Triangles (13 page)

“Won’t happen unless you say you’re sorry.” Her shoulders

drop and her hands

fall to her sides.

But still her eyes

glisten anger.

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Sorry.
It almost sounds like she means it.
I shouldn’t have said “fucking.”
NOT EXACTLY AN APOLOGY

So I’m kind of blown away

when Jace’s anger dissipates

in a cloud of inappropriate

laughter. “What’s so funny?”

It takes a few seconds for him

to hiccup to a stop and say,

She just reminds me of me is all.

I once said something similar to
my dad. The main difference

being, he kicked my ass. I don’t
guess I feel the need to kick

your ass, Mikayla. But regarding
Dylan and the game, my answer

is still the same. And until you show
us a little respect, as far as I’m
concerned, you’re still grounded.

Her fuse quite obviously lights

again, but Jace doesn’t stick

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around for the explosion.

He leaves the disarming to me.

I’VE ALWAYS CLAIMED

My kids could come to me, tell

me anything, and I’d welcome

the conversation. But words

do not find me easily now. So

when I tell Mikki, “I’m really

glad you and Dylan are in love,”

I listen to her go on and on about

how sweet he is instead of saying

what I know I should: don’t hurry

away from us, daughter; don’t rely

on a boy for love, when we have

more than enough for you right

here, and he will probably break

your heart. When she finally has

to catch her breath, I can’t believe I hear myself say, “I’ll see what

I can do about ungrounding you.”

And listen to another volley about

summer beaches and bike rides

with Dylan instead of warning

her: being in love doesn’t mean

you’re required to have sex. And

while sex is most certainly enhanced 225/881

by love, love isn’t necessarily better just because it comes with a penis.

GAME TIME

Is seven p.m. To beat the crowd, we arrive at five thirty. The team is autographing.

Bri goes all fan girl.
Please, please, please,
can we get them? I especially want …

She rattles off some names I’ve never heard of. How does she know them? Jace and Trace are more interested in hot dogs, so I volunteer to stand in the signing line with Bri. Mikayla promises to

meet us at the seats after a restroom run. I watch the progression of signature seekers. Most are younger kids with parents.

But there are also several college-age girls, and they’re probably looking for phone numbers beneath the players’ names.

Can’t blame them. A couple of these guys are really kind of amazing, especially this one. Number thirty-two. Who smiles 227/881

at Bri while fondling me with barely blue eyes. When we turn away, she says,
Hey, Mom. I think he liked you,
with something approaching awe in her voice.

We find our seats, and while we wait for the rest of the family, my dirty little brain starts composing a new story:
Big Bat Groupies.
Starring number thirty-two, and opening in the home team locker room.

I’ve got him just about down to his jock-strap when the boys arrive, loaded down with goodies.
Where’s Mikayla?
asks Jace.

I pull my head out of number thirty-two’s pants. “I haven’t seen her, but I could use a potty break myself. I’ll go look for her.

Don’t eat my hot dog.” It’s a hike to the ladies’

room. I don’t see Mikki anywhere, but on a sudden hunch, I circle the grandstands, to the rapidly filling grassy hillside above right field. And, of course, my suspicions 228/881

are confirmed. Right there, back to me, is my older daughter, kissing Dylan Douglas.

A DAUGHTER

Is a rainbow—a curve

of light through scattered

mist that lifts the spirit

with her prismatic presence.

Is

a shadow—a reminder

of something brilliant

ducking out of sight, too

easily drawn away. She is

an

aria, swelling within

the concert chamber, an

echo

reverberating across

a miniature sea.

She is a secret,

whispered, a hint

of

what we cannot know

until it finds us.

She is a sliver of her

father, a shard of

her mother.

A daughter is a promise,

kept.

Marissa

AN UNINTENDED BENEFIT

Of buying this old house, perched high in the Reno foothills, was it came

with a giant deck that has a spectacular vista of the city. It’s especially lovely at night, when windows light in quick succession, glittering gold like fairy dust, and multicolored neon creeps up tall casino walls. And on certain evenings, when the city fathers so decree,

they shoot fireworks over the concrete below. New Year’s Eve, usually.

And always on the Fourth of July.

Most locals have to drive to see them, fighting for parking and a view location.

But all we have to do is step outside the sliding glass door and settle into our comfortable patio chairs. When Shane was little, we hosted fireworks parties 231/881

for his friends. And our friends. Back when we still had friends. When we still had each other. Too much heartbreak ago.

TONIGHT, FOR THE FIRST TIME

Shelby will watch fireworks.

Even in July, evenings here

can be cool. Or windy. Neither

is good for lungs battling

to breathe. But tonight is warm

and breeze-free. So Shelby and

I will have our own fireworks

party. Shane is off with some new

friend. Could be a boyfriend,

I suppose. Other than the usual

“safe sex, please” warnings, I try

not to probe too deeply into that

part of his life. I don’t need, or

want, the details. Would I feel

differently if he were straight?

Maybe. But seems to me a father

would be more interested in his son’s sex life than a mother would. I don’t think Christian wants to know the details of our gay son’s sex life either, though.

When Shane came out two years

ago, Christian kind of turned his back 233/881

on him. Of course, by then he had

long since turned his back on me.

