they’ve been seeing each other for
years. And that, as I overheard Gram
say, Isn’t just sex. It’s a relationship.
And what she meant by that was love.
Dad is in love with someone else.
Which explains why he doesn’t
always come home at night. Why
he’s been so distant to Mom and,
maybe, me. Bastard! I figured it
was because he couldn’t deal with
Shelby. But apparently the affair
began before she was even conceived.
No, Dad’s “indiscretion,” which is
something of an understatement,
wasn’t about “running away from.”
It was all about “running to,” and
that is hard to forgive. Mom didn’t
want me to know, mostly because
Dad has shifted gears. Don’t ask me
why, but for some reason he decided
he wanted to stay with Mom instead
of riding off into the sunset with Skye
Sheridan. One very big element in
that is his so-called change of heart
toward me. And for what purpose?
Does he really plan to be around
more now? Why do I doubt that?
And why should I care if he is?
Should I Forgive and Forget?
Be the bigger man? Luscious irony
there, I suppose. I mean, being gay
calls your manhood, not to mention
your morality, into question, at least
in some people’s (including my father’s) eyes.
Right up until he got busted with his pants
down around his ankles, Dad insisted
I was the sinner. But I wasn’t fucking
off on my partner, let alone my wife.
Is infidelity—conquest—the mark of a man?
What about promises? For better or worse,
for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health?
What about the idea that genuine love
is about conquering mutual demons?
Look Up “Hypocrite”
In the dictionary. Bet you’ll find
a picture of my father.
You know, I totally wish
that it wasn’t so. But how
can I believe in someone
who once meant everything
to me, only to have him turn
his back, not only on me,
but also on everyone who
makes me comfortable
with who I am? Bastard!
I was almost past wanting
his acceptance. I knew, deep
down, that it couldn’t happen
like switching on the air con
on a hot day. When it seemed
to, I was suspicious, prayed
for the best. Tried not to expect
the worst. And so, it stung
to discover his supposed turn-
around was all about a bid
to keep Mom hanging on.
She’s Hanging On
For now, I guess. Kind of by her
fingertips, and just barely. I hear
her talking—to Aunt Andrea,
to her old friend, Drew, and to Gram.
Mostly to Gram, who is staying
here for now while she and Gramps
look for a house. Gram says
she’s tired of traveling the country,
living like some Bedouin on
wheels. I’m glad she’ll be closer.
Mom needs her, even though
she’d never admit it. Dad’s taking
her to Monterey for the weekend.
It’s where they had their honeymoon,
but I’m not sure the Pacific Ocean
will be enough to rekindle the romance.
Mom is taut as a stretched-to-the-limit
rubber band. Hope she doesn’t break.
Monterey
Is supposed to be Mom’s birthday
present, so tonight we’re having an early
celebration. Aunt Andrea is already here,
helping Gram in the kitchen. When
the doorbell rings, I expect it to be Alex.
I fling it open, giving little air smooches.
Nope. Not Alex. It’s a woman, maybe
thirty-five, and built like a Rottweiler.
She smiles at my kissy pouts and her face
radiates humor. Uh. Do I have the right
house? I’m looking for the Trasks.
I’m Pamela Anderson. At my dubious
look, she adds, Not that Pamela
center—a caregiver. For Shelby?
I step back to let her in. As she passes,
she says, How do you know her, anyway?
You’re too young to have been a Baywatch fan.
“What’s Baywatch? I saw her on
Dancing with the Stars. How she lasted
that long is a total mystery.” I lead Pamela
into the living room. “Mom? Dad?
The caregiver is here.” The doorbell
rings again. This time, it is Alex,
and he’s holding a giant bouquet
of yellow roses. “For me? Sweetheart,
you shouldn’t have!” No one’s watching,
so I kiss his amazing smile. He looks
a little alarmed. Um. Hi. Sorry, but
the flowers are for your mom.
“How come you never bring me
flowers?” I stick out my lower lip.
“Well, I guess you can come in anyway.”
He is dressed in khaki pants and a Levi’s
shirt, and he’s wearing some exotic
cologne that makes me want to eat him.
And at This Moment
I couldn’t care less about Dad’s motives.
Alex is here, and welcome, and when
he gives Mom her birthday roses, her
thank-you is a kiss on his cheek, which
turns the color of ripe cherries, matching
his other cheek and the tips of his ears.
