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This book is dedicated to every child who has ever lost a parent, and every parent who has ever lost a child.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With love and heartfelt appreciation to my husband, John, who steadfastly held my hand through the roller coaster ride so many years ago. Special thanks to my editing team—Emma, Ruta, and Annie—whose insights helped make this book the exceptional story it has become, and to my publisher, for offering understanding and patience when I desperately needed them. And a giant shout-out to my dear friend Susan Hart Lindquist, who listens to my rants and helps me sort through the reasons for them. Sometimes you just need an ear.
To Begin
Oh, to be given the gifts
of the chameleon!
Not only the ability
to match the vital facade
to circumstance at will,
but also the capacity
to see in two directions
simultaneously.
Left. Right.
Forward. Backward.
How much gentler
our time on this planet,
and how much more
certain of our place
in the world we would be,
drawing comfort
like water from the wells
of our homes.
Ariel
Home
Four letters,
one silent.
A single syllable
pregnant with meaning.
Home is more
than a leak-free roof
and insulated walls
that keep you warm
when the winter wind screams
and cool when summer
stomps all over you.
Home is a clearing
in the forest,
a safe place to run
when the trees shutter
all light and the crunch
of leaves in deepening darkness
drills fear into your heart.
Home is someone
or two who accepts you
for the person you believe
you are, and if that happens
to change, embraces the person
you ultimately find yourself to be.
I Can’t Remember
Every place
Dad and I have
called home. When
I was real little, the two
of us sometimes lived in
our car. Those memories
are in motion. Always moving.
I don’t think
I minded it so much
then, though mixed in
with happy recollections
are snippets of intense fear.
I didn’t dare ask why one stretch
of sky wasn’t good enough to settle
under. My dad
likes to say he came
into this world infected
with wanderlust. He claims
I’m lucky, that at one day till
I turn seventeen I’ve seen way
more places than most folks see
in an entire
lifetime. I’m sure
he’s right on the most
basic level, and while I
can’t dig up snapshots of
North Dakota, West Virginia, or
Nebraska, how could I ever forget
watching Old
Faithful spouting
way up into the bold
amethyst Yellowstone sky,
or the granddaddy alligator
ambling along beside our car
on a stretch of Everglade roadway?
I’ve inhaled
heavenly sweet
plumeria perfume,
dodging pedicab traffic
in the craziness of Waikiki.
I’ve picnicked in the shadows
of redwoods older than the rumored
son of God;
nudged up against
the edge of the Grand
Canyon as a pair of eagles
played tag in the warm air
currents; seen Atlantic whales
spy-hop; bodysurfed in the Pacific;
and picked spring-
inspired Death Valley
wildflowers. I’ve listened
to Niagara Falls percussion,
the haunting song of courting
loons. So I guess my dad is right.
I’m luckier than a whole lot of people.
Yeah, On Paper
All that sounds pretty damn
awesome. But here’s the deal.
I’d trade every bit of it to touch
down somewhere Dad didn’t insist
we leave as soon as we arrived.
I truly don’t think I’m greedy.
All I want is a real home, with
a backyard and a bedroom
I can fix up any way I choose,
the chance to make a friend
or two, and invite them to spend
the night. Not so much to ask, is it?
Well, I guess you’d have to query Dad.
I know he only wants what’s best
for me, but somehow he’s never
cared about my soul-deep longing
for roots. Home is where the two
of us are, was a favorite saying, and,
The sky is the best roof there is. Except
when it’s leaking. The rain reference
cracked me up when I was real young.
But after a time or twenty, stranded
in our car while it poured because
we had nowhere else dry to stay,
my sense of humor failed me.
Then he’d teach me a new card
game or let me win at the ones
I already knew. He could be nice
like that. But as I aged beyond
the adorable little girl stage,
the desire for “place” growing,
he grew tired of my whining.
That’s what he called it. Quit
your goddamn whining, he’d say.
You remind me of your mother. Why
don’t you run off and leave me, too?
Who’d look out for you then, Miss
Nothing’s Ever Good Enough?
No one, that’s who! Not one person
on this planet cares about you.
No one but Daddy, who loves you
more than anything in the whole wide
world, and would lay down his life
for you. You remember that, hear me?
I heard those words too often,
in any number of combinations.
Almost always they came floating
in a fog of alcohol and tobacco.
Once in a While
But not often, those words
came punctuated by a jab
to my arm or the shake
of my shoulders or a whack
against the back of my head.
I learned not to cry.
Soldier up, he’d say. Soldiers
don’t cry. They swallow pain.
Keep blubbering, I’ll give you
something to bawl about.
He would, too. Afterward
always came his idea
of an apology—a piece of gum
or a handful of peanuts or,
if he felt really bad, he might
spring for a Popsicle.
Never a spoken, “I’m sorry.”
Closest he ever came was,
I’m raising you the way
I was raised. I didn’t turn
out so bad, and neither will you.
Then he’d open the dog-eared
atlas and we’d choose our next
point of interest to explore.
Together. Just the two of us.
That’s all either of us needed.
He always made that crystal
clear. Of course, he managed
to find plenty of female
companionship whenever
the desire struck.
It took me years
to understand the reasons
for those relationships
and how selfish
his motives were.
I’ve read about men
who use their cute dogs
to bait women
into hooking up.
Dad used me.
The result was temporary
housing, a shot at education,
though I changed schools
more often than most military
kids do. All that moving, though
Dad was out of the army.
At least we slept
in actual beds
and used bathrooms
that didn’t have stalls.
But still, I always knew
those houses would never
be home.
