Farts and sweat and medicine.
I only go in to take him soup. Hot tea.
Water. More water. But not much me.
WHEN I CALLED BRYCE
To apologize, he was Arctic cool.
I don’t understand. Why did you
tell me your parents were dead?
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s just …
well, there are things about them
I’m not proud of. I was afraid….”
Look. No one’s parents are perfect.
And whatever is wrong with yours,
lying to me like that just sucks.
“I know. I was wrong. Can’t you please
forgive me? Will you come over so
we can—wait. Grandfather’s sick.”
He warmed up a little. Listen.
We’re heading out to California.
I’ll be back after Christmas.
We’ll get together then, okay?
But we can’t have a relationship
built around lies. Love is honest.
AT LEAST HE USED THE WORD “LOVE”
The “built around lies” part,
however, has me worried. I wish
I would never have made up
that stupid story about my parents
being dead. But hey, for all I know,
my mother is dead. Not like I’ve
heard a single word from her.
And my dad isn’t a whole lot better
than dead to me. I never really
expected to see him again.
Certainly not then. Did he pick
Aunt Cora’s wedding for shock
value alone? He couldn’t have
timed it worse, with Bryce right
there as he made his grand entrance.
At least Bryce is willing to let me
explain. But even if I fess up about
the circumstances of my birth, what
about my deeper dishonesty?
How much truth do I want to tell him?
MY STOMACH STIRS
And I’m pretty sure it has nothing
to do with the thought of lies.
Hope I’m not coming down with
Grandfather’s bug. Wonder if it’s cat
flu or dog flu, or some other
new, improved, unidentified strain.
He’s actually a little better today,
and seeing as how he’s a member
of one of those “high-risk populations,”
I guess that’s a really good thing.
I wander down the hall to check
on him, but he’s in the bathroom.
God! The smell coming from
his bedroom is going to make me …
Quick. Run to the other bathroom,
reach the toilet just in time for
my stomach to jet a horrid stream
of oatmeal and yogurt. Breakfast.
I HEAVE
And heave,
sweat breaking
out on my forehead.
Gut clenching
and letting go.
Clenching. Great.
Who will take care
of Grandfather
if I get sick too?
Who will take
care of me?
No Aunt Cora to
tuck me in bed.
No Aunt Cora to
bring me soup,
steaming cups of
tea. Ugh. Soup.
Just the thought
makes me hurl
again. I hurl till
I’m food-empty and
there’s nothing
left in my stomach
but putrid air.
ALL HURLED OUT
Shaky. Drained. I poke my head
through Grandfather’s door, see
he is dozing. Sounds like a plan.
I wander into the living room, turn
on the TV. Lie down on the couch
to not watch the History Channel.
Some boring show about some boring
monarch in some boring century.
My eyes, weighted, close and I slip
toward some deep pocket of dark
space. Warm here. Comforting, with
a low buzz of canned boring voices.
Ringing now. Ringing? Bell. Doorbell?
Bell? I swim up into a bay of flat,
gray light. Doorbell. Who? Bryce!
He came? I jump up way too fast.
My head is so light. Did my brain
shrink? I steady myself. “Coming!”
The door is so far. Oh, God. Don’t
leave. Don’t go away. “Be right
the door open. “Bryce!” But no,
he’s too tall. Too dark. Too old.
Trey. Perfect. The anti-Bryce.
Sorry. Not Bryce. Can I come in?
He doesn’t wait for an answer,
though. Just pushes on past me.
“W-wait. I’m not sure … uh …”
Not sure of what? Think, Autumn.
“Uh, Grandfather has been sick.”
That’s okay. I’m not here to see
him. I’m here to see you. We’ve
got a little catching up to do.
I follow him into the living room,
watch him flip off the TV. I start
to tell him I don’t feel so hot either,
notice I’m actually better. Strange.
I figured I’d be on my back for days,
like Grandfather, who I should tell
we’ve got a visitor. Then again,
he’s asleep and I’m a big girl.
I can handle this on my own.
AT LEAST I THINK I CAN
When it comes right down
to it, I don’t know very
much at all about
the man
sitting on Grandfather’s
recliner, claiming it as if
it were his own. I think he
is
probably dangerous.
Aren’t all armed robbers?
