who they are at seventeen.
Or eighteen, or nineteen or
maybe ever, for that matter.
My dad used to say you learn
something new every day.
If that’s true, don’t you change
a little every time? How can
you learn something new
and still be the same?
“I don’t know. But ‘new’ and
counterintuitive are two
different things. I prefer new.”
As Accurate
As my response is,
his question
is valid.
I understand
that while
the definition
of the external
me
seems to
have changed,
intrinsically,
I’m the same
person I was
prior to . . .
yesterday.
How
is
that
even
possible?
Fortuitously
We’ve reached the Triple
G and I can think
about what I’ve got to do
now instead of what
might come afterward.
Gabe asks for the key
to the Focus, promises
to extricate it from the ditch,
then continues to the house.
Hillary is a lucky girl.
I arrive at the barn
with five minutes to spare.
Max, who has already saddled
a bay gelding, can’t help
but notice my gorgeous face.
Boy, I hope whoever did
that to you got it worse.
“Actually, my steering wheel
looks a whole lot better than
I do. It was just a little accident.”
He’s unconvinced, but lets
it go. You okay to ride?
Superfly there is raring to go.
“How can I turn him down?
No worries. I’ll be fine.”
The horse’s name totally fits.
Wind sharp through my hair,
we circle the big paddock on
a well-used track. Trot to warm
up, urge him into a lope, and
after once around, when I give
him his head we are, indeed,
flying. The syncopation
of his gait; the warm puffs
of his exhales into the chill
air; the rising scent of horse
as he works up a sweat.
These things make sense, and
I’m grateful for their logic.
Slow him, walk him to cool
the heat of his exertion.
Return him to Max, who has
a sorrel filly ready to ride.
We work like this for two-
plus hours, and this time
when I return the young
stallion, Hillary’s waiting
to talk with me. “Okay to take
a short break?” I ask Max.
He grins. If my boss there says
so, and I imagine she does.
I Hand Over the Reins
And go to join Hillary,
who’s sitting on a soft bale
of straw. She takes a good,
long look at my face, winces.
Gabe told me what happened.
I’m so, so sorry, Ariel. Oh, by
the way, he’s meeting the tow
truck at your car. As long
as it’s okay to drive, they’ll
drop it off here for you.
A sudden thought crosses
my mind. “How much do you
think it will be? I don’t have
any money to speak of, and—”
Don’t worry. I’ll cover it.
You can pay me back whenever.
In fact, if you need a few dollars
to hold you over till you get
paid, I’m happy to loan it to you.
“Wow, Hillary, that’s really
nice. I’ll let you know if I do.”
Okay. But, listen. I . . . uh . . . wanted
to talk to you about Gabe and me.
I know you two had a thing, and
since I’ll be seeing a lot of you
here with the horses—
“Hey. Don’t worry. I’m cool
with it. Gabe and I are just
friends, okay?” I don’t feel
the need to confess anything
about special privileges,
even though her expression
tells me she definitely knows.
I wanted to hear it from you.
He also mentioned your mom
showing up after the game.
That must have been a shock.
“Hillary, that is a major
understatement. I truly
believed I’d never see
my mother again, and
honestly, I never wanted
to. I’m still not sure I do.
The only thing I feel
for her is resentment.”
Even as the words leave
my mouth, I hear how
cold they must sound
to an outsider. Will I
ever thaw all the way out?
Hillary Nods Understanding
But now she says simply,
I’d give anything for a little
more time with my mom.
She doesn’t add the part
about that being impossible,
but she doesn’t have to.
I get what she’s trying to tell
me. “I know, and I wish it were
in my power to give that to you.”
Instead, I’ll just give her my
not-quite-a-boyfriend. “As far
as my mother, we’re supposed
to meet next Saturday after
I finish up here. I’ve got a week
to figure out what to say.”
Another curt nod, and like
the last, it means she wants
to offer unsolicited advice.
Maybe you should just listen
and decide how to respond
after that. Not that you asked.
