Gabe must be off somewhere,
and that’s fine by me.
I’m here to commiserate
with Zelda and don’t need
a distraction.
She must have been
waiting for me,
because she answers
my knock right away.
I realize this is the first
time I’ve been here
without Dad and/or Gabe.
I hoped you’d come, she says.
How about a drink?
God knows I’ve had a couple.
I think it over, but decide,
“Better not. At some point
I’ll have to drive. You go
right ahead, though.”
I follow her inside,
where it looks like Christmas.
Red and green garlands sway
over doorways and windows,
and in the living room
is one of those pop-up trees,
all trimmed and lit.
“When did this happen?
How did this happen?”
It didn’t look like this
last time I was here.
“Don’t tell me it was elves.”
She snorts. Wish it were
that easy. Gabe and I have
been working on it. He’s done
most of it, in fact. So maybe
I do have an elf, though
he’s a pretty tall specimen.
Christmas is still two weeks
away, but it’s not like Dad
and I ever put up a tree
or hang stockings. I’ve never
even considered doing such
things. “Well, it’s pretty.”
It seemed prettier a few hours
ago. Have a seat. There’s stuff
you should know. She gulps
whatever it is she’s drinking.
I perch on the edge of the sofa,
rather than settle in. Not sure
I’ll let myself feel comfortable
again. At least with discomfort
you’re clear on the truth. Suddenly
I don’t know why I came here.
What can I say, really?
The Feeling Must Be Mutual
Because even as Zelda sits
in the adjacent recliner,
a huge sheet of Arctic ice
coalesces in the silence
between us. To break it,
I ask, “Where’s Gabe?”
This is not what I’m here
to talk about, but Zelda’s all in.
Gabe went out to the ranch
to visit Hillary. I’m being direct
here, because it’s one of the things
you should know. Lately they’ve
been spending time together.
Glacier broken, a big chunk
sinks. Glub-glub. Gabe and
Hillary. Wow. Didn’t see that
one coming. It’s crushing,
but why? Not like he and I
are an actual couple, just
friends with privileges.
And only a few hours ago,
I thought I didn’t care about
Syrah flirting with him.
Is it because that was out
in the open, and this definitely
wasn’t? Are all guys sneaks?
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
He should have, and I’m sure
he would have eventually.
I think he was waiting to see
how things panned out, but
honestly, he’s smitten. Sorry
to drop this in your lap on top
of everything else, but today
is the day for coming clean.
“I guess it is. So you know,
I have no freaking clue how
Dad managed to keep me
in the dark about everything.
Obviously I’m stupid.”
That makes two of us. But listen.
There’s more. After you left
and your dad took off, I stayed
and talked to Ms. McCabe
for a few minutes. You need
to know that she was awarded
legal custody of you. As her story
goes, one December morning
when you were very little she was
at work when Mark—I can’t think
of him as Jason—picked you up
from daycare. He was in the army
when he took off with you, and
that made him AWOL. Now
he’s considered a deserter.
Awesome
Just keeps getting better
and better. “So now what?
Is he going to be arrested?”
She says she hasn’t called
the authorities. I believe her,
though I can’t understand
She doesn’t want to take
a chance on pushing you away.
“I’m not hers to push anywhere.
Why did she track us down now,
anyway? Why, after all this time?”
Honey, she swears she never
stopped looking for you, though
the trail got cold after a while.
“What if she’s making it all up?
How hard could it have been?
What about Ma-maw and Pops?
She must have known them,
and I stayed with them a few
times. Easy to find me there.”
I have no answer to that, or
any opinion about why now.
All I know is, this is complicated.
Complicated
Zelda is the Queen of Understatement.
I mean, what am I supposed to do?
Go home?
Home?
What’s that?
Get up and go to work tomorrow,
as if nothing unusual has happened?
Unusual?
More like
mind-bending.
And then on Monday, do I go to school,
practice layups and free throws afterward?
Algebra.
Basketball.
Just another day?
How do I figure out my identity
when I don’t even know my name?