I Might Say
in a simple rented house only Dad
and I share, but I’d have to knock
damn hard on wood to eliminate
the jinx factor. We first came here
fifteen months ago on one sizzling
July day. I don’t know why Dad
picked a California Gold Rush town,
but I like Sonora, and actually spent
my entire sophomore year, start
to finish, at Sonora High School.
Two whole summers, one complete
grade, well, that’s a record, and
I’m praying I can finish my junior
year here, too. It’s only just started,
and I’d say I’m probably doomed
to finish it elsewhere except for a couple
of things. One, Dad has a decent auto
mechanic job he likes. And, two, he has
an indecent woman he likes even better.
Indecency
Is subjective, I suppose,
and it’s not like I’m listening
at Dad’s bedroom door,
trying to figure out exactly
what the two of them might
be doing on the far side.
Truthfully, I don’t care
that they have sex, or what
variety it might be. Vanilla
or kinky, doesn’t matter
at all to me. I’m just glad
they’re a couple, and that
they’ve stayed together
this long—six months
and counting. It gives me
hope that we won’t pull up
stakes and hit the road anytime
soon. Plus, the regular
rutting seems to help Dad
blow off steam. His violent
outbursts are fewer and
further in between. The last
was a few weeks ago when
I made the mistake of asking
if I could bring a kitten home.
Kitten? he actually bellowed. No!
Kittens turn into cats. Disgusting
animals. Shitting in boxes, leaving
shitty litter all over the floor.
And the smell! I don’t work
my ass off to keep us from
living in a nasty, dirty car
to come home to cat stink.
I didn’t mention his personal
body odor could rival any feline
stench. I wouldn’t dare tell him
his cigarettes make me gag,
even though I finally convinced
him to smoke exclusively
outside, so it’s only his nicotine
haze that I have to endure.
Instead, I shut my mouth,
resigned myself to the fact
I’d not share my bedroom
(complete with cat box)
with a furry companion.
Dad’s never allowed me
to have pets. I assumed
it was due to our transient
lifestyle. Now I realize
it’s at least in part because
of his impatience with dirt
and disorder. Or maybe
he’s afraid to share
my affection. With anything.
It’s Saturday Night
And Dad and Zelda are out
getting trashed. Some local
country band Zelda likes
is playing at Dad’s favorite
“watering hole,” as he calls it.
Sonora has brought out Dad’s
inner Oklahoma hick, and that’s okay
except when he’s knocked back
a few too many and starts yelling
about “them goddamn Muslims”
or, worse, “fucking wetbacks.”
I’ve made a few friends here,
and the one I’d call “best” happens
to be Latina. Dad probably thinks
I’m a traitor, but I don’t care about
Monica’s heritage, or if the Torres
family is one hundred percent legal.
Starting a new school, knowing
exactly no one, rates automatic Freak
Club membership. Monica had already
been inducted, for reasons I didn’t
learn until later. Not that I cared
about why. She was the first person
at Sonora High to even say hello.
Freak-freak connection’s a powerful thing.
Discovering the Reasons
For Monica’s Freak
Club induction
made me discover
something about myself.
Something disquieting.
Disheartening, even,
because I found a facet
I never suspected
and, considering my history,
was not prepared for.
Sonora is small-town
conservative, especially
by California standards.
Accepting to a point,
but not exactly a mecca
for the LGBTQ crowd.
Monica Torres is not
only a lesbian, but also
a queer Mexican American,
and while she’s mostly okay
carrying both banners,
they make her an outsider
in a school that takes great
pride in its Wild West spirit.
I would’ve run in the other
direction if I’d known she was
gay when I first met her.
The last thing I wanted
was a lezzie best friend.
For as long as I can remember,
I’ve hated my mother
for running off with her lesbian
lover. Dad has branded
that information into my brain,
and with it the concept
that queer equals vile.
But Monica is warm. Kind.
And funny. God, she makes
me laugh. I crave her company.
It was months before I figured
out the way she leaned,
and by then I already loved
her as a friend. Now, I’m afraid,
I’m starting to love her
as some
thing much more,
not that we’ve explored
the places romance often
leads to. When we touch,
we don’t touch there.
When you’re ready, novia,
she tells me. Only then.
Monica understands
the reasons for my hesitation.
She’s the only person I’ve ever
confided in about my parents—
both my mother’s desertion
and my dad’s instability.
Realizing I might in fact carry
some kind of queer gene,
not to mention a predisposition
toward imbalance, isn’t easy
to accept. I still haven’t exactly
embraced the idea, nor the theory
that one could very well lead
to the other.
Even if and when that finally
happens, I’ll have to contend
with Dad, who will never admit
to himself or anyone else
that living inside his head
is a person prone to cruelty.
Despite that, I love him. Depend
on him. He’s protected me.
Overprotected me, really.
I’m sure he only wants what’s best
for me. I could never confess
to him the way I feel about Monica.
But I won’t hide the fact
that we’re Freak Club sisters.
Dad’ll Have to Get Over It
He’s the one who created
Freak Me to start with, so
however I choose to deal
with it had better be okay.
With him and Zelda (who
names their adorable newborn
Zelda, anyway?) busy elsewhere
for the evening, I invited
Monica over. She shows up
with a big foil-covered pan.
Hope you’re into tamales.
My mom doesn’t know how
to make just a few, and I
figured these would be better
than frozen pizza.
That would be our usual
go-to spend-the-night dinner.
“This is probably lame,” I admit,
“but I’ve never tried tamales.”
Monica walks past me on her
way to the kitchen. Totally lame,
she agrees. Tamales are dope.
I fall in line behind her, experience
a small sting of jealousy. What I
wouldn’t give for her powerful,
compact build. I’m way too tall,
and thin to the point of looking
anorexic, not because I purposely
don’t eat, but rather because
when I was growing up
there was never an excessive