loaded and ready to go.
It’s not like I’ve never
given Mom and Dad
gifts, and nice ones at
that. But this one feels
so special—practically
custom-made for Mom.
(Not to mention free!)
I punch the speed dial
on my phone, wait for
Mom to pick up at home.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
No one’s here to take
your call right now …
Hmmm. Mom said they
were staying home this
weekend. I try her cell.
No answer. Dad’s cell?
All he has to do is say
Hello for me to know …
SOMETHING’S WRONG
“Hey, Dad. Where are you
guys?” Something nasty
seethes in my gut, acid.
I just dropped your mom
off at the airport. His voice
trembles. Anger? Worry?
Kristina is in the hospital.
That bastard beat her up.
Like what else is new, huh?
“Who beat her up? Ron?”
An ex-boyfriend, in and out
of her life because he is (or
believes he is) the father
of her two youngest kids.
“I thought he was locked up.”
Those places don’t keep ’em
forever. Not cost effective.
Like it’s cheaper in the long
run to turn them loose and
deal with the mayhem later.
You’d think they’d learn.
Ron has caused more than
his fair share of mayhem, mostly
when he’s off his meds and
the voices only he can hear
whisper evil in his ear. “Uh …
is Kristina going to be okay?”
She has a couple of broken
ribs, and I guess he smashed
her face pretty good. They’re
taking her in for X-rays and
an MRI…. He pauses. Tsks.
She’ll never be okay.
Sadness peppers his voice.
Usually when he talks about
her, it’s with anger. It hits me
like an unexpected wind
that he cares about her. In
fact, he might even love her.
THE REVELATION
Throws me, but I’m not
sure why. Dad came into
Kristina’s life when she
was only five. It was he
who picked her up,
put her on his shoulders
to “see the world from way
up high,” just like he later
did for me. It was he who
put her on her feet
when she took a spill
off her bicycle, not
Grandpa Who’s-it in
Albuquerque. The story
goes it was Mom who
told her to leave home,
because she had turned
all our lives inside out
and we wanted them right
again. It was Mom who
said a sad but firm good-bye.
So why has it always
seemed to me that it
was Dad who so firmly
and irrevocably
closed the door behind her?
I REALIZE SUDDENLY
That Dad is waiting for me
to say something. Why did
I call again? Oh, yeah. Tickets.
“How long will Mom be in Vegas?”
Not sure, he says. The kids
need someone to take care
of them. That’s why she had to
drop everything and go. Why?
“Uh …” Santa’s sleigh just
crashed. “Nothing. I thought
I might see you guys at the parade
tomorrow is all. I’ve got a remote.”
Not this year. Sorry. You know
how Nevada Day traffic is,
and I want to be available
in case your mom needs me.
“No prob, Dad. I understand.
Tell Mom I love her, okay?”
And, not quite an afterthought,
“Hey, Dad? Love you, too.”
A WARM GINGER FOG
Spills across the floor. Nikki
trails it into the blind-darkened
room, drying her long golden hair.
Backlit by the bathroom glow,
her silhouette belongs to an angel.
A Victoria’s Secret angel, but still …
Her voice holds a hint of incredulity.
Did you just tell your dad you love him?
My eyes burn, but I force a laugh.
“Why? Does that surprise you?”
Not the loving him part. The telling him
part. She sits on the bed. What’s wrong?
I don’t like to discuss the Kristina
crumbs of my life. Not even with Nikki.
“I scored some David Cook tickets for
tomorrow night. Mom is a fan. But she had
to go to Vegas, spur of the moment.”
Segue to … “So, you wanna go with me?”
To Vegas or David Cook? Okay, bad
segue. Either way, I can’t. I have to
work. Nevada Day weekend is Big Tip
Weekend at Bully’s, you know?
Especially for a cocktail waitress
with Nikki’s attributes. “Gotcha.”
She’s not done with me yet, though.
Why did your mom have to go to Vegas?
I could lie. Omit. Make a joke. Too
much work. “Why else? Kristina.”
She knows enough to know that’s not
good. Your mother’s in trouble again.
“Previous mother,” I correct. “Or
the uterus I once spent nine months in.”
Nikki smiles, but asks with concern,
Is your previous mother okay?
I shake my head, echo Dad’s earlier
words. “Kristina will never be okay.”
I’M SORT OF AMBIVALENT
About that. I should feel
bad, right? I mean, some
jerk beat her bloody. No
one deserves that, right?
So why, when Nikki asks,
What happened to her?
do I shrug and say, “Guess
she walked into her ex’s
fist,” with pretty much
zero emotion attached?
And why, when she says,
Oh, no! That’s terrible!
do I respond, “Her fault, really.
The only guys she ever invites
into her life are felons, failed
AAers, and other assorted losers”?
And