And yet, would he be
a
threat to me? For all I
really know, he could
be a serial killer, a
total
whacked-out pervert,
stalking his next victim.
He is nothing but a
stranger.
A black hole. Will he suck
me in? Burn me up? What
does he want with me?
HE STUDIES ME
For several minutes. Finally says,
You look a lot like her. Your
mother. Her hair is darker.
You got the red from my mom.
Straight for the jugular.
“I wouldn’t know. I never
met my mother. I don’t
even know her name.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy.
No one ever told you her name?
I shake my head. “For all
I know, the stork delivered me.”
His mouth twitches slightly.
No, you were born at Washoe
Med in Reno. Your mom’s name
is Kristina. She lives in Vegas.
“Why should I care? She never
cared enough to contact me.”
Not exactly true. I just talked
to her a little while ago….
He talked to her? About me?
“She doesn’t even care if I’m alive.”
That’s not so. She’s tried to find
you since she got out of prison.
What is he talking about? Anger
stings, hot in my cheeks. “No way.
No calls. No letters. Definitely
never came ringing the doorbell.”
Because she didn’t know where
you were. I didn’t either, not until
Mom got the news
about Cora’s
wedding. Why do you think
everyone was so surprised when
we showed up? He sets his jaw.
“I don’t understand. How could
you not know where I was?”
HIS EYES LIFT
Then they settle somewhere
over my shoulder, grow cold.
He points. Ask him. Grandfather
has come into the room, silent as
still air. I don’t have to turn to feel
him there. The tension is solid.
His trembling voice falls, a bag
of marbles, over my shoulder.
You. Get out of my chair.
Trey does not comply right
away. But as Grandfather starts
to move, he stands. Tell her.
Grandfather limps slowly
toward his chair. He is pale
as paper. I stay silent as
he sits and meets my eyes.
We were just trying to protect
you, Cora and I … we …
He pauses too long, so Trey
expands, They kept moving
around when you were little.
THINGS FALL INTO PLACE
Suddenly. Frequent
little Texas towns.
Different schools.
Different friends.
Different boyfriends
for Aunt Cora. Phone
numbers. Addresses I
could never quite recall,
and if I did, there were
frequent reminders
frequent lectures
frequent warnings
not to share them,
because a stranger
could get hold of
them, might come
kidnap me away.
Hidden photos.
Hidden paperwork.
Hidden stories
about my family.
To protect me from
my mother. Father.
And who else is out
there? Who else might
want to know what
has happened to me?
SUCKER PUNCHED
I can’t find air, and it has nothing to do with illogical panic.
It’s shock. Pure. Simple. Rational. “How could you?”
How could they make me believe I was a throwaway?
Grandfather is completely white, and the folds
of his eyes crease with pain. Good. I want him to hurt,
like he and Aunt Cora have hurt me. I’m sorry, he says.
“Sorry? Do you understand how it feels to believe
your parents don’t want you? Don’t tell me they didn’t
deserve me. I already know that. This isn’t about them.”
The look I shoot Trey withers him slightly. But his eyes
glitter defiance. A desire so different from any I’ve
known before strikes suddenly. “I want to meet her.”
TREY STRAIGHTENS
I can see the wheels
creak-turn in his head.
He looks at Grandfather,
says to me, I’ll take you.
You should meet her.
Just don’t go thinking
she’s going to be like
some perfect mom. Kristina
is all about Kristina.
Far as I can tell, that pretty
much goes for everyone.
“Really? You’ll take me?”
Why not? I’d like to see
her again myself. I used
to love the bitch. Maybe
I can figure out why. She’s
on her way to Albuquerque
to see her dad, but will be
at her mom’s for Christmas.
Plenty of time for a road
trip. You’ll be a nice surprise.
GRANDFATHER IS SHAKING
Anger. Fear. Goat flu. Not sure
which is to blame. Maybe all three.
You’re not serious, he says. You
can’t take her. I won’t let you.
I want to go over. Give him a hug.
I want to go over. Slap him. Hard.
That’s the indecisive part of me—
well-known. A strange, new take-
charge part jumps in, “Yes, he can.
If I don’t go now, it may never happen.”
Grandfather crumbles. You’re going
to leave me alone on Christmas?
I could thaw if I let myself. But no.
