and that’s okay by me.
I’m enjoying circling
the bases. Home plate,
now safe, can wait.
We Take Our Time
And we both score twice.
And the seismic waves
are incredible. Massive.
Nothing like the gentle
temblors with Monica.
My bed, my room, the entire
house, are plenty warm now.
I kick off the covers, skin
cooling slowly within
the circlet of Gabe’s arms.
So, what do you think?
The words fall against
my cheek, carried in warm
Earl Grey–scented puffs.
“I think that was pretty
great. And I’m glad you
were my first.” I don’t add
the masculine reference.
Let him assume what he will.
Eventually
And much too soon,
Gabe’s arms release
their hold on me.
I should probably go.
“You probably should.
Do you have any plans
for tomorrow?”
No. Why? Miss me already?
“You’re still here, in case
you missed that, dude.
I know I’m a pain, but
I need a ride out to see
Hillary. And her horses.”
Happy to chauffeur you anytime.
Deal struck, I struggle
with what to say now.
Is it always so awkward
after you have sex?
I watch Gabe get dressed,
admiring again the cut
of his muscles. And again
I’m bulldozed by guilt.
Everything’s changed
between him and me now.
But what about Monica?
Maya
For Casey
You arrived today. Every minute is seared into my memory.
I woke from dreams of drowning in quicksand—a slow suck under, no one I could trust to take my hand and pull—to nightmare cramps fifteen minutes apart. I wasn’t sure what labor felt like, if that was it or the fake-you-out kind. But, at a week beyond my due date, you seemed anxious to find your way into the world.
When I reached out for your daddy, his side of the bed was empty. He went out with his buddies last night and never made it home. I called and called, scared the worst had happened, but finally he answered and explained, “I was too drunk to drive, so I slept in the car.”
Something to be grateful for, I guess.
“You have to come home right now,” I told him. “It’s time to go to the hospital.”
“Are you sure?”
Seriously? “Positive.”
“I’ll be right there,” he promised.
But he wasn’t. I hate to break this to you, but Daddy isn’t very reliable. It took me a while to figure that out. It’s what happens when you marry someone you barely know. It wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. Hopefully it won’t be the worst. At least I’m not in L.A.
I suppose I kind of used you, but I promise to make that up the only way I know how—by loving you more than anything in the whole universe. Half of me can’t wait to cuddle you, play dress-up with cute little outfits. Watch you grow. Mold your life.
The other half is scared shitless. What if I can’t do this? What if being an awful mother is genetic?
Yesterday I painted your room. Your daddy and I argued about color. He wanted “cornflower” because he was sure you’d be a boy. I knew better, not that it matters, but either way, I didn’t want to resort to stereotypes. Blue doesn’t have to represent maleness any more than pink is the only suitable hue for a girl.
So I chose a pretty golden yellow, almost the exact shade of the roses that bloomed outside my windows back home in Austin. Despite the ugliness inside our house, those flowers gifted me with snapshots of beauty I could carry anywhere. I brought their memory here, and call it up when the need arises. That happens often.
Like this morning.
I waited and waited for your daddy to get home, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like I learned in Lamaze. That part was easy, but trying to relax through the clench-build-release of contractions designed by some unearthly power to move a baby closer to viable life outside its mother’s body proved impossible.
They got stronger. Closer together. When they were maybe seven minutes apart, you shifted inside me and I knew your tumbling act was wrong. Suddenly, it felt like someone stuck me with a knife right below my belly button, only from the inside out. Luckily the phone was in my hand. I dialed 9-1-1.
The ambulance was there in less than ten minutes, but it seemed like hours, and the whole time I prayed you’d be okay. A very nice EMT (that’s “emergency medical technician”) sat in back and talked to me on the drive to the hospital. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Every baby comes into the world in his or her own way.”
Your way was the hard way.
We got to the hospital and your vitals weren’t the best. The ER doc said you were in fetal distress and he needed to perform a C-section. Fast. I wanted so much to deliver you the way I’d practiced. But the pain was incredible, and once the epidural kicked in, I couldn’t feel a thing from my waist down. I did like that. In fact, since I could barely sleep last night, I dozed off. Next thing I knew, I heard you cry and the nurse said, “It’s a girl.”