“I don’t mind. You happen to be
right. Meanwhile, better get back
to work. I need to earn my pay.”
Two more things. We’re having
a holiday party next Saturday
night. Aunt Peg’s planning it, so
it should be amazing. Lots of food
and a band from Sac. I’d love for you
to come, and you’re welcome to
bring a date—or your mom—
if you’d like. Second, I’m aware
you might need a place to stay
for a while. We’ve got lots of spare
rooms if it comes to that. I’m serious.
At least till you figure things out.
First her car, and now this?
“For real? Wow, Hillary,
that’s incredibly generous.
I don’t know what I’m going
to do yet, but my options
are limited. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Please do. You don’t have to
carry this alone. One last thing.
There’s strength in forgiveness.
I Would Never Have Believed
I could like Hillary Grantham.
But she really is a decent human
being. I’m glad she and Gabe hit
it off. They deserve each other.
I go back to riding and she goes
back to whatever it is she’s got
planned for the day after taking
the time to try and improve mine.
By the time I finish, my rear
end’s sore, but my brain
is functioning on a higher level,
and that’s a good thing because
now I’ve got to go and see what
remains of the place I’ve called
home for the last eighteen months.
The Focus is parked just outside
the barn, with a note on it saying
it’s okay to drive, despite a few
scratches on the driver’s side.
Just as I’m about to leave, Peg
arrives on scene, waves me over.
Oh my God. What did I do now?
And why is this the first
thought to pop into my head?
But she is kind. Hillary confided
what’s going on with you.
I just wanted to affirm her offer
of a place to stay with us here.
Too kind. “Thank you. I really
appreciate it. I’ll have a few
days to work out if that’s
something I’ll need.”
Wonder exactly how much
they know. What did Gabe tell
Hillary, and what information
did she pass on to her aunt?
I understand the tenuousness
of your situation. Advice is cheap,
but for what it’s worth, I don’t
recommend hasty decisions.
You’ve lost the majority of your
life to subterfuge, but there are
a lot more years ahead of you.
Make the wrong choice now,
there might be no turning back
around. I speak from experience.
You’ve got all the time in the world.
Consider carefully. Regret is an illness.
I Drive Home Slowly
Thinking
about forgiveness.
Is there strength in it?
Idiocy?
Defeatism,
perhaps?
Where would I
even start?
Who would I
even start with?
Why would I
even want to?
Next, the concept
of regret.
This one
I’ve had no time for.
This one
I’ve had no need for.
This one
I’d rather not
make room for.
The Driveway Is Empty
No sign of Dad’s car,
which offers both relief
and a sinking feeling.
For once the front door
isn’t locked, and on the far
side of the threshold,
all the suitcases are gone
and the house is winter-cold,
no shoes lined up beneath
the thermostat. I wander
room to room, absorbing
what’s left of Dad’s presence—
the scent of his deodorant
over the sweat, oil, and booze
BO it never could quite conceal.
And more than a trace
of tobacco. It permeates
every room in the house.
There are even butts,
stomped on the floor. Why not?
It’s not his home anymore.
He Didn’t Leave
A good-bye note
except for seven words,
scrawled on the wall
by the door
in black Sharpie:
FUCK YOU
YOU MADE ME
DO THIS
Fuck who, Dad?
Fuck me?
Fuck Maya?
Fuck the whole
goddamn world?
And what did I, or
any of us, make you do?
Make you leave?
Make you kidnap me?
Make you decide
to try and kill me?
Oh, how I wish I knew
if that’s what you
had in mind.
I Still Can’t Quite
Bring myself to believe it.
Not enough evidence.
Not enough witnesses.
Way too much shared past.
Well, at least he eliminated
my need to decide whether
or not to move on. I crank
up the heat. Why not? Who’s
going to tell me I can’t?
That’s the little kid left
in me. The emerging adult
does ask who’s going to pay
the bill. Since it’s in Mark
Pearson’s name, it won’t be
me. And it won’t be Dad, either.