Dinner is Gram’s made-from-scratch
pizza. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked
dough fills the house, and when Mom
rolls Shelby into the room, she sniffs
the air. Grins and says, Pri-ee. Pretty.
I guess it does smell pretty. I wish
she could taste it, but Shelby only
eats liquid sustenance, fed via tube.
She doesn’t seem to mind, but that’s
all she’s ever known, and thinking about
things she’s missed always makes me
more than a little sad. The heaviness
lifts quickly tonight, though. There
are no balloons, but there are yellow
roses and pizza and birthday cake.
It’s a party and everyone wears
a smile, especially when Gramps
goes to the piano and starts to play
old classic rock songs. I once thought
I’d be the next David Crosby, he says.
But Neil Young was jealous, so they
wouldn’t let me join the group.
Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Mom
used to sing their stuff when I was little.
She harmonizes with Gramps. Teach
your parents well. Their children’s hell . . .
Is slowly going by. Shelby loves
the music, tries to hum along. And that
makes her cough. Mom starts toward
her, but Pamela reaches her first.
Pamela Is Efficient
Deliberate. Kind, as she instructs
Shelby to relax, not an intuitive thing
when you’re hacking up a lung.
Mom would jump in, but Dad keeps
a hand on h
er arm. Let Pamela do
her job. That’s why she’s here.
She decides the best way to do it
is to use the lung assist machine in Shelby’s
room that’s there to vacuum scum
from her airways. Mom wants to
follow her down the hall, but Pamela
agrees with Dad. I’ve got it. No worries.
Mom has done nothing but worry
for years. This will be a learning
curve. Her nervousness grips all
of us, though we try to get back
into a party mood. Dad tells Gramps,
Can you play something slow? I want
to dance with my wife. Mom stiffens,
and I think she’s going to refuse. But
Dad persuades her to sway with some
old song I know I’ve heard, but
couldn’t name for money. If I wasn’t
privy to what’s going on between
them, I’d probably find it touching.
As it is, it’s pretty much creeping me
out. And, judging by Mom’s zombie-ish
motion, she feels the same way. She’s putting
on a show. But what’s the point? It’s not
like everyone here doesn’t know. Well,
except for Alex. I haven’t told him yet.
I kind of wanted him to believe Dad found
a soul. God, how I wish that was true.
Pamela returns solo. Shelby’s resting
comfortably, watching a DVD. I’ll be
back first thing tomorrow morning.
Mom Pulls Away
From Dad. Walks Pamela to the door,
asking questions. Giving directions.
Gram follows, listening in, because
she will be here for Shelby this weekend
when Pamela isn’t. Dad goes into
the kitchen. Probably looking for booze,
although he hasn’t been drinking nearly
as much as he used to. Don’t know if
that’s voluntary or part of whatever
deal he has forged with Mom. Either
way, he’s a hell of a lot easier to deal
with when he isn’t blotto. Gramps
launches a Green Day song—one Alex
knows the words to. Who knew he could
sing? Who knows what else I don’t know
about him yet? How long does it take
to get to know someone totally? Does
that ever happen? How long before you
can tell when someone’s keeping secrets?
Is it ever better simply not to know?
Alex
Is It Better
Not to know what’s causing
a massive tide—one you happen
to be swimming in, charcoal
carbonation frothing the horizon,
panic
likely, when limp resignation
might serve better?
You can’t outswim a rip current
and an anxious sea
swallows
what can’t remember that.
Is it wiser to avoid looking over
your shoulder, intuiting a predator
is sneaking up behind
you,
ascertaining distance? A backward
glance might cost a limb or liver,
food chain hierarchy faster
than you. A sudden shift of energy
smothers
certainty. Disregarding it might
be preferable to overanalyzing,
if rooting out the source
of your discomfort only brings
you
face-to-face with a monster.
Harley
A Monster
That’s what Chad’s dad is. No
wonder he never talks about him.
My dad is kind of weird and all,
and I remember how he and Mom
argued all the time before
they split up. But he never beat
on Mom or me. How could a guy
do something like that to his kid?
I haven’t said a word about
seeing that Damian ogre. Not
to Chad. Not to Dad. Not even
to Mom. But I’m totally dying to.
