Triangles (36 page)

a snowball down the mountain.

Or you might initiate an avalanche.

A purposeful move, with varying

outcomes that can’t be predicted.

And once the snow begins to slide,

the result cannot be changed.

I’ve been kicking ice for months

now, rolling snowballs downhill.

As an unseasonable warm snap

increases the likelihood of avalanche, the possibility of discovery grew

exponentially the longer I kept

my journal. Which raises the question: did I, in some cubbyhole of my psyche, want to get caught? And if so, why, if not to have the excuse I need

to walk away from the life I so

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tediously built in my youth?

But is forty too old to start over?

THE CRAZY THING IS

When it all came crashing down,

I had no idea implosion was imminent.

Jace’s entrance was understated.

I noticed his “Is there something

you want to tell me?” look, but I swear my brain went straight to Mikayla

and her little secret. She made me swear not to tell Jace until she and Dylan make their decision. Her decision,

really. Dylan is Play-Doh. Regardless, as of yesterday, she’s still working things through. She doesn’t have much time left if she chooses to terminate.

I don’t think she will, despite my best advice. Abortion is never an easy call.

Though the light in your womb is no more than a flicker, you understand it’s life.

Snuffing it out haunts you. I know.

But if she doesn’t, there goes her life, not to mention senior year. Shot, like Dylan shot his wad. Shot, like my marriage.

I WISH THE CONFRONTATION

Would have been nasty. Vicious,

even. So much easier to defend

yourself when the other person

attacks with vehemence. But when

Jace came into the bedroom, holding the journal, he wasn’t so much calm as confused. Like he just couldn’t

believe the words he found inscribed on those pages could possibly

have been connected to me, let alone written by me somehow.
Hey, I …

uh … was looking for your address
book and … uh, found this.

He lifted the book, pinched

between his thumb and forefinger.

I tried to keep my expression

indifferent. “Oh, that. I told you

I was thinking about writing erotica, right? I’ve got a pretty great imagination, don’t you think? I only hope it pays.” There was a slow creep of crimson

up his neck, onto his cheeks.
Are you
saying that’s all made up? Yes or no,
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you wouldn’t really try to publish it,
would you? Have you no self-respect?

“I’ll use a pen name,” I joked. But he didn’t smile. “Honey, that stuff is fiction. And that kind of writing really does pay okay. Betty says

you can make a decent living at it.”
First of all …
A swell of anger began a visible throb at his temples.

… I don’t give a spit about what
Betty has to say. And it’s not like
you have to go out and make a living
for yourself. I’ve worked my ass off,
at a career I don’t especially love,
to make sure you and the kids are
well provided for. But my biggest
question is, what’s up with this Bryan?

Hearing his name come from

Jace’s mouth was surreal. The two

don’t belong together. “Bryan is in my writers’ group. He’s working

on a young adult fantasy …”

Then it struck me—the stream

of consciousness musings about

him, sprinkled in the notebook.

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I made myself look totally humbled.

“Okay, listen. The truth is, Bryan

is kind of cute, for a guy his age. So I used him as sort of a model for one of the characters in a story I’m writing about middle-aged couples and how

they spice up their marriages.”

Is it better or worse when lies come that easily? “Jace, you don’t have to worry about Bryan, okay? I love you.” But the last sentence seemed tacked on, like it didn’t belong there, either.

Jace opened the journal’s back cover.

Tucked between the last few page

spreads were Bryan’s poems, written for me.
And what about these?

His hand shook as he pointed to

Dry Spell.
Again, the lie slid, toad-slick, from my mouth. “Bryan

writes poetry and suggested I study it to learn poetic devices and imagery.

He gave me a few to look at.”

It all sounded plausible to me,

but Jace was unconvinced.
Holly,
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you have been slipping further and
further away from me. I hope this
isn’t why. But I’m really scared it is.

I HAD NOTHING TO SAY

In response, but I didn’t need to have, at least not then. He turned and left the room, taking the journal with

him. I followed him into the hall,

but he never looked back as he exited the house. That was last night. I have no idea where he might have gone.

Zero clue when he’ll decide to come home, or where his head will be at

when he gets here. I tried calling

his cell. No answer. Phoned his office this morning, but the receptionist

said he wouldn’t be in. I suppose

he might have gone to his parents’, but no way I’m trying there. God

help me if they ever find out, however things shake loose. Jace’s mom would take great pleasure in ripping me apart.

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I wonder if she’d enjoy rubbing her son’s nose in
Don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you.

BY NOON

Still no word from Jace.

I’m approaching batshit crazy.

He wouldn’t have gone out,

gotten wasted, and hit a pole

or been arrested for DUI, would

he? So not Jace. But the times

are more than usual. Should I

call the hospital? The cops?

They’d call me, wouldn’t they?

I need to do something. Talk

to someone. Bryan. I pick up

the phone. Think better of it.