Ariel?
Casey?
Who the hell
am I?
My Sonora Anchor
Seems pretty flimsy
at the moment, and
it occurs to me that
to Dad “attachment”
is a foreign concept.
“So what happened
with Dad? Did he say
anything?”
I can’t repeat most
of it. I try not to use
language like that,
but what he said
to Ms. McCabe was
totally inappropriate. . . .
“That much I already
guessed. But what did
he say to you? Did he offer
any kind of an explanation?”
Denial, denial, denial.
That’s what he offered,
and when I didn’t swallow
a word of it, he stormed
off. Left the rest of us
standing there gawking.
The Word
That springs to mind concerning
Dad is “coward.” I’ve never before
thought about him in that way.
Not sure why not. He was never
exactly hero material, but he was
all I had, so I guess I respected
him for that. I’ve lost all respect now.
“So what are you going to do?”
Zelda shrugs. The quickest
way to destroy a relationship
is dishonesty. I love your dad,
or thought I did, and believed
&nbs
p; he loved me, too. Love can weather
small deceptions, but this . . .
She shakes her head. To have
absolutely no clue who the person
you’ve devoted eight months of your life
to really is? That’s hard to think
about, and trusting him—or anyone—
after this will be impossible, I’m afraid.
Eight months of your life? What
about the entire seventeen years
of my existence? Still, I feel sorry
for her. She doesn’t deserve this.
Nobody does.
Trying to Process
Everything will take
a while. A long while.
Zelda and I sit in silent
consideration.
Thoughts ping-pong
inside my skull, and the pain
of that is very real.
I’ve spent years denying
my mother’s existence.
Years wading through
resentment, completely
sucked into the lie
that she didn’t want me.
Years with absolutely zero
doubt I was Ariel Pearson.
What else don’t I know?
That terrifies me.
I think about Maya McCabe.
The excitement in her eyes.
Eyes, as I recall them,
the approximate same shade
as mine. And her hair, though
it’s straighter, is the exact
color of mine.
“I look like her, don’t I?”
No hesitation. Yes, you do.
“I . . . I just . . . I don’t . . .”
I know exactly how you feel.
But now Zelda takes the time
to study me. Nope. Wrong.
I can’t possibly know how
you feel. I’m sorry, Casey.
“Don’t call me that! I hate
that name.” I’m Ariel.
Really? I think it’s cute. You
should probably try it on for
size. It sort of fits you, actually.
Me? Casey?
Casey.
Casey.
Casey and Maya.
“Dad never called her Maya.
He called her Jenny, when
he bothered to call her anything
other than dyke, bitch, or whore.
Do you think that woman with
spiky hair is Maya’s partner?”
Not her partner. Her wife.
“So she is a lesbian.”
Apparently. Does it matter?
I Don’t See How It Can
I might be a lesbian,
or at least halfway gay.
Why should it bother me
at all that my mother
is married to a woman?
But somehow it seems to.
I guess it’s been such a big part
of Dad’s chronicle for so long.
He made me choke it down—
a heaping spoonful of bitterness.
At the moment I just want to puke
it back up, spit it in Dad’s face.
“How the fuck could he do this to me?”
My eyes sting and I burrow them
into the palms of my hands. “Holy
shit, Zelda! My entire childhood
is gone. He made me believe I was
someone I wasn’t. He made me
believe he was all I needed. Not
friends. Not family. Not my . . .”
Mom
Mom.
I know the word.
Can’t comprehend its meaning.
I’ve seen moms on TV.
Handsome women with scripted
senses of humor who forgive
their kids’ mistakes, regardless
of how huge and in-your-face
the infractions are. Yeah, right.
TV moms don’t count.
I’ve seen moms in the park.
Pushing their kids
on the merry-go-round, wearing
permanent smiles and texting
who-knows-who. Beneath
Sephora makeup and Pilates bods,
park moms are real
plastic.
I’ve seen moms at school.
Delivering forgotten homework
or lunches, or birthday cupcakes,
all decked out in fancy jogging
suits and perfect ponytails,
quick to hug, slow to scowl,
at least in that setting.