I did break down and tell Mom
about Mikayla being pregnant,
even though Bri asked me not to.
That kind of secret is hard to keep.
Mom told, and everything blew
sky-high and now Bri is pissed
at me. I’m sorry, but I think
her parents really needed to know.
She’ll get over it. She has to.
Mom says when I start high school
I’ll make new friends. That’s all right.
But Bri will always be my best friend.
The Worst Thing
About telling Mom about Mikayla
was having to hear, from my mother,
the dirty little details of sex. The kind
you definitely don’t get in sex ed.
I know you’re not having sex yet,
was how she started the conversation,
boring into my eyes with hers, trying
to figure out if that happens to be true.
And I know you got all the basics in
school, so I won’t go there. What I
want to talk to you about is the things
that might convince you to go all the way.
Go all the way creeped me out
immediately, and things didn’t get
better. First, she outlined the obvious
lines some guys use to convince
you not to use protection—how it’s
not possible to get preggo the first
time you do it; how he’s great at
pulling out; how he’s def sterile.
That was kind of funny, actually.
But then she got into really weird
stuff, like how foreplay makes you
want to do more, only she didn’t call
it foreplay, she called it “digital
penetration” and “oral stimulation.”
And that really made me picture
Mom doing that stuff, and it grossed
me out totally, so I just promised to
keep it in mind whenever at some
way future date I might be in that
position. And that should have been
the end of it, except then she felt
the need to confess that foreplay
and what came after was the reason
she and Dad ended up getting married
their senior year in high school. I might
have had a big sister or brother, except
Mom lost that baby. When I asked if
that meant she never loved Dad,
she said, I thought I did, at the time.
I Watch Dad Now
Futzing around, trying to build
a campfire while Cassie cooks
hot dogs on a rusting barbecue.
Are they really in love? Or just
thinking they are, at this time?
Love is a fragile thing. I hope
theirs can stay in one piece.
The campground is busy—one
last reminder of summer before
school starts up again. The sun drops
down behind the western peaks,
but its warmth remains, trapped
in pine-scented evening air. Camping
with Dad means age-worn tents and
sleeping bags, and that’s okay with me.
Dinner! chimes Cassie, wrapping
Polish sausages with white bread buns.
Ketchup and mustard are on the table.
Dad holds out his paper plate.
Personally, I like mine naked.
He winks at Cassie, who bursts
out laughing. Chad look
s at me,
rolls his eyes, then douses his own
bun with condiments. Message sent.
Wow. Some people probably think
he’s a total wad. But I understand
why he’s so cynical. I just wish
he’d let me break through. We scarf
down hot dogs, chips and soda. I can
feel the pounds I’m gaining tonight,
but I haven’t indulged in junk food
hardly at all this summer and I’m
loving every greasy, sugary swallow.
We throw our paper plates into Dad’s
pitiful fire, and when they flame
Chad tosses in some pinecones.
When those flare, he adds a chunk
of wood, which catches easily. That’s
how you build a campfire, he says.
It’s a Throw-Down
But Dad responds to the challenge
by putting his arms around Cassie
and kissing the back of her neck.
Chad bristles. The night could go bad,
and I don’t want that, so I nudge
Chad’s arm. “Want to take a walk?”
He shrugs, which is his way to
agree. Just one second, he says,
disappearing into his tent for
a minute or two. When he emerges,
his hands slip out of his pockets.
Okay. Let’s go. As we start around
a long loop of asphalt, I hear
Cassie call, Don’t be gone long.
It’s getting dark, and who knows
what comes out at night around here.
Chad chuckles. Evil things, Mom.
She can’t hear him, of course. But I can.
Evil Things
Are what I think about
as we veer off the pavement.
Dive into a thick stand of trees.
Pine needles, soft beneath our
feet, should cushion sound.
Instead, there is a gentle rustling
near the ground. “What’s that?”
I ask, all paranoid. But Chad
is unconcerned. Nothing.
The wind. Or maybe . . .
He looks around. Deer. Or
skunks. Too soft for bear.
“Bear?” We don’t even
have a flashlight. No bear
is going to sneak up on us,
right? I consider which
direction to run. But Chad
laughs and that means
everything is okay. At least,
until he reaches into his pocket.
Out comes a cigarette—hand-