Should I feel guilty? All I feel
at the moment is warm. I go
into the kitchen, see what’s
left to eat in the cupboards
and fridge. Not a whole lot,
but then there rarely was.
The alcohol, I notice, is all
gone, which is probably good.
If I’m going to do this on my own,
I’m damn sure doing it right.
That means getting up for school
tomorrow morning and practicing
basketball tomorrow night.
Suddenly I’m starving. I fix
a couple frozen burritos
out of the half dozen Dad left
behind. Wonder if Hillary’s
invitation to move in includes
food. They probably wouldn’t
let me starve. I’ll figure something
out, because that’s what people do.
I wolf down the mediocre
Mexican food, wishing it was
Monica’s mom’s tamales.
Then I shower off the horse
smell eclipsing my own nervous
stink, slip into some hammies,
call Monica to tell her I love
her. Her echoed te amo settles
gently against my pillow.
Good thing I’m exhausted.
I tumble toward slumber, hoping
my dreams aren’t nightmares.
One Week
Until winter break, I plow
through schoolwork, finals,
basketball practice, and two
games—Monday away, which
we blow, and one at home
on Friday, in which we blow
the other team away.
Monday night I sucked.
Friday night, I kill it.
I’ve managed to regain
confidence and footing,
mostly because of my friends,
who’ve rallied around me,
offering support, ideas, food,
and a whole lot of love.
I haven’t heard a word
from my absentee father.
The next two weeks will offer me
lots of time to ride and earn
some extra cash. Plus, Peg’s
vowed to start my dressage
training. It’ll be good
to have something new
to keep my brain occupied.
I can’t not think about Dad.
I can’t not worry about Dad.
Not One Word
Not even a call checking
up on me.
He doesn’t care at all,
does he?
And I’m worried about him?
So why tonight
after the game do
I abandon my teammates
and very best friend,
leave them to celebrate
without me?
Why do I return
to the house I, for
the first time in my life,
thought of as home,
thinking maybe
he’ll be here,
knowing
he won’t. Why
do I sit here alone
and cry for my dad?
The dad who left me
reeling
six days ago, barely
enough time
for my bruises
to fade green.
The dad who never
allowed me a real family,
with a mom who I now suspect
might’ve loved me
all along.
The dad who constructed
our lives on a foundation
cemented with lies.
Where did he go?
What’s his name now?
When he meets
his next woman,
will he even admit
there’s a me?
He won’t, will he?
No, he’s excised me
from his fabricated
history.
I am raging.
I am wounded.
I am lost.
Saturday Morning
At the barn, Max, Peg, and I
discuss a possible schedule.
Understanding my situation,
they offer plenty of hours.
The horses—and we—will
miss the extra attention when
you go back to school, says Max.
“Once I finish basketball I’d
love to come work after school.
I’d leave the team, but I’m not
a quitter.” I realize that’s true.
We wouldn’t want you any
other way, says Peg. We’ll be
able to give you as many hours
as you want. Hillary’s doctor
insists she give up riding, and
regardless, she’s planning to start
at University of the Pacific in the fall.
“I thought she was going
to Stanford. Why the change
of plans?” But it hits me just
as Peg confirms, Gabe. UOP
is in Stockton. It’s kind of nice,
really. She’ll be closer to home.
Quick Decision
Must be someone’s idea
of love. I’d ask if she’s already
been accepted, but I figure
if her dad can guarantee
Stanford, UOP is a no-brainer.
It’s called connections.
Maybe one day I’ll have some.
Max goes to saddle a horse
for me and I take the time
to ask Peg, “So when Hillary
goes, you’re staying?
I mean, you could move
back to New York.”
I could do a lot of things,
but I’ve made a life here,
and just because one element
will change doesn’t mean
I want to uproot myself again.
“I get it. But what about
your fiancé? No chance
at putting that back together?”
He’s married now, with three
kids, but even if he wasn’t,
I wouldn’t try to rebuild