Triangles (38 page)

As per my bedtime routine (even when drunk on my butt), I used the Waterpik, brushed the residual goo away. Rinsed with plaque-killing mouthwash. Washed my face with age-fighting cleanser, toner. Slathered on the priciest night cream I can afford.

The “fine lines” (aka wrinkles) aren’t fooled by my ridiculous attempts to keep them at bay, but at least I can say I tried if I ever find someone to not-quite-impress but me.

In the winter, I wear flannel to bed, but in summer I slip between the sheets with nothing to mitigate the cool

envelope of cotton against my skin.

Not quite an hour later, that’s how 746/881

Jace found me. Enveloped. Awake. Naked.

I SWEAR, AGAIN

I did not believe he would come.

Hoped, yes. Meditated, yes, pressing mental invitation out my door, down the hall to the room, not my daughter’s that particular night, but offered

to a stranger-friend in desperate need of consolation. Yet who was more

in need? What happened after my door whispered open could not answer

that question. I closed my eyes, feigned sleep. He tiptoed bedside, assessed the rise and fall of my chest. When he asked,
May I please sleep here
tonight?
the request belonged to a child.

I rolled toward him, lifted the edge of the top sheet, and when he inched in, he smelled of straight soap,

fruity shampoo, and mint, atop a haze of merlot. He was naked too. But not in a hurry. There was no demand

within his request to share my bed.

There was only a dusk-soft plea, one I met with a necessary question.

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“You won’t be sorry tomorrow, will you?” Wine or guilt, our lovemaking

that night was slow. Clumsy exploration, as if neither of us had ever done it before. We laughed about it, though.

And when we woke the next morning,

plaited together, we tried again. Much better. We both called in sick, fell back into bed. The third time was close to perfect. When we finished, sex scent hung thick as incense in the air. Jace held me, ear against his chest. I listened to the
whump-whump
. “Are you sorry?”
No.
His fingers combed through my sweat-damp hair.
I just don’t
know yet what this means. What

about you? Are you sorry?

“Not yet. Some things take time

to process. I suspect this is one.” Just then, Holly called. The necessary interruption snapped us into the moment.

I watched Jace go into the bathroom, new stories etched in the leather of 749/881

his skin. That’s how I’ve remembered him, over and over, for the last three days.

STORIES IN LEATHER

Once you celebrated

skin, bared

it on altars of sand,

anointed it with scented oils,

invited Apollo’s kiss.

It wasn’t like it had to be

suede—seamless,

buttery—and the muscles

underneath weren’t always granite

contours. But you didn’t care

who looked when you peeled

off faded jeans,

flaunted youth,

dove into sun-dimpled surf,

emerged, shedding sequins

of ocean. Oh, the cool

of cotton beneath your back,

desire a hot seep, lured

to the rain between

parted legs.

Nakedness comes harder

now, decades from Pacific cliffs—

eroding landscapes

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crushing passion

into fossil,

skin a word-scarred journal,

creased around the eyes.

Holly

A JOURNAL

Is a dangerous thing to keep.

When you’re young, you have to

hide it from your parents, at least if it has anything interesting inside.

First crush.

First kiss.

First feel-up.

First fuck.

My high school journal recorded

all these, plus the details. I stashed it between my mattress and box

spring. One day Mom decided

to flip the mattress with a change

of sheets. That’s right, she found all my secrets, in one little book.

She went ballistic. Mama never

relied on grounding. She was more

of a belt person. You would think

wearing welt tattoos for a week plus might have made me more careful.

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Reckless.

Irresponsible.

Egocentric.

Narcissistic.

Jace has accused me of being

all those things, and you know,

he’s right. I could throw a few

applicable terms in his direction.

Emotionally absent.

Short-tempered.

Unadventurous.

One-trick pony.

But what would be the point?

We’re pretty much stuck in limbo.

He knows the stuff in this very adult journal is mostly true. He’s hurt,

of course. I could try to tell him

he’s partially responsible. But it

doesn’t matter at all. The end result is still the same. I’m miserable here.

Jace, though miserable too, seems

oddly at ease the past couple of days.

Maybe he went out and got a revenge piece of ass. Wait. No, this is Jace.

Dedicated.

Faithful.

The epitome

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of loyalty.

HE NEVER TOLD ME

Where he spent the other night, and I had zero right to ask. He came home, went about his business, and that was that. Except the wedge was wider.

Which means he probably
was
at his parents’ house. But you know, now that I don’t have to worry about keeping Jace happy, I sure don’t have to worry about pleasing his parents, do I? Bet they’d be pissed to know he and I are still sharing a bedroom. Cohabiting, totally to keep the kids in the dark.

School starts today. Mikayla launches her senior year, eight weeks pregnant, give or take. She’s determined to stay in school as long as she can. Deliver a healthy baby. The rest is still up in the air. And her father still doesn’t know.

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We bribed Trace to keep his mouth shut with the promise of driver’s training, so he can get his license as soon as possible. He’ll be sixteen in January.

All he wants, he said, is a regular way to escape the insanity that is his family.

