or place to mention it. He looks
scared. Flustered. Duh. The flowers.
“Let me carry some of those.”
Sean leads the way, and as we walk,
a fist of clouds chokes out the sun.
Despite the overwhelming gray, our
blossoms mist the gloom with color.
Scarlet. Lilac. Tangerine. Bronze.
Evening star gold. Late morning
sun yellow. Any place but here,
it would be romantic. It isn’t far
to the gravesite, on a slight rise well
away from the road. This time of year,
there’s no grass, just packed layers of old
snow. Sean stops to lay his flowers
in front of an ice-rimmed headstone.
Hey, Dad. Sean’s breath steams into
frozen air, and his voice pierces
the silence of death. Happy birthday.
No Answer
At least, not one I can hear, unless
it is the disturbing mutter of wind.
“Should we find something to hold
the flowers?” They’ll soon clutter
the cemetery if we don’t, but Sean
says, Let them blow if they want to.
That way everyone here can enjoy them.
It is so unlike anything I’d expect
from him, I hardly know how to
react. So I kneel to place an armful
of spring atop slick layers of winter.
Within seconds, they chase each other
across the grounds, halted here and
there by marble and granite head-
stones. I glance at the inscriptions here:
CLAIRE JENNIFER O’CONNELL, adjacent to
“COACH” BRYAN PIERCE O’CONNELL.
It hits me, electric, like lightning.
“Your mom was so young when she
died.” Only twenty-eight. I wait for some
sign of sadness. But Sean responds
instead with a quick jab of anger. Stupid
bitch. He takes a deep breath. If she hadn’t
gone all New Agey, she wouldn’t be dead.
We’ve never really talked about
her, or how exactly she died.
“New Agey? What do you mean?”
He trembles, but whether from cold
or memory, I can’t be sure. She decided
to use a midwife instead of going to
the hospital. If she had been at Saint Mary’s,
she wouldn’t have bled to death when
she hemorrhaged. The paramedics
couldn’t save her. And you know
the worst thing? I was standing right
there. I saw her go. I was just a little
kid, but I’ll never forget watching her
fade away. One minute she was Mommy.
The next, she was a mannequin.
All that was left of her was Wade.
Bitterness
Tints his voice. That, and anger.
How can he blame his mom?
I’m not sure I understand. Then
again, I have no frame of reference.
My mother is still one of the walking,
talking, breathing. But she doesn’t
do a whole lot more for me than Sean’s
mom does for him now. We never
spend time together. Rarely even
attempt to communicate. For all
our daily interaction, she might
as well be dead. I don’t hate her.
But I’m not really sure I love her,
at least not in the classic fashion.
And if she loves me, she hides it well.
Parenting should be a passion, not
a part-time pursuit. The wind kicks
stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe
skeletons. Bones of abandonment.
Ghosts of what will never be.
Kendra
Ghosts
Take shape under moonlight,
materialize in dreams.
Shadows. Silhouettes
of what is no more. But
ghosts don’t
bother me. The day brings
bigger things to worry about
than flimsy remains of
yesterday. No, spooks don’t
scare me.
Gauzy apparitions might
prank your psyche or
but lacking
flesh and blood
they are powerless
to hurt you—cannot hope
to inflict the kind of damage
that real, live
people do.
Miss Teen Spirit Of The West
Is not the biggest pageant I’ve ever done.
But as regional pageants go, the prize money
is good, especially compared to the entry fee.
And every pageant I compete in keeps me
tuned up for heavier-weight competitions.
This one is in Elko, a five-hour drive from
Reno. Five hours, listening to my mom remind
me about stuff I don’t need to be reminded
about. Remember to keep your chin tilted
up and your shoulders back. Act like…
“The royalty you pretend to be. I know,
Mom. You’ve only told me that, like, eight
gazillion times. If I can’t remember it by
now, I never will.” The tone was testier
than I intended. Mom looks a little stung.
“Sorry. It’s just, I’ve got it, you know?”
Interstate 80 is mostly flat Great Basin desert.
Salt flats, sage, and carrion. Not much to excite
the eye or stimulate conversation. I guess
I should be grateful to Mom for trying.
After several very long silent minutes,
she tries again. Do you still enjoy them?