WHEN I LET MYSELF THINK

About it, sometimes I get angry.

Other times, I mostly feel numb.

But every now and again, sadness

descends, bone-brittling cold,

a deep of winter hailstorm, and

I am defenseless in the face of it.

I look through the polished glass

at my husband, asleep on the couch.

There, lost in sleep, his face wears no worry, and I glimpse a ghost

of the man who wrote me love letters.

Time has stolen more than sonnets.

I SLIP PAST HIM

And down the hall to Shelby’s room.

When I come in, her eyes turn

eagerly away from
Cinderella

and toward me. “Are you ready

to see fireworks?” It takes several minutes to maneuver her out of

bed and into the stander. She weighs next to nothing. I could fold her

like a pie crust. She is a dryad,

soon to return to her sacred woods.

“It’s a beautiful night. Perfect

for sharing. Oh, look. Shelby’s got wheels.” She smiles at the old joke, and we’re off on our adventure.

As we roll past Christian, still snoozing, Shelby points and sings something

very close to
Daddy.
The word drops gently into whatever dream

he’s maneuvering, because his body

responds with a definite twitch.

“Daddy’s sleeping,” I whisper.

“He had a very hard day.” Not true.

He spent the morning working in

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the study, then started on the whiskey at lunch. Home, sweet home.

IT REALLY IS GORGEOUS OUTSIDE

Not quite nine o’clock, the evening sky reminds me of agate—black, swirled with auburn and indigo. Stars scatter across the breadth of it, though you can see them best above the mountain, away from the distraction of the city’s lights. “Look, Shelster.

There’s the Big Dipper. See how it’s shaped like a giant spoon?” Her eyes glitter, and she holds her palms toward the heavens, as if trying to catch any small falling piece of them.
Pri-ee
, she says. Pretty, and I think I must show her more prettiness, sooner rather than later. We sit for several minutes, soaking in the honeysuckle perfume as the night grows dark enough to light the fuses. And finally, they do.

Shelby’s eyes grow wide with delight as the sky bursts with color. Red. Blue. Green.

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After the second mushroom of light, the door opens and, sleep-mussed, Christian comes outside.

Fireworks. I almost forgot about them.

May I join you ladies?
He pulls a patio chair over beside Shelby. Reaches for her hand. I am without words. Without breath. Afraid to even try and breathe, because if I do, this unexpected moment might vanish into ether. We are too far from the source to hear the percussions, so we sit in semi-silent awe of the aerial beauty, the exception being Shelby’s barely there
Ooh. Pri-ee’
s. I hold her other hand, and we are a three-link chain. For the first time in a very long time, we don’t feel broken. The twenty-minute display ends too soon. A slight breeze now blows over the hills, and I must take Shelby inside.

“Okay, little girl. Time for bed.” I hope she dreams of fireworks and unbroken chains.

BEDTIME

ROUTINE

ACCOMPLISHED

Shelby is well on her way to Dreamland.

I leave her with a kiss on her forehead.

It’s almost eleven, and Shane still hasn’t come in, though his curfew

is fast approaching. I think about

waiting up for him, but Christian is here.

Might as well let him play the part of disciplinarian. I can hear him in the kitchen, so I go to join him

there. When I slip into the room,

he turns from the counter, two drinks in hand.
Thought you could use this.

What the hell. Maybe just one.

I take the glass. “Thanks. And thanks for tonight. You made Shelby very

happy.” I try a sip—cognac, neat.

My favorite, once upon a time.

He remembered. That surprises me.

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Christian gulps his own drink.
She deserves
happiness. Glad she saw fireworks.

And now it starts to feel awkward.

I take a bigger sip, enjoy the slight burn, and the pleasant way my head

is starting to buzz. Call me a lightweight.

“Okay, well, I’m going to bed. Shane is a little late. You might want to call him?” Christian agrees and I go to my bedroom, finishing my drink on the way. Before I do anything else, I turn up the volume on the intercom. Just in case. Brush my teeth.

Wash my face. Slip out of my clothes and between the black satin sheets—my own bedtime routine accomplished. Brain pleasantly fuzzy, I slide toward sleep.

And the door opens. Shuts. Footsteps cross the floor. It’s Christian. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing.
The covers lift and he finesses into bed.
I wanted to sleep in here. Okay?

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My first instinct is to tense. But then a deeper, needier instinct takes over. “Okay.”
HE SMELLS OF WHISKY-BEADED

SWEAT

But permeating that is the scent

of male. Testosterone or pheromone, wherever it is carried, it cannot be ignored.

Though his back is to me, I reach for him, and when he turns, I throw myself into his arms and we are kissing with a ferocity that only strangers share.

His hands snarl into my hair, pin

my head to the pillow as his mouth

travels my neck, teeth and tongue working in unison, to the taut knots that are my nipples.

He grows rigid against my leg and I sigh but say nothing, afraid words will wake me from whatever dream this has become.

One hand comes loose from my hair.

It moves down between my legs, finds undertow. One finger, two, go inside me.

Three. Plunging. I am close but fight cresting with all I have. He licks along my torso, and his face seeks the V

between my thighs, tongue joining

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fingers. This is something remembered.

But when he pushes inside me, the intensity of his thrusts is nothing I’ve ever known.

Who is this man? Does he belong to me?