Collateral

  expect to when he’s outside the wire.”

  Don’t you get sick of that? God,

  I couldn’t stand not knowing.

  Even this is better, I think.

  “He promised he’d ask for stateside

  deployment, or go into the reserves.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. Chewing

  on it. You don’t really believe that?

  This is Cole we’re talking about.

  I’M ABOUT TO ASK

  For an explanation, when the radio,

  which has been playing country

  since San Diego, launches news.

  Twenty-two-year-old Chandra Baird

  was arraigned today, on a half-dozen

  charges, ranging from child endangerment

  to trafficking methamphetamine.

  Baird, who plead not guilty . . . I don’t

  want to listen to it all. But as I reach

  to turn down the volume, I do hear

  him say Soleil’s condition has been

  upgraded to critical. Hang in there,

  Soleil. She’s marginally improved.

  Better than going the other direction.

  “Thanks.” I send it to the universe,

  mumbling the last word out loud.

  You talking to me? asks Dar, knowing,

  I’m sure, that I’m going to say, “Nope.”

  But now I reconsider. “Well, yes.

  Thanks for riding along. Thanks for

  supporting me. Thanks for being you.”

  I think I’m blushing. You’re welcome.

  But when did you get God again?

  Fair question. “I haven’t exactly

  acquired Him again. Just hedging

  my bets, you know? I figure if

  He’s out there, I might as well be polite.”

  Darian laughs. I don’t suppose

  it could hurt. I’ve said a prayer

  or two myself in the last few months.

  If it worked for Spence . . .

  “Like you said. Can’t hurt. Poor

  baby. Some people just shouldn’t

  have kids, you know what I mean?”

  I turn the radio back up, encourage

  Dar to sing along. Her voice is still

  beautiful. “If you won’t take up wedding

  planning, I think you should try out

  for Idol, or The Voice, or one of those

  shows. Even if you didn’t win, it would

  give you great exposure. You could

  make it in the business.” I mean every

  word, but she acts like I’m joking.

  Oh, definitely. And you know where

  I’d get the leg up? Having a disabled

  husband. “Please let me win. I need

  to take care of my disfigured war vet.”

  “Hey, whatever works. But just so

  you know, you’re talented enough

  to do it all on your own.” We fall into

  idle conversation, and the day dissolves.

  It’s late afternoon when we pull into

  my parent’s driveway. It’s choked

  with cars, so I pull around, park on

  the street. “Wow. Wonder what’s up.”

  WHAT’S UP

  Is a reception for Troy and Gretchen,

  who chose a quickie wedding in front

  of a justice of the peace. The cars

  belong to Troy’s friends, who are

  here, I think, for the champagne

  and nice, little canapés, care of

  Mom’s favorite delicatessen. I know

  they came from there because

  the longtime owners, the Ellisons,

  are here, celebrating with

  the small crowd. I recognize a few

  who were just behind me in high

  school. Most are complete strangers.

  Whatever. A party’s a party. Darian

  and I mingle. I survey the house.

  Nudge Dar. “Looks like my mom

  is compensating for your dad going

  overboard this year. We don’t even

  have a tree. Or mistletoe. Or stockings

  hung by the chimney, with or without

  care.” The house is too obviously bare

  of accoutrement, a rare occurrence

  over the span of my lifetime. In fact,

  it has never happened before. My mom

  is the Martha Stewart of Christmas.

  “I’d better go find her,” I whisper

  to Dar. “Something’s up.” I leave

  Darian to her own devices. Which

  only worries me a little. These young

  inebriated men don’t stand a chance.

  I WEAVE, ROOM TO ROOM

  Finally locate Mom, alone and sipping

  tea, in the solarium. “There you are.”

  The low winter sun lights the window

  behind her, painting her platinum hair

  with a gentle glow, almost like a halo.

  It softens her features and I can almost

  see the girl she was in our family photo

  albums. Oh my God. I can almost see me.

  You made it. How was the drive?

  Generic. She makes no move to get

  up, so I go sit beside her. “The drive

  was fine. Definitely more interesting

  with Darian along. She’s the life of any

  party. And speaking of parties, what’s up?

  This party’s out there. So, why are you

  back here?” She sips her tea before

  answering. It’s still a party without

  me there. I just needed a little quiet.

  This is so unlike Mom, who is ever

  the hostess. “You okay? Where’s Dad?”

  She shrugs. He’s here somewhere,

  I guess. Didn’t you see him?

  “No, but I didn’t look very hard.

  And I wanted to talk to you first.

  So, talk to me. Something’s wrong.

  Tell me what it is. You’re not . . . sick?”

  She smiles, but it’s a smile defined

  by sadness. No. Nothing like that.

  It’s just . . . everything’s changing.

  Oh, news flash. The school district’s

  cutting jobs. Librarians are at the top

  of the list. I’m lucky, I suppose. They’re

  only slicing mine back to part-time.

  I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.

  Find some insipid hobby? Volunteer?

  She pauses. Thinks for a few seconds.

  Once, I thought if we had the energy

  and resources, your father and I would

  travel together. But, unfortunately,

  your father prefers to travel “alone.”

  The last word is weighted, leaving no

  doubt what she means. “Why do you stay?”

  Where would I go? This is my home.

  Anyway, you know me. Ms. Propriety.

  THAT’S MOM, ALL RIGHT

  Always doing the right thing.

  Except maybe not for her.

  I hate that. Mostly because

  she reminds me of me—

  always trying to please others

  first. It’s an annoying habit.

  One I’m struggling to break.

  This probably isn’t the right

  time to bring this up, but I doubt

  there is a perfect time. So, here

  goes. The new me. Ashley, who

  is not worried about pleasing

  everyone else first. “So, Mom.

  I’ve been thinking things over

  and I’m seriously considering

  changing my course of study.”

  I can’t say Ms. Propriety looks

  totally surprised. Still, she says,

  Now? But, Ashley, you’re halfway

  there. Do you really think that??
?s wise?

  Unbidden, my fingers start tapping.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “Maybe not. But I think it’s necessary.”

  I OUTLINE MY REASONS

  “I just don’t believe I can spend my

  life failing the people who most need

  help. There’s too much at stake. I think

  it takes a stronger person than me.

  There are things I love about it.

  Working at the VA Hospital, for one.

  But I could still help out there, even

  if it wasn’t in an official capacity.”

  Mom has listened without comment.

  Finally, she says, But creative writing?

  What can you do with a master’s

  except teach? Immediately, she answers

  herself, Which is what you always

  wanted to do, anyway. That was

  your plan, ever since you were little,

  wasn’t it? To be totally honest

  here, your father is probably right

  about teaching. Too little pay, less

  respect, and that’s only getting worse.

  I’m not sure how people expect

  their children to succeed without

  a good education. But that seems

  to be the tenor of our country right

  now. You need to understand that.

  “I know, Mom. I’m not worried

  about the money, although I guess

  I should be. It’s more about making

  a difference. If I can, that is.”

  I’m sure you could. You’d make

  a great teacher, Ashley. As long

  as you remember you’ll probably

  fail a few of your students, too.

  I wish it were possible to save

  them all. It’s not. Some will fall

  through the cracks, same as social

  work. You’ll see ugly things you might

  not be able to change. But someone

  needs to try. Your father, of course,

  will be livid. But if this is really what

  you want, I’ll support your decision.

  My fingers quiet. “Thanks, Mom.”

  I change the subject, before she can

  reconsider. “Hey. What happened

  to Christmas? Did the Grinch come by?”

  Her smile is sad. I figured I should

  get used to it. Both you and Troy

  are starting new lives and will build

  your own traditions. It doesn’t make

  sense to go crazy with decorating

  if I’m going to spend the holidays

  alone. The last word is worrisome.

  Why would she spend them alone?

  I WANT TO PROMISE

  That would never happen,

  that Troy or I or both of us

  will always come home

  for the holidays, with spouses

  and maybe children, who

  knows? That Dad would

  never leave her solo on

  Christmas, if for no other

  reason than to show up

  at mass and let Father

  Frank see him there.

  But I don’t know for sure

  if any of that is true. Cole

  might insist we spend

  Christmas in Wyoming.

  And Troy could very well

  be in Germany. Those two

  things could happen at

  the same time on any

  given year. And as for Dad,

  he’s always been a wild

  card. Not to mention,

  a selfish bastard. Mom

  deserves better. A lot better.

  THE PARTY GOES

  Until the champagne is gone.

  Dad has been drinking right

  along with the younger crowd,

  getting sloppy and slurring and

  outright flirting with a few of

  the girls. They seem to find it

  funny, maybe even flattering.

  I think it’s disgusting. No wonder

  Mom wasn’t anxious to join

  the party. She finally emerges

  from her sunroom asylum,

  takes one look, and hustles

  off to the kitchen, ostensibly

  to refill the goody trays. She

  doesn’t reappear until Troy

  and Gretchen see their guests

  to the door. Ever the hostess,

  after all. With the other girls

  gone, Dad comes over, sits on

  the recliner adjacent the sofa

  where Dar and I are talking.

  Great party, huh? he asks.

  A jolt of anger zaps me. “Looked

  like you were having fun. Poor

  Mom got stuck with kitchen duty.”

  Right where she belongs. Right

  where all decent women belong.

  THE JOKE

  If it was a joke, it was so not funny.

  It was ignorant. I chalk it up to

  booze. Dad sways slightly, and

  his eyes have a hard time focusing.

  This is not the time to discuss

  anything of importance.

  “It’s been a really long day, Dad.

  I’m going to bed. You coming,

  Dar?” On the way to my room,

  we pass Troy and Gretchen.

  I hug my brother. “I’m so happy

  for you guys. Sorry about Dad.”

  He gives me a “so what’s new?”

  shrug. Dar doesn’t have to follow

  me. She knows the way to my room.

  Wow. It hasn’t changed at all.

  First thing my mom did was paint

  mine blue and make it the guest room.

  Mine is still lavender, with white

  furniture, curtains, and throw

  rugs over the hardwood floor.

  The same framed prints of irises

  and white roses hang on the walls.

  “It’s kind of like a shrine, isn’t it?”

  Darian laughs. I like it. Sort of

  comforting to know everything

  doesn’t have to change. Hope

  the mattress is still comfortable. We

  change into warm pajamas, fall

  into bed, and barely talk at all.

  DAR MAKES UP

  For the lack of conversation last

  night as we tour the foothill wineries,

  seeking the perfect combination

  of amenities, availability, and price.

  Darian knows all the right questions

  to ask. Basic venue fees. Vendor

  recommendations. Hours weddings

  are allowed. Some places make you

  wait until their tasting rooms are

  closed, which can push a wedding

  pretty late into the evening. It takes

  all day. Some wineries are close

  together. Others require a good deal

  of driving time. And while we’re on

  the road, we talk. I mention I told

  Mom about changing my major.

  Good. I’m glad she’s in your corner.

  About my dad, his inappropriate

  behavior. What a jerk he can be.

  Your poor mom. She’s so complacent.

  Which leads to a discussion about

  fidelity. If it’s necessary. If it’s possible.

  If a marriage can survive without it.

  It’s possible. Look at your parents.

  “Thirty years. But was it worth it?”

  WHICH SOMEHOW BRINGS US

  Around to Jonah. Not sure why

  it took her so long. I expected

  her questions before today.

  So, what’s up between you

  and your cute poetry teacher?

  “Jonah?” Like there’s another

  one. “Nothing. What do you mean?” r />
  First of all, you call him Jonah.

  Pretty friendly, if you ask me.

  Plus poetry slams. Surfing?

  Since when do you own a board?

  “Since you moved out and I quit

  going to the gym. I decided I prefer

  exercise that doesn’t involve inhaling

  other people’s sweat stench.”

  Fair enough. But when did you

  start hanging out with Jonah?

  “We don’t hang out. He asked me

  to help judge a poetry competition.

  Took me to dinner and a slam after.

  We’ve only been surfing once. That’s it.”

  Sounds like hanging out to me.

  Come on. What else? Any, you know?

  “Absolutely not! He’s never even

  tried to kiss me. Let alone, you know.”

  Okay, fine. But, just in case you don’t

  know, and I’m not sure how you

  couldn’t, he’d “you know” with you

  in a hot damn second. I’d consider it.

  “Hello, Darian? I’m getting married.

  To Cole, remember? That’s why

  we’re uh . . . here.” We pull into

  the final winery of the day—a huge

  Spanish-style stucco affair on a hill

  with a magnificent view. “Ooh. I like

  this one, don’t you?” She agrees,

  and we go inside to do some talking.

  Driving back to Lodi, we go over

  copious notes. Discuss pros and cons

  of the five possible venues. “Now

  that we’ve narrowed it down, I’ll see

  if Mom wants to check them out

  with me. She still isn’t too excited

  about the whole idea. But at least

  she isn’t trying to talk me out of it.”

  Darian reflects. Says softly, I wish

  someone would have talked me out

  of it. I love Spence. Then, and now. But

  I don’t love much about being married.

  LATE CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING

  I drop Dar at her parents’ house.

  Stay long enough to say hello

  and walk with her out to the paddock

  where her aging bay mare, Snaps,

  is sniffing the ground, looking for

  grass. Not much out there this time

  of year. When she hears Dar’s voice,

  her head springs up and she whinnies

  a greeting, comes over for a scratch

  behind the ear. “At least she’s the same.”

  Yeah, but getting up there. One day

  I’ll come home and she’ll be gone.

  “Way to mess up my high, Dar.