Chloe?
Already has a good idea, but I’m not about
to give her any details. Don’t really trust her.
Bri?
It’s just way too embarrassing. Maybe
one day, if I get drunk enough. Except
lately I’ve been thinking that getting
drunk—especially blackout drunk—stinks.
Which kind of leaves Mom.
Who is currently crazy about her doctor
boyfriend. Who happens to be what a boyfriend
should be. Handsome. Rich. Upwardly mobile.
And, most of all, respectful. Of her. And of me.
I wish I could tell her. But I don’t know
how. Where would I even begin?
So I’ve Kept It All In
And it’s eating me up.
One good thing. I started
my period today. I’ll be bloated
for the wedding. But I won’t be pregnant.
Speaking of that, seems
Aunt Marissa and Uncle Chris
might adopt Mikayla’s baby. I hope
that works out. They’re talking about it
now, I guess. Our families
connect in weird ways. Triangles,
kind of. I think it’s awesome, but Mom
is worried that Aunt Marissa might be acting
impulsively. Mom’s a fretter.
I really don’t want to be the cause
of her anxiety. So I’m just sitting here
next to her, watching TV, acting like nothing’s
bothering me. She’s doing
the same thing. But I know she’s
waiting to hear the latest from Aunt
Marissa. The phone is right next to her.
It’s So Close, in Fact
That when it rings, she jumps.
Guess she was caught up in the movie
after all. But if I thought she was worried
before, whatever she’s hearing is making
her pace. Did Mikayla decide to keep
the baby after all? Thanks for letting
me know. We’ll be right there. She keeps
her voice calm, but it trembles, and so do
her hands. Get your coat. And hurry.
Okay, this is bad. But we’re both
bundled up and getting into the car
before I ask, “What’s wrong, Mom?”
She puts the car into reverse, backs
carefully onto the icy street. It’s Shane.
Oh, Jesus, how could he. . . ?
“How could he what?” Now I’m
getting scared. And just as it seems
like we need to drive light speed,
it starts to snow. Blizzard. The first
major storm of the year, and it’s an early
arrival. “Where are we going, Mom?”
Saint Mary’s. Shane. . . well, they’re
not sure if it was intentional, but he
may have attempted suicide.
He’s in critical condition. She swerves
to avoid a coyote, and the Subaru fights
to stay on the highway. Damn animals!
“Take it easy, Mom. Slow down.
Getting into an accident won’t help.”
She regains control, lightens her foot
on the accelerator. I know. Sorry. I
just want to be there for Missy. How
could he be so selfish? Good question,
if he did try to kill himself. He wouldn’t,
though, right? I just saw him at Thanksgiving.
I would have known something was wrong.
Right?
Snow Swirls
In the headlights are hypnotic.
It’s like I can’t look away, and
as I stare, questions materialize,
ghosts, dancing against the windshield.
Why did he do it, if he did?
Why didn’t anyone see it coming?
Why would he hurt his parents even
more than they were already hurting?
What, exactly, happened to make
him choose today? Was it because
of his mom wanting another baby?
Why wouldn’t he want her to have one?
Those are the easy ones. The next
ones are darker. Macabre, even.
How did he do it? Why didn’t it
work? Will it work in the end?
Who found him? How did he look?
Was he fighting for life? Or so close
to death that he looked like a corpse
already? And am I sick to wonder?
The Waiting Room
Is crowded with family. Gramps
meets us at the door, worry creasing
his eyes. Missy’s in shock,
he warns. They’ve sedated her.
Her face is the color of parchment,
and her eyes are empty. She leans against
Uncle Chris, who clenches and unclenches
his left fist. I’ve never seen him show
emotion, not even at Shelby’s funeral. His
right hand clutches Aunt Marissa’s like if
he let it go she might leave him, too. “Sit
down, Mom,” I tell her. She looks unsteady
but she shakes her head. I want
to talk to Gram. Gram, who paces
from the far wall to the door, poking
her head out every time she reaches it.
I sit next to Gramps. “Where’s Alex?
He knows, doesn’t he?” He must.
He knows. I guess Shane called
him to say goodbye. Which is why
they think it was a suicide attempt.
