sustenance directly into her tummy.

The tummy that, like the rest of her, is much too small for a four-year-old.

But she is still here at four. Another 44/881

miracle, this one straight from God.

I swear I can hear him laughing.

A COSMIC JOKE

That’s what Shelby is. I wanted

a daughter for more than eleven years, from the very day I gave birth to Shane.

It took that long for the proper sperm-egg connection, and I was forty years old before it happened. I’d pretty

much given up hope by then, and

had I known that my beautiful baby

girl would be born with a “condition,” I might have considered abortion.

Had I known a thing at all about spinal muscular atrophy, I would have run, full speed, to the nearest gated clinic.

The joke part comes into play when

you consider the fact that both parents have to carry the recessive gene to make SMA occur. Shane was born perfectly fine, despite the same genetic pairing.

One in four. That’s what their odds were.

God gave Shelby SMA. Shane just got “gay.”
BREATHING STABILIZED

I turn Shelby onto her right side.

“Just like a pancake,” I soothe.

“We don’t want that left side to

get too done, do we?” Old joke,

one she can’t know the meaning of.

Shelby will never eat pancakes.

“Once it cools off, Mommy will

take you for a walk in your stander.” The promise elicits a giant smile,

and a soft
Ooh.
I see a flicker of what my child might have

been, but I have no tears left

to cry. “Oh, look. It’s time for

Barney.” The big purple dinosaur

is a daily staple. “You watch. Mommy will be back soon, okay?” Her eyes

are already locked on the big-

screen TV, the only one we have

in the house. I figure Shelby

deserves it more than the rest of us.

HER BROTHER

Is way too plugged in as it is.

His computer is his life,

at least his life here at home.

When he was younger, we used

to play board games. He kicked

my butt at chess, but I always beat him at Scrabble. In the evenings,

we watched sitcoms and horror flicks.

But that was all before Shelby.

Now, what his interests are outside these walls, I really

can’t say, though I’m more than

a little sure they revolve around

marijuana. I can smell

the barely masked scent of it now,

leaking out from under his bedroom

door. Little shit knows

how much I hate confrontation.

Summer vacation sucks. Guess I’d

better play concerned

parent, even though I know Shane

48/881

will do exactly as he pleases. Not

like I’m going to call

the cops. Who needs more drama?

I SHOULD GO IN

Like I might, though. I give the door handle a vicious twist. Locked. Duh.

“Shane!” My fist flails the old wood.

“Open up right this minute!” No response.

“I’m not leaving until you open the door.” Nothing. “I know how to unlock it, you know.” Finally, I hear his chair scoot back across the oak floor. Footsteps thump toward me.

The lock clicks. The door jerks open.

Yes, Mother? What can I do for you?

I push past him, stomp over to his desk, where the evidence smolders on one

of my good china saucers—a treasured wedding gift that has long languished in the hutch in the dining room we no longer use. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” I must look stupid, hands gripping my hips, because he bursts 50/881

into percussive snorts of laughter.

I would think that’s obvious, Mom.

I’m smoking weed and checking

out a little guy-on-guy action.

“Wha …?” For the first time, I look beyond the smoke, resin, and incense-stained saucer to the computer screen, where one very buff and obviously

very gay guy is doing unmentionable things to another very buff and obviously even gayer guy’s oily backside. I’ve never seen anything quite so vile,

not that I’ve ever gone looking. “God, Shane!” Two clicks of the mouse and the disgusting video disappears. “How are you paying for that? And how are you paying for that?” I point toward

the not-an-ashtray. “Do you have any idea how much that china is worth? Your grandmother must be cartwheeling in her grave. What in the
hell
do you think 51/881

you’re doing?” I repeat. With emphasis.

He ignores the first two questions.

You never use the china anyway, Mom.

And hey, summer vacation is all about
stress relief, something you need more
of yourself. That’s top-quality weed. Want
me to turn you on to my connection?

I think he’s serious. “No. I. Do. Not.

And I don’t want you smoking anything in the house. You know what smoke can do to your sister. Do you want to kill her?” The grin falls from his face.
Shh,
he says.

She can hear you, you know.
He lowers his voice to one notch above a whisper.
No,
Mom. I don’t want to kill her.
He slices me with blue quartz eyes, pierces me through with his words.
But I wish God would.

GOD IS ON A WALKABOUT

Won’t say where. The Outback,

perhaps, or an uncharted tropical

isle. Someplace where peace drifts

like smoke in the silence.

God

doesn’t want to hear complaints

for a while. No grievances, desires, or entreaties. He is in serious need of a seventh-day kind of rest. It

isn’t

that he’s angry. Disappointed, yes, to a degree. Sick of the bickering

going on in his name. And anxious.

Homo sapiens, his favored, are

taking

such a long time finding their humanity.

His First Noel should have been the key.

But people still haven’t grasped

the light. So, until further notice, all requests

may be directed to him, care of

the celestial switchboard. No follow-up calls, please. He’ll get back

53/881

to you. Sooner or later.

Andrea

BEST FRIEND MELTDOWN

Is a hard thing to watch. Especially when you’ve been there, done that, and you’re certain fulfillment is not on the far end. Holly and I have known each other for over a decade, since our girls did toddler playgroup together.

I’ve always secretly envied what she has—

a McMansion on the hill overlooking the wide lake-fed valley that divides the south reaches of Reno from the northern grasp of Carson City.

Three great kids. An adoring husband who, while not exactly movie star material, is precisely the kind of man I dream of. But Holly glimpsed her fortieth birthday, fast approaching. Panicked.

Dropped sixty pounds, thinks she needs to lose more, though size four is starting to look baggy on her. She runs miles every day, lifts like a man, 55/881

all, she says, so she can enjoy her nightly libations and keep turning heads. Like now. They swivel in our direction as we come through the big glass door. Reno is an enigmatic city, and its bars are representative. Tucked away with the weekly motels are cheap booze dives. Near the university, campus hot spots and sports bars draw young crowds. Downtown, casino neon and noise deny easy conversation. But here, on the Riverwalk near the business district, this bar is polished brass, oiled oak, and low-lit crystal. Not the type I used to frequent before I quit looking for Mr. Amazing in every wrong kind of place. This is the right kind of place. Unfortunately, all these spit-shined Versace guys are checking out my married friend.