Fallout (37 page)

EVEN SO

One thing I do know.

I don’t ever want to

make him mad at me,

and he does not much

care for the “oh, poor

me” routine. So I’ll suck

it up. Still, my melting

smile must signal

disappointment. “That’s

okay. We’ll get together

tomorrow, right?”

Couldn’t keep me away.

He reaches for my shirt,

pulls, and not too gently.

Again, we are connected

by the kind of kiss that

should be integral

to every single good-bye.

I WATCH THE DUST

Of his retreat lift

into the bitter

blue sky. Not

a single cloud

to catch it.

Clear.

Cold.

Empty.

Like how I feel

right now. Love

is strange. One

minute you’re

jungle fever.

The next

you’re

Arctic

winter.

I’M GETTING DRESSED

For our like-a-real-family Thanksgiving

Day jaunt to Dad’s all-time favorite

Carrows when my cell warbles.

Kyle! I scramble to find the phone

hidden in the chaos that is my dresser.

But no, it’s not Kyle. (Why did I think

it would be?) When I see whose number

has in fact materialized on caller ID,

I consider pretending I never heard

the very loud ring tone. Still, it is a holiday.

Guess I should pick up. “Hey, Mom.

Happy Thanksgiving.” I expect some

sweet, if bogus, holiday greeting.

Instead she launches verbal mortars.

I called Darla and Phil’s to say hello

and they told me you’re not there

anymore. You’re living with your dad?

Why didn’t you bother to let me know?

My first instinct is to lob a grenade

right back at her, but something in her

voice says she doesn’t want to go to war.

She sounds ready to implode. “You okay?”

That’s all it takes to light the fuse.

She’s falling bricks.
No. I’m not okay.

The boys are with your grandparents

in Reno because Ron set me up….

The fifteen-minute rant nets some

pertinent information. Mom’s fragile

life has shattered yet again. Ron beat

her up, possibly left a stash of meth

where the cops who came calling

could, or even would, find it. And now

it’s up to her, in a couple of weeks,

to try and convince a judge that she,

a proven liar and twice-convicted

felon, is, this time, completely innocent.

Best of luck, mother-of-mine. I don’t

believe you. Why should a judge?

BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHE WANTS

To hear. So I listen without commentary.

And, I guess, less sympathy than she,

for some stupid reason, expects.

Well
? she finishes.
Nothing to say?

Her supercilious tone irritates me.

“Sucks to be you,” is the best I can

do. What does she want from me?

How can you be so … so mean?

Now, somehow, it’s on me? My turn

to blow. “God, Mom, are you stupid

or what? Why don’t you move the fuck

away from there? Go somewhere

Ron can’t find you. Start over …

Get a real job. Take care of your kids.”

How would I do that? I don’t have—

“Don’t say it. Don’t say you don’t have

the resources. Grandma Marie would

help. You know that. You’re just a …”

A what?
Her breathing sounds tattered.

I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.

I can’t. I’m sick of her freaking

excuses. “A goddamn coward.

It’s easier to keep on living like you

do. Day-to-day. No thought for

the future or the past. Not caring

about the shit you’re always crotch-

deep in. What about the boys,

Mom? What about any of us?”

She is quiet for a very long time.

I hope it’s because something I said

actually sliced through her denial.

But no.
Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.

And she’s gone. Suddenly I want

to take it all back. Damn her, anyway.

I love her. I hate her. I wish

I didn’t know her. I ache to know

her better. My glass bravado

cracks. Splinters. Crashes down.

I NEVER CRY

Never, ever cry over Mom

or the charade that is my life.

But tears fall now. And I do

nothing to try and stop them.

God, how I want to let her in.

But I know she’d only shut me out.

Doesn’t matter why—meth or

men or something I can’t fathom

at all—the fact is, she’s incapable

of loving me like a mother should.

So I can’t let myself love her

like a daughter should. To unlock

myself in such a way would simply

be an invitation to heartbreak.

ALMOST DONE

Feeling sorry for myself when

a little warning chimes in my head.

Mom is the queen of denial.

Not her meth? Maybe not, but

odds are

decent she’s using again.

Wouldn’t be the first time

she jumped off the wagon.

One time she came to visit so

high

that she didn’t realize the guy

she was putting the moves on

happened to be my caseworker.

Not like we all couldn’t tell

she

was lit. Her sweat-sequined skin

leaked a smell like tar remover.

When Darla asked if she wanted

to join us for dinner, Mom

lied,

claiming a bad case of fast-food

poisoning. And when the cute

clean-cut dude finally mentioned

his official relationship

to me,

she added disgusting details

about her fabricated illness,

used them to make a hasty

escape. Like anyone believed her.

MEMORY LANE

Is an ugly stroll. I’m working hard

to turn the corner when Dad finally

calls,
Let’s go, girls. I can hear

a big ol’ burger mooing my name.

Does he have even the faintest

idea how stupid that sounded?

Maybe not. But evidently Kortni

does.
Burgers don’t moo, idiot.

Idiot. Nice. This little outing should

go well. I settle into the rotting

backseat of Dad’s decrepit Chevy

Impala. Stinks like cigarette-

tainted armpit drip. Reminds

me again of Mom. How can

she ruin every holiday (even

the ones that don’t feel much

like holidays) without even being

there? Why can’t I just forget her?