School moms know how
to make an entrance.
I’ve seen all these moms
over the years, and none quite
measured up to my romanticized,
highly stylized vision
of the mom I pretended
belonged to me.
I can still picture her:
She’s young and pretty.
Her favorite outfit is well-worn
jeans, a soft angora sweater.
Her eyes are deep ponds
of wisdom. If I stare into them
long enough, I’ll find the answers
I need. She’s tough and bold,
but her lap is my haven,
and her hands are cups
of tenderness. When
she holds me, my thirst
for home is satisfied.
I imagined her.
Yearned for her.
Went to sleep crying
for her. Eventually,
I gave up on her.
What am I supposed
to do with her now?
I Leave Zelda
Quietly drowning
her bewilderment
in tumblers of alcohol.
I must not inherently
be a drunk, or I would
have joined her. Escape
seems preferable
to confrontation, but
it’s the latter I go in search
of, and I have zero idea
what I’ll face when I walk
in the door at home.
Passing the Triple G,
I spy the distant silhouette
of Gabe’s GTO parked
in front of the house, and
a sharp sense of loss slices
into my solar plexus.
But I’m not sure
if Gabe is to blame.
I guess, thinking back over
the past couple of weeks,
he was pulling away,
but it was a subtle change
and not one I noticed.
What does that say
about me?
Oh, How I Wish
That losing Gabe
(who I never exactly
“had,” or even wanted
to) was my biggest
problem. If I
concentrate
solely on that,
direct all my worry
and energy there,
will the too-immense-to-
imagine
problem just go away?
For years and years
all I wanted was
a solid home, and not
one I had to
invent
in my mind over
and over again.
But not in my wildest
dreams did I ever
envision
the scope of
Dad’s deception,
and no matter what
I do or want, there’s
no way my life won’t
change.
Dad’s at the House
When I get there. I expected that.
But the pandemonium inside
comes as a shock, don’t ask me
why. I should’ve guessed.
Dad’s running around in panic mode,
stuffing personal possessions into
a duffel bag. Three large suitcases
already clog the hall by the front door.
“What are you doing, Dad?” I ask,
though it’s pretty damn obvious
he’s making plans to disappear. Again.
Well, he’s going without me this time.
He pauses his packing long enough
to answer. We have to go now, Ari.
I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave
your car here. Too easy to trace.
“Nope. Count me out. I’m staying
right here, along with my car.
I’m not running away, and neither
are you. Can we just get real for once?”
I am getting real, and we are getting
the hell out. This is all your fault.
Oh, you just had to get your ass on TV,
didn’t you? You just had to fuck things up.
What the serious hell? “Me? You want
to blame this on me? Are you totally
out of your goddamn mind? You—”
I don’t see his backhand coming.
It connects with my right cheek,
snapping my mouth closed around
the remainder of the sentence.
Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare
talk to me like that. Just who
the hell do you think you are?
The look in his eyes defies
anything human. “Nobody.”
That’s exactly right. He’s pulling
in breath like it’s an effort. Nobody.
His hands clench, and experience
whispers this could go from bad
to much worse.
I Lift My Hand
To my throbbing cheek,
hope to attract a small
measure of sympathy,
as I start a slow backward
creep, one foot behind
the other. He notices
and when he starts toward
me, I get ready to run.
“Is my name Casey Baxter?”
The simple question stops
his approach, and the concrete
set of his jaw softens.
Not anymore.
“Who is Ariel Pearson?
And Mark? Who is he?”
Dad’s shoulders drop.
The tide of peril recedes.
Look, Ari. There are things
you don’t know, and shouldn’t.
“You mean, like you went
AWOL and officially now
you’re a deserter?” Carefully.
Must play this carefully.
Who the fuck told you that?
Make It Personal
“Zelda. And what about her?
Is she just another use-
her-and-toss-her woman?
I thought she was different.”
No such thing as different.
All women are the same.
“Come on, Dad. You don’t believe