“Austin isn’t so far. Call Aunt Cora.”
My heart flip-flops in my chest. I might
meet my mother. It may very well turn
out all bad, but how else will I know
that? “I’ll go pack some clothes.”
BY THE TIME
My suitcase sits, barely half-full,
by the door, my anger has mostly
subsided. Grandfather slumps,
wounded, in his ratty recliner.
“Did you call Aunt Cora?” I ask
him. When he doesn’t reply,
Trey says, He wouldn’t, so I did.
She said she’s on her way.
Which means we’d better go
before she gets here and tries
to make me change my mind.
She could probably do it.
I go over to Grandfather, put
my hand on his cheek. “I’ll be back.”
He refuses to meet my eyes.
I’ll be right here, waiting.
WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR
I’m surprised to see the car
parked at the curb. It’s a late
model Cadillac. White. Pin
neat. Wait. This can’t be Trey’s.
Suddenly I understand how
little I really know about him.
Am I making an awful mistake?
Wasn’t he in prison for grand
theft auto, among other things?
“Uh. Nice car. Whose is it?”
He pulls the key from his
pocket, waves it in the air,
pushes a button that opens
the trunk, puts my suitcase
inside. Actually, it’s my mom’s.
Get in. He waits for me to
make up my mind. It takes all
of two minutes before he says,
Well? Are you coming or what?
He starts the car. Exactly
the motivation I need. I slink
into the front passenger seat,
fingers tingling. Plush white leather
sucks me in. The stereo plays
metal and my heart drums along.
My nose wrinkles at an overpowering
stench of stale tobacco. The ashtray
practically overflows. “Will
you empty that, please? And you
won’t smoke with me in the car?”
I meant it as a question, sort of.
He takes it another way. Kind
of demanding, aren’t you? I don’t
have to do this at all, you know.
Still, he opens the door, dumps
the ashtray into the gutter,
replaces it. Nice. Really nice.
I should haul my butt out of
the car, back into the house
where I belong. But I don’t.
MAUREEN IS AT A HOTEL
A nice enough Best Western.
Not the Ritz, but not a dump,
either. I’d forgotten she was
part of this equation. A big part,
as it turns out, the Cadillac
being hers and all. I trail Trey
down a long hallway. “Should you
have talked this over with her?”
He doesn’t slow. No doubt.
And she can always say no.
I don’t think she will, but maybe
you should wait out here.
I lean b
ack against a gold
flocked wall, sink down it,
sit on the yellow/brown swirled
carpet. Wait. Listen, as beyond
the far door, conversation
becomes animated. Not loud,
not really, so if they’re arguing,
it isn’t with much conviction.
It takes quite a while before
the door opens and Trey
gestures for me to come on
inside. Once again, I get an urge
to turn and run. But I don’t.
The room is neat, except for
a collage of empty bottles—wine,
beer, gin, Coke, and mineral water.
It’s enough to make my mouth
start to water. I could use
a gulp or two of liquid courage.
I look at Maureen. “Hello.”
She stares back curiously.
Are you crazy? The question
is so matter-of-fact, it catches
me completely off guard.
“Wha-what do you mean?” Panic
attacks? OCD? She doesn’t
know about those things, right?
Or is she just talking genetics?
SHE SITS QUIETLY
For a couple of seconds. Finally
says, Why do you want to stir up
a mess of trouble for yourself?
Is your life so god-awful now?
How to answer? Not bad. Not
great. But headed steadily toward
god-awful, mostly because of
the sudden appearance of the very
people in this room? TMI. “It’s okay,
I guess. No real complaints. But I have
a right to know who my parents are.
Even if I end up disappointed.”
We both look at Trey, who throws
his hands in the air. This is your idea.
Maureen shrugs. I guess you do.
And you very well may end up
disappointed. It’s against my better
judgment, but I’ll loan Trey my car.
On one condition. When you come
back through California, you stop
in Sacramento and visit me for a few
days. Don’t forget, I’m your family too.
And so it’s decided. Maureen will
fly home. We’ll take the Cadillac
on a long, boring drive to northern
Nevada. Reno. Where I was born.
Will it feel like home? Does the city
or town where you’re born imbed
itself in your psyche? I only lived
there three years. Will the altitude-
influenced temperature better suit