Oh, Trace. You’ve only chipped the ice-berg. Brianna begins her freshman year, all breathless expectation. Mikayla bought her sister’s silence with clothes.

Mik’s wardrobe is to die for, and they wear the same size. (At least for now.) Bri will be the best dressed in her frosh class, hands down. I watch my kids now, at the far side of their childhood, hustling around the kitchen, making lunches and approximating breakfast.

At least they didn’t have to catch

that damn six-thirty a.m. school bus.

Mikayla will drive them. Next thing 757/881

you know, they won’t need Jace or me at all. Freedom, as Papa used to say, is a spit and holler away. There’s a slingshot ride straight back to Elko.

I’VE BEEN THERE

A lot these past few days, in daydreams and in a nightmare or two. Returned to its house-heavy hillsides and flat tracts of playa and steep canyon climbs up into the Ruby Mountains. Relived great days, cheering at football games, and bad days, upchucking algebra. Recalled

the faces of good friends and boyfriends and sneaking off campus for a smoke and making out in a backseat or two.

And snaking through all of that, Mama and Papa and church and praying

I wouldn’t really, as Mama always said,
go straight down to the devil when
you die, because God doesn’t love
whores and liars.
Which I mostly was, in her eyes, because
the apple don’t
fall far from the tree. Only through
discipline and God’s loving-kindness
will you end up different than your mother.

My birth mother. Sarah Hill, no

longer a figment of my imagination.

A flesh-and-blood birth mother, whose 759/881

voice—gossamer thin as dragonfly

wings—I have committed to memory.

THE TIMING OF HER CALL

Couldn’t have been much worse.

My entire existence is in upheaval.

Emotionally, I’m a wreck. And right smack in the middle of it all, here comes the call I’ve been hoping for since I was old enough to understand what adoption was. It seriously took me an hour to process the idea that she might be inviting me into her life.

I picked up the phone to call her back three or four times. Finally, Mikayla dialed the number for me. When

Sarah answered, I could barely choke out, “Hi. Uh … this is Holly?” It came out a question. “Uh … you called

earlier?” Another question. Sheesh.

Holly. Yes. Well, this is awkward,
I know. But I was so happy to hear
from your daughter. Mikayla told
me you’ve been looking for me.

I never left Nevada, just in case.

I hoped … prayed …
Her voice 761/881

cracked. One big, long fissure.

And then we were both sobbing.

TURNS OUT

She lives just outside of Vegas.

Has been married twice but

not to my birth father, who is,

in fact, Paul Driscoll, who did,

in fact, have sex with someone

other than his wife,
several

times,
according to Sarah, and one of those times

resulted in me. Soon after

Sarah delivered me, she moved

to Tonopah with her parents,

one of whom still lives there.

My grandfather died several

years ago, but my grandmother,

Sally, is seventy-six and
looking to
live forever,
Sarah said.

I also have a half sister,

Tia, whom I will meet

in exactly five days, when

I fly down to Vegas with Mik.

After all her persistence

on this, not to mention

the results, I figure she

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deserves to come with me.

And maybe, hearing Sarah’s

story firsthand will make

Mikki think long and

hard about having her

baby, and the probable

advantages of adoption.

ULTERIOR MOTIVES

Can come back to bite a person,

but I think a hunk of reality

is in order for my daughter.

Anyway, I don’t want to go alone.

I need someone to hold my hand.

I wish it could be Bryan, but that

would be completely inappropriate.

I thought about asking Andrea,

making it a girls-only birthday bash Vegas weekend. She turns thirty-seven on Friday. But that didn’t seem right, either. Sahara would totally make it that kind of a trip, so no.

And of course, Jace is a definite

uh-uh. Even before the implosion,

he was not supportive of my search.

Though we’re barely speaking

at this point, I had to let him know where Mikayla and I will be off to.

His response was not unexpected.

Whatever, Holly. Add a little more
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shit to your plate. On the other hand,
maybe filling in the blanks will make
you feel complete. Sorry I couldn’t.

A VERY BIG PART OF ME

Is sorry he couldn’t too. Today

is my family’s thirteenth “first day of school.” I remember Mikayla’s

first day of kindergarten, how anxious she was to leave our little fold, unlike Trace, who flat refused to let go

of Jace’s leg. Is Jace thinking about that now, as he starts arranging

the few minutes left before the kids have to go?
Okay, lunches in backpacks. Everyone have their supplies?

Do you remember where to meet

after school? Mikayla, is your car
gassed up? Here’s some money.

Be sure to fill up on the way home.

Trace, could you please comb

your hair? Bri, you look beautiful.

You aren’t nervous, are you?

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If I close my eyes and just listen, I can almost fall back into “normal.”
FALLING BACK

Is a multidefinition phrase.

There’s the clock, rewound

an hour to encourage early rising

in the shadowed months,

though the low slant of light

doesn’t

make crawling away from

the warm hearth of dreams

easier. In a way, this achieves

forward movement.

Falling back can also

mean

hurried retreat—a reverse

scattering, in earnest hope

of escaping injury, death, or

capture. The term might

also apply to a procrastinator,

starting

off well after the gun, unhurried

and unworried about finishing