Pageants, I mean. You used to love them,
at least I thought so. But now I’m not sure.
Does she want the truth? Do I want
to give it to her? I decide to compromise.
“I like winning them.” Like every eye on me,
and when those eyes find me fairest of all.
What I don’t like is what it sometimes
takes to win. Backstabbing. Manipulation.
Out-and-out bribery once in a while,
and not always the monetary kind.
Beautiful Bodies
Are ripe for the picking. It’s rare. But not
unheard of. Unless I am willing to go that far,
I’ll always be at a slight disadvantage.
I most definitely wouldn’t stoop so low
to win Miss Teen Spirit of the West.
Miss America, however, might be a whole
different tale. Not even sure Mom
would object. Pageants are a means
to an end, as she reminds me now.
Winning is good. Every crown puts
you one step closer to the runway.
You get there, you’ll never have to
depend on anyone else. A self-reliant
woman. That’s what you’ll be.
I’ve heard it before. She’s drummed it
into me. My looks are the key to the kingdom.
Still Two Hours West
Of Elko, the silence becomes stifling.
At least for Mom, who digs too hard
to come up with something. Do you
want to talk about Conner? She waits,
patient as one of the vultures I watch,
circling above some vile desert-claimed
corpse. “What about Conner?” The buzzard
wheel widens as more black wings link
to the cog. Well, um… Do you think it
had anything to do with you breaking up?
What is she talking about? “D
o I think
what had to do with us breaking up?”
She huffs a little, like she thinks I’m
dense. You know. The gun. The hospital…
Okay, she’s the one who’s dense. “Why
would Conner shooting himself have
anything to do with ‘us’? Accidents hap—
Wait. Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?”
Heat flowers at the back of my neck,
radiates toward my skull. “Well? Mom?”
She slows the car. It was not an accident,
Kendra. Conner tried to kill himself.
Suicide? Conner? “No! He’d never!” Would
he? But even if he did, “How do you know?”
I was dealing with another Jenna issue
and was in the guidance counselor’s office.
I overheard him talking about where to send
Conner’s schoolwork—Aspen Springs.
Aspen Springs. Psych hospital. Residential
treatment center. Lockdown for druggies and…
I have to know for sure. I jerk my cell from
my bag, check for a signal. Two bars. Still,
a text might work. IS CONNER IN ASPEN
SPRINGS? Hit the send. Wait for Cara
to answer. Mom watches me sideways,
out of the corner of her eye. You all right?
“No. Yes. Wait…” What was she saying
about Conner and me breaking up? No! No way!
“Even if Conner did try to kill himself,
it wasn’t my fault! How can you think that?”
I cut off her denial. “Just drive, okay?”
I think about the last few times I saw him.
I could barely look at him through the smog
of my pain. And Conner was never easy to
read, anyway. But I only remember him
smiling. Laughing. Easygoing. All Conner.
My phone chimes suddenly. Incoming.
WHO TOLD YOU? No denial, so it must
be true. DOESN’T MATTER. DID HE TRY
TO KILL HIMSELF? I don’t expect a quick
answer, but it comes back right away.
NO ONE KNOWS. PLEASE DON’T TELL.
Don’t tell? That’s what she’s worried
about? My eyes sting and my cheeks burn.
YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME. I HAD
THE RIGHT TO KNOW. Bitch. I THOUGHT
YOU WERE MY FRIEND. Then I remember.
The Sykes family doesn’t keep friends.
But they do keep secrets. I’M SORRY. MY MOM
WOULD HAVE WRECKED ME IF I TOLD YOU.
Probably literally. Doesn’t make it right,
though. One last question. WHY DID HE DO IT?
We go into a tunnel. On the other side, Elko
comes into view, along with Cara’s last message:
WHO KNOWS?
Elko Is A Mining Town
And while the surrounding countryside
is stunning, the town itself has seen
better days. Parts of it are pretty. Others
are shabby. Run-down. Battered by time
and circumstance. Sort of like how I feel
right now. We were up before dawn to
hit the highway, but this soul-drooping
weariness comes from some absurd sense
of guilt. I didn’t make Conner pick up
that gun. But was there anything I might
have done to stop him? Why didn’t I see
warning signs? Was any of his hopelessness
because of me? Ridiculous, I know. He broke
up with me. But I still don’t know why.