Then you were in my arms, all seven pounds, eleven ounces of you, and I smiled at the titian waves of downy hair that promised you belonged to me. Jason arrived not long after that, still smelling of last night’s beer and pool-hall sweat. He didn’t want to hold you, said he was afraid of breaking you, but he did pet your pretty amber curls. “She looks like you,” he said, and that was the best compliment he could’ve ever given me.
But then, after they took you away to be cleaned and dressed and swaddled, he blew up. “They said you agreed to a Cesarean. Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Liar!” His voice was sharp and way too loud.
It was like being smacked upside the head. Again. Only, no lunatic mother involved. But I don’t guess you need to know any of that, at least not right now. One day, when you’re old enough to understand, I’ll tell you, because girls have to grow up smart.
I try not to argue with your daddy. If facts get in the way of his opinion, he won’t believe they’re true, so disagreeing with him is pointless. But I said, “I did it for our baby. She was in trouble.”
You know what he said?
“Don’t be ridiculous. She was fine. And now you’ll have a scar.”
I will have a scar, a flaw in his eyes, but to me it’s a forever reminder of my connection to you. Casey, my beautiful, perfect baby girl. Jason’s contempt for your birth journey is painful. And right now, everything hurts, but that doesn’t matter because you’re here. You’re safe. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.
Ariel
I’ve Got a Problem
Okay, I’ve got several problems,
and this one might actually
not be an issue at all,
though I think it has to be.
I like sex.
I mean, maybe it can become
a horrible habit, if that’s all
I ever think about in the future.
Right now, there’s other stuff, too.
But I like sex.
I like it with Monica. I like it
with Gabe, though the two
experiences were not the same.
At the moment
I’m not interested in liking
it with anyone else.
But if I like sex
as much as I do, what if
I can’t turn off this person
I’ve lately turned on—
pun most definitely intended?
After Gabe Left
Last night, I lay in bed
worrying. Not about the fact
that we’d made love,
or even that I’d enjoyed it
so much, but about how
it might change the way
we relate to each other.
Part of the attraction
was not acting on it, and
now that isn’t an option.
So what happens next
time we’re together?
Does having sex once
make it a requirement
going forward? I don’t
even know if that would
be such a bad thing.
But I don’t want to feel
trapped. Sex should be
spontaneous, I think, not
something expected.
And on the far end of all
that, what if I’m the one
who comes to expect it?
Look at Me
I’m a regular sex expert.
Not.
The thought is hilarious.
Totally.
I’ve barely done two positions.
Lame.
But then, I’ve done a girl and a guy.
True.
I should really stop thinking about this.
Duh.
It could become an obsession.
Maybe.
I’m going to see Gabe today.
Awesome.
I should hang out with Monica tomorrow.
Definitely.
Can we chill with no sex involved?
Only one way to find out.
What’s that?
Just say no.
But what fun is that?
Dad Still Isn’t Home
By midmorning, when Gabe picks me up.
I’m ready to go as soon as the GTO pulls
in the driveway, and I meet him outside,
denying any chance at a roll in the hay,
as Dad likes to call it, at least when talking
to me. Once I asked if he’d ever actually
done it in the hay, because it sounded itchy.
He didn’t think the question was funny,
coming from his daughter. I didn’t think
the discussion was merited, coming from
my dad, who was warning me against
rolling anywhere, anytime, with anybody.
I listened pretty well for quite a while,
though once I understood the way of things,
I thought him quite the hypocrite. I still do,
but maybe now I can forgive him some.
Meanwhile, I hop into Gabe’s car, allow
him to lean across the seat for a kiss hello.
It is sweet. Not demanding, or even requesting.
I’m a little relieved I don’t want to jump his bones.
At Least Not Right This Minute
As he backs out onto the road
I ask, “So, have you seen Dad
this morning? He survived
the eggnog, I take it?”
Yeah, but barely. He looked
beat-up hungover.
“That doesn’t surprise me.
When he gets three sheets
to the squall, a nasty hangover
is guaranteed. He deserves it.”
Yeah, he was pretty shitty
yesterday. Sorry he did that.
“Not your fault. Don’t be sorry.
Besides, I’m used to it. Sort of.”
I’m tired of talking about Dad,
and this conversation could go
somewhere I’d rather it didn’t.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
We bump along out toward
the highway, and it strikes me,
“I should probably give you
some money for gas.”
He smiles. Do you have any
money? No, I didn’t think so.
