Fallout (75 page)

HE WAS RIGHT

Not what I wanted to hear.

But what exactly did I want

to hear? That this little reunion

was going to end up a fairy tale?

Darn right that’s what I wanted

to hear. I sit, semi-stunned,

watch the snow begin to fall

harder. “Does she want me or not?”

I wish I knew what to tell you.

I don’t know what she wants
,

and even if I did, I couldn’t

speak for Kristina. I know she thinks

she has the right to know you.

That my father and Cora were

wrong for keeping you apart.

And I agree as far as that goes.

But I seriously doubt she has

the ability to take care of you
,

if that’s what’s on your mind.

Small steps, honey. One at a time.

AS HE TALKS

We crest the summit. The snowflakes

blossom, grow into half-dollar-sized

white petals, pirouetting to collect

on the ground. Despite its heavy

frame, the Cadillac begins to fishtail.

Trey pulls off the highway, behind

a collection of semis and other two-

wheel-drive automobiles.
Time to

chain up, I guess.
He gets out

to attempt the complex process.

I stay in the relative warmth

of the car. Close my eyes.

Hear Trey say,
Small steps
,

honey.
Honey? Seriously?

And, in case he hasn’t noticed,

which no doubt he hasn’t, up

until the last week or so, I’ve

taken nothing but baby steps

my entire life. And even those

were mostly guided for me.

This trip was a giant step. I’ll

deal with what’s on the other

end the way I always do. Deep

and deeper breaths, gathering gold

flecks to keep from going insane.

Then there’s the monumental

step of having a baby. Bryce or

no Bryce, I will never put anyone

or anything ahead of my child.

Substances? No way. That includes

alcohol. I will never touch a drop.

Not as long as I’m pregnant and

not if some tiny person’s life

depends on me sober. Baby?

Are you listening? Are you really

alive inside me? Oh God.

If you are, how will I ever take

care of you? My fingers go

tingly. My breath falls shallow.

Small steps. One at a time.

BISHOP TO CARSON CITY

Is about three hours in good weather.

This is not good weather. Talk about

initiation by blizzard. Even Trey

is impressed.
I’ve seen it come

down pretty good, but never

quite like this. Hope a plow

comes through soon. Chains aren’t

going to help much otherwise.

Eventually, one does catch up

to us. Trey moves as far to one

side of the road as he can to let

the guy pass.
Looks like just him and us.

Late afternoon. Christmas Eve.

Snow forming a dense white curtain.

Oh, yeah. We’re pretty much alone

out here. “Stay close to the plow, okay?”

Trey laughs.
Don’t worry, little girl.

I won’t let anything bad happen to you.

TOO LATE, DUDE

But I don’t say that. In fact,

I don’t say much of anything

the rest of the way into Carson

City. Nevada’s capital, all wrapped

up in white for Christmas.
Your

grandparents live just a little

north of here. Maybe we should

get a room and clean up?

We check into a Holiday Inn

Express on the far side of town.

It’s kind of pricey
, says Trey.

But hey, Merry Christmas.

I shower first, to let my hair

dry. While Trey goes to wash

off his guy-stink, I change into

my pretty Aunt Cora skirt, top

with a jade angora sweater.

I stand sideways in the full-

length mirror hanging on

the closet door. Flat tummy.

ALL PRETTIED UP

We head out the door, where

the snowfall continues unchecked.

When we get in the car, Trey slams

the door. He starts the car, puts it

into reverse, and I begin to shake.

“Wait.” Icy tentacles thread my veins,

choke-hold my lungs. They scream for

breath. And my heart punches

against my chest. “Please, wait.”

Trey slams on the brakes.
What?

His voice is taut, his eyes frantic.

Are you having a heart attack?

I shake my head, close my eyes,

concentrate on finding air.

And suddenly, it’s there.

I suck it down. “P-panic attack.

I’m o-okay now. We c-c-can go.”

But we can’t. Because just as we

start to turn onto the highway, a big

flashing sign overhead warns:

Whiteout conditions. Road closed.

Summer
NOT MUCH ROMANTIC

About living homeless.

It’s hasn’t even been a week.

We reek.

No showers for six

days would be bad enough

on its own, but Kyle is

sweating

out the last vestiges of

meth in his system. For me,

he says, though as yet

we barely speak

about what that really

means. That he’ll never

do drugs again? Will he be

forgetting

how much pain he’s put

up with the last couple

of days as soon as

the tweak is

calling out to him again?

What I need to know is

how big a

part

of Kyle the crystal is.

And I need to know

how big a part it is

of us.

I NEVER THOUGHT

That much about it before. When

you’re not around someone

twenty-four/seven, you

cherish every minute

together, no questions.

No “Why are you so

sweet-natured most of

the time, foul-tempered

the rest?” No “How much

of your emotion is fueled

by artificial means?” No

“What would we be

if you cut yourself

off from something

you’ve relied on

just to see you

through the day?”

And the biggest

of them all: No

“Who are you really,

and do I love

that person too?”