Mom pulls into the Thunderbird Motel.
Checks us into a this-will-do kind of room.
“Why do we always stay here?
The Holiday Inn isn’t too far away.”
She’s busy hanging my dresses in a tiny
closet. I don’t know. Memories, I guess.
“Memories of what?” Pretty sure Patrick
has never been here with her. “Daddy?”
Mom pulls her head out of the dank
cubicle. Weird, huh? We stayed here
not too long after we met. Spent long
days hiking Lamoille Canyon. Gorgeous
up there… She loses herself in some
recollection. Comes back again. Anyway,
I’m starving. Let’s get some lunch.
We’ve got a couple of hours to kill.
Lunch? Don’t think so. “I’m more tired
than hungry. Think I’ll take a nap. You go.”
Her Eyes Say The Words
Her mouth refuses to—I’m worried
about you. Why don’t you eat? What
she does say is, Are you sure? You have
to be hungry. You didn’t eat breakfast.
I never eat breakfast. But all that does
is prove her unspoken point. “I’m sure.
If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll look awful
tonight.” To make her happy, I ask her to
bring back a salad. Off she goes. I lie down
on the plywood-and-cotton-lumps mattress.
Oh, Conner. How could you try to die?
And why didn’t you? You hardly ever fail
to get the things you really want. Did
a switch flip inside your brain? If it did,
I think what flipped it was that little boy
who suddenly grew tired of being scared.
I’ve Only Known
One other person who ended up in Aspen
Springs. Tiffany took dance with me for
three or four years. Rumor had it her stepdad
liked her a little too much. She coped with
his “bad, bad touch” by binge-and-puking.
Bulimia is nasty. Hanging your head in
the toilet after every meal? Sticking your fingers
down your throat? All that stomach acid,
carving holes in your esophagus? And even
after all that, still wearing a size eight? Talk
about a waste of energy. Real control is
not putting in more than you can work off.
Knowing the exact count and keeping track.
Shaving off every extra caloric unit you can
without passing out. And the most important
thing of all—keeping everyone else in the dark.
Sean
Everyone Else
Seems to stumble through
life. Fall. Get up. Go
stumbling on again.
If
they happen into a really
good place, do they then
make plans how to stay there?
I
don’t understand how
people manage without
a well-drawn game plan.
Don’t
they want some promise
of success? Every good
novel requires a considered
plot.
Should a biography not
demand as much? How do
you function without structure?
I fail
to comprehend.
Plotting
Is important to me. How
do I manage to reach
Point B if I kick off
from Point A? Logic,
that’s what it takes. I hate
the illogical. And really
despise when it actually
pays off for somebody.
You know, right place,
right time, whoopee, you
win, without putting in
one damn lick of effort?
Bugs the shit out of me.
Especially considering
my life has been mostly
about wrong place, wrong
time, too damn bad for
you. Lost my mom that
way. Lost my dad that way.
No
t going to lose Cara, too.
Which is why I’ve got
a game plan. One I’m
sticking to. When you’ve
only got one little shimmer
of sunshine, you capture it
best you can. I will marry
that girl one day. Not
that I’ve asked her yet.
That page of our memoir
isn’t ready to be written.
Right now I’m working
on the chapter that sends
us to college together.
First things first, and I
always prefer to write
in chronological order.
Mostly because it’s [chrono]
logical. I keep hearing that
love isn’t a logical emotion.
Should I worry about that?
It Does Worry Me Some
Which is probably why, until
Cara, I refused to give my
heart away. I mean, I’ve
never had to work to get
a girlfriend. I have sampled
more than a few yummy
female delicacies. But
they’ve all been appetizers.
Cara is a main course.
I’d call her comfort food.
Just not to her face. Don’t
think she’d appreciate
the metaphor. Truth
is, I’ve got nothing but
respect for that girl. I love
her more than anything,
and I know this love is
real because, unlike
my other relationships,
it’s not all about sex.
So Far, In Fact
It isn’t about sex at all. Lots
of kissing. A stolen second
base or fifty, plus a definite
leadoff toward third a time
or two. But the only home runs