No worries. It’s okay. I planned
to see you again, and besides,
who wants to spend the day
with your dad and Zelda?
That makes me laugh. “I get
your point. But you know,
I think you need a hobby.”
He grins. How about I make
you my hobby? You, girl,
are quite entertaining.
“Entertaining? I don’t think
anyone’s ever called me that
before. It’s a good thing, right?”
A very good thing. You’re funny.
And smart. Not only smart, but you
know lots of stuff, and the two don’t
always go together. In fact, I’ve wondered
how you know as much as you do.
Didn’t you change schools a lot?
“Yeah, I did, and that was hard,
especially as I got older. But
there’s something to be said for
seeing a lot of the country and
learning that way. Plus, someone
invented these great things called
books. I read all the time.”
I Don’t Add the Part
About swiping books.
Dad called it “borrowing,”
but what we did was steal
them, sometimes from
the people we were mooching
off of, and other times
from libraries. Either Dad
would scrounge a library card,
or, if we stayed in one place
long enough, he’d get one
of his own. Once in a while
those books would get returned,
but more often they’d move on
across the country when we
did. Then Dad would make
a game of removing any pages
with a name stamped on them
and dropping the well-read books
into a return slot at a library
in another town. Rotating
books into their catalog
can only be a good thing, right?
On some level, that was true,
and it never struck me that
what we were doing was wrong
until I hit maybe fifth grade.
Books are definite necessities,
says Gabe. I spend a fair amount
of time reading myself, especially
at Zelda’s. Either that or indulge
in her steady diet of reality TV.
“Dad jokes about that. Says
if he wanted to watch people
hooking up he’d rather do it
at a bar, and as for surviving,
he’s already done that in the army.”
He sounds incredulous.
“Well, yeah. He was a mechanic.
Worked on helicopters, mostly
here in the States, but I guess
he went to Iraq for the Gulf War.
He doesn’t talk about it much.
Only when he gets really drunk.”
Wow. I never would’ve guessed.
He doesn’t seem like the type
who can take orders very well.
“Probably why he’s not still
in the army. He hated it, actually.
Said it’s for losers and fools.”
We Reach the Triple G
Turn into the driveway, where
we’re stopped by the mammoth
wrought-iron gates. Gabe pushes
the buzzer on the intercom,
and when he informs whoever’s
on the other end that we’re here,
a remote opens the barricade
to let us in, then shuts it behind
us. Is that to keep people out or in?
“Probably both. And to keep
their animals more secure.
Horses are great escape artists.”
The driveway is recently paved
and lined with tall deciduous trees,
wearing not a single leaf. On either
side, white fences enclose large
paddocks where elegant horses and
grass-fattened cattle graze. Maybe
a quarter mile in, the road splits.
To the right is the training barn,
which is huge. To the left looms
the main house, plus two smaller
cottages for guests or hired help,
at least that’s what I’m guessing.
“This place is ridiculous. Can’t wait
to see what the house is like inside.
It looks big enough for thirty people.
Pretty sure there are only three,
plus maybe a maid or twenty.”
Despite all the miles Dad and
I logged, I’ve never seen anything
like this up close. I wrap up
my musing out loud. “Bet it’s lonely.”
Nah. They probably have huge
parties and stuff. Mr. Grantham
is connected. Gabe parks in the circle,
as instructed, and before we
reach the front door, it opens.
“Don’t tell me. Security cameras.”
Peg Grantham greets us on
the front step. Come in, come in.
Hillary’s excited to see you.
She leads the way into a formal
living room, where the centerpiece
is a huge fireplace, burning some
fragrant wood. Make yourselves
at home. I’ll go help Hillary down
the stairs. She’s still a little shaky.
How Do You Feel at Home
In a single room the approximate
size of an entire apartment,
minus the walls, of course.
Not surprisingly, the decor
looks straight out of the pages
of a chic glossy magazine.
The navy-blue sofas (three!)
don’t sag, and their upholstery
is perfect. Ditto the contrasting
cream-colored overstuffed chairs.
The tables gleam under thick
coats of polish. The caramel
carpet is spotless, the cathedral
windows show no streaks
or water marks. I’m afraid
to touch anything for fear
of leaving fingerprints behind.
I’m contemplating how to sit
without leaving butt indentations
on the cushions when Hillary