He said he’d call me when he

could. Andrea. Not sure what

to say. But anything is better

than the silence. I dial her

work number, but it goes to

her mailbox. She must be at lunch,

so I call her cell instead. On

the fourth ring, she answers. Slow-

voiced. Sleepy? “Hey. Are you at home?” 714/881

Crazy long pause.
Y-yes. Hang

on, okay?
Comes the crisp rustle of sheets and a low male murmur.

PERFECT

Andrea has three dates a year

that involve sleepovers, and here

I interrupt her with my problems?

She must have dropped the phone.

I can barely hear her tell whoever’s in her bed,
Shh. It’s my friend, Holly.

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry. Didn’t know

you had company. Call me later

if you can. I need to talk to you.” Commotion in the kitchen reminds me I am not the only one here, nor the only one with problems. I hear Bri yell,
Just because you’re pregnant

doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch.

Good thing Jace isn’t here after all.

But now Trace has been dragged out

of the dark. He stands at the doorway, drop-jawed, eyes glittering surprise.

On top of it all, the telephone rings. Jace?

The machine answers before I can reach it.

In a long moment after the beep, a tense voice 716/881

crackles,
I’m trying to reach Holly Carlisle.

This is … Sarah Hill.
Pick up! I can’t. Shock stuns me still. Then she adds,
Her mother.

IN THOSE MOMENTS

those precarious spikes

of time when anger eclipses

sanity like a militant satellite, white-hot inside your head, gravitational weight compounding exponentially

toward black hole, critical mass

near, and you realize survival

lies in a detonation of words,

would a whisper do?

On those days

when sorrow manifests itself

as a sentient beast, hungered

by a season of sleep, creeping

up from behind, no time to run,

no place to take cover, and seizing you by the throat, sinks its claws

into your chest to open you wide,

would a tear suffice?

In those hours

when need unfolds you from deep

creases of sleep, leaves you

shivering beneath sheets of darkness, body and brain merged into a river

of primal rage, rushing

headlong toward cataract,

a torrent that only an all-night,

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sweat-slicked fuck can assuage,

would a kiss satisfy?

Marissa

A SEXLESS TRIP

That’s what I agreed to, and Christian has been accommodating. Monterey

is beautiful. Our hotel overlooks

the ever-moving Pacific. The susurrus of evening waves is a lullaby, and yet tidal crash wakes me in the morning, when the heavens are cushioned gray.

The fog burns off around midday,

revealing a startling cornflower sky.

The ocean has a split personality.

I’m wondering if Christian does too.

As we wander Cannery Row, browsing

curio shops and art galleries, he is attentive. Smiling. But is it sincere?

I can’t help but think back to our

honeymoon. Walking so close we

resembled Siamese twins. Kissing

and touching, in quite inappropriate public locations—restaurants, sidewalks, the beach, the aquarium.

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I can never think of penguins without remembering Christian, face against the glass enclosure, as a little emperor flirted with him from the far side.

We haven’t laughed so hard since.

At least, not together. And I’m

sure I haven’t laughed that hard

on my own. The only thing

I’m not sure of is if Christian ever laughed that hard with … see,

here I go, and I really have to stop.

It’s counterproductive to any

forward movement at all. I’d be

lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying

the trip. It’s been years since I’ve been more than twenty miles

from home. Years since I traveled

over the Sierra and down the coast

by car. Years since I’ve spent so

much time in such close proximity

to my husband. Uncertain, his hand

asks for mine. Tentatively, I give it.

There is memory lodged in the cradle of his palm, the texture of his skin, 721/881

the way his fingers wedge mine.

There is comfort there too, and in

the way his stride adjusts to mine, in how people flow around us. In

feeling like half of two, instead of one.

These things remain. What’s missing are words.

WE GRAPPLE FOR THEM

And in that struggle, I see hints

of the other side of Christian:

Frustration, too evident in

the cement clench of his jaw.

Distance, the ethereal detached

from the flesh and bone.

Impatience, in the soft thrum

of his heel as we sit in silence.

In two nights and three days,

we have talked about where

to eat. What to do. The weather.

We did spend a few words worrying

about Shane, but Christian won’t let me obsess about Shelby. He insists

she’s in good hands, and I believe

that. But she has been the biggest

part of me for five years. And still, we do not approach what we must:

Explanation. I really need to

understand every “why.”

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Forgiveness. Is it possible?

And am I willing to offer it?

Tomorrow. Do we dare look

that far? Do we make plans?

THIS EVENING

We are sitting at the far end of our hotel’s long, narrow lounge, sipping wine and watching the tide’s relentless rise. The cabernet is pricey. Bold.

Considering my relative abstinence

the last few years, a few sips have given rise to a soft buzz. Enough

to make me say, “Thank you for

the weekend, Christian. It’s been …”
Why do you still call me Christian
when everyone else calls me Chris?

The question is so out of left field, it takes a moment or two to collect my thoughts. “I don’t know. I guess I like it better. That’s who you were when we met.” A little more wine,

for courage. “Why? Does it bother you?” He’s never said a word about it till now.

It’s just … it reminds me of Mom.

He never talks about her, either.

Dad wanted to name me Benjamin.

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