Alex called Chris, who found Shane,
unconscious in the travel trailer. It
smelled like gas, but he had taken pills,
too. Antidepressants, Jägermeister and
carbon monoxide can be lethal all by
themselves. Combine them. . . He shakes
his head. They pumped his stomach,
put him on oxygen. They’re not sure if
he’ll make it, or if he’ll be okay if he does.
Alex must be freaking out. “So, where
is Alex? Why isn’t he here?”
He’s here. He went down to the chapel.
He said he hasn’t prayed in a while, but. . .
Alex
But Maybe It’s Time
To try prayer again.
Gay and Catholic are hard
to reconcile. Figure in
molestation and HIV,
I
gave up on God a long time
ago. Then I found Shane, who
offered not only love, but real
hope
that there might be something
beyond this life. Even for me.
So here’s the thing,
God.
I’m asking for a really big favor.
Maybe one I don’t deserve.
But Shane does. He reopened
my heart to you. So if it
is
your will, please, please send
him back to us. We need his light—
your light, shining through him.
And if you’re feeling especially
generous,
please give him back whole.
Mikayla
I’m Feeling Good
About my decision. The Trask house
is huge. Beautiful. She’ll have a big
room. Plenty of toys. Pretty clothes.
Nice things. Lots of attention. Love.
I’m feeling awful about my decision.
Every time she moves inside me
tonight, it’s like she’s asking, Why,
Mama? Why do you want to give me away?
In theory, getting to see her every
now and again will allow me peace
of mind. But what if knowing
she’s
that close only makes me want
to see her more? I hate being torn
like this. Hate Dylan for making
me fall in love with him. Hate
my parents for glomming onto
this solution, going on and on about
what’s best for me, best for the baby,
when what they’re really concerned
about is what’s best for them.
A Big Part of Me
Feels like “my” decision has more
to do with them than it does with me.
When the Trasks walked us out to
our car, Mrs. Trask hugged Mom,
as if she was the one giving up her baby.
Then Dad shook Mr. Trask’s hand.
Like they were closing a business deal
or something. My colleague will be in touch,
Dad said. We need to spell out the details
on paper. Go, Dad. Let’s sign the contract.
I’m not sure if my current reticence
has more to do with all that than the simple
idea that I might be making a mistake.
Why can’t this just be easy? Is it ever?
Exhausted
By the mental wrestling match,
I fall back on my bed, look
over the rising hill of my belly.
Will it ever return to flat terrain,
or will a small knoll always remain,
no matter how many crunches I do—
a reminder of sweet summer love
turned sour? Where is Dylan tonight?
Has he, for even the smallest fraction
of a second, thought about me
tonight at all? Does he ever feel regret?
Just a minute ago, I hated him. Why
am I filled with such love for him
now? How long does it take to fall
back out of love? How much time
to blunt the sharp stab of pain?
How many girls must I see him
with before I don’t care anymore?
Outside
Snow falls softly from the night
sky. Beautiful. Beautiful, and
early this year. It brings hope
of a white Christmas. Here
in northern Nevada, the chances
of late-December snow are what
some people (especially tourists)
might call a crapshoot. Growing
up, I would send wish lists to Santa,
and they always included snow,
carpeting the ground, frosting
windows and falling while we opened
our presents. When it happened,
I knew he was real because who
but Santa could create such magic?
But on off years, I wondered
what I had done to displease
him. Funny, how things work.
Why snow this year?
Bone Weary
Still, I can’t sleep. Might as well
study. Trigonometry. Radical.
What will I ever need this shit
for, and why did I sign up for it?
Not like I need it to graduate,
or to get into UNR. That’s where
I have always planned to go.
Why leave home, especially when
your boyfriend is going to stay put,
too? Except he’s not my boyfriend
anymore. And if Mom and Dad stay
on their current path, who knows
where home might be next year?
I could go to college somewhere
else. Or skip it altogether. Travel
Europe with a backpack and
a college fund expense account.
Meet some amazing guy, sipping
cappuccino in Paris. The possibilities
are limitless. Except with a baby.
Dylan
A Baby
Was not in my plans, and
the weird thing is, this ugly mess
has opened an unforeseen door.
I
had it in my mind that I would
stay in Reno, go to UNR. Maybe
share an apartment with Mikki
or something. But since there
will
be no Mikki, I decided to join
the Marines as soon as I turn
eighteen. Fuck it. I could use
a little adventure. Yes, there’s
always
the possibility of deployment
to some third world hellhole.
Maybe it would make me man up.
I’m pretty sure there will never
be
another girl in my life quite like
Mikki. But if there is, I’ll do things
differently. I never, ever again
want to feel so goddamn
sorry.
Share
I’m Sorry
Someone keeps saying that.
Over and over. I think it’s. . .
“Mom?” I open my eyes.
Where the hell am I? Everything
is blizzard white. But it’s warm.
And it stinks like alcohol. So
it must be, “Am I in the hospital?”
Mom, who is sitting in a chair
beside the bed I seem to be in,
jumps to her feet, grabs my hand.
Shane? Oh, honey! Look at me.
I try, but it’s hard to focus
past whatever tubes they’ve stuck
in my nose, apparently to breathe
for me. “Wha-what happened?”
The emotion in her eyes segues
from relief to suspicion. You don’t
remember? When I shake my head,
she goes rigid. You. . . you. . . you
tried to kill yourself. If not for Alex,
we’d be planning another funeral.
Kill Myself?
Did I try to kill myself? Wait.
Splats of memory—
Cold.
Really cold.
Snow falling as I slipped
across the icy driveway.
Jäger.
Pills, three or four.
Maybe more. I don’t remember.
Lying on the bed,
waiting for the heater.
Something about air.
Sliding toward darkness.
Spinning.
Alex.
Yes, I called Alex, to. . .
To say goodbye.
But I didn’t try to die.
Did I?
Why Would I?
Almost as soon as I think it,
Mom echoes the question.
Why, Shane? Why would you?
Before I can respond, to tell her
I’m not sure why I would or if
I even did, she hits me with,
How could you be so selfish?
How could you do that to me?
Something detonates inside me.
Something hot and vile and raging.
“Why is everything about you,
Mom? What the fuck about me?
When was the last time you talked
to me, or really looked at me, or
even thought about me? Goddamn
it! For years, you were all about
Shelby, and I got that you had to be.
When she died, I thought maybe. . .”
My heart knocks in my chest and
I’m wheezing. But I can’t stop now.
“I thought maybe you would pay
attention to me. But, no. Now, you want
a baby. A Shelby replacement. Only
better because the baby won’t be sick.
She’ll be cute and sweet and you can
dress her up and take her for walks
and show her off. . . .” I’m running out
of steam. But I manage to repeat,
“What the fuck about me,
Mom?”
Tears drip onto my chest from eyes
that can’t meet mine. She doesn’t say
anything for a while. Then, finally,
I—I. . . I don’t know what to say except
I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve been so sad. . . .
“Yeah, Mom. Me, too.” That makes
her look at me. She shakes her head.
Slowly, as if understanding is settling in.
You’re right. About everything.
Maybe we should all get help. Together.
That She’s Willing
To admit she might need help
is a giant step in the right
direction. I’ve known I need help
for a while. I was just too proud
or scared or straight-out stupid
to ask for it. You can’t conquer
every demon on your own.
“Hey. I don’t suppose Alex would
happen to be around here somewhere?”
She smiles. Of course he is.
It’s not regular visiting hours,
but I’m happy to tell them he’s your
brother. As long as you don’t kiss
him when a nurse is in the room.
It wouldn’t seem too brotherly.
She goes to get him. It feels like
we came a long way in a few minutes.
But not nearly as far as we have to go.
Brianna
In a Few Minutes
The “Wedding March” will start.
Not played on the organ,
but a recorded version by the old
band Queen. According to
Harley,
it’s rockin’. I’m pretty sure I prefer
it traditional. But, hey, not my choice.
For a church wedding, this one
is
condemned to be off the wall.
Harl says Cassandra’s dress
is even shorter than hers is.
Of course, Harley’s is scarlet.
Still,
red, white or silver (!), you sort of
expect a bride not to flash thigh
during her vows. I will do
my best
not to judge her, any more than
I look down on Harley for things
she’s done. Whatever. I’ll always
be here for her. That’s what a real
friend
does.
Harley
Here I Am
Waiting in the church nursery
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