Fallout

  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

  there!” I reach for the knob, jerk

  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

&nbs
p; 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

  moves to different

  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.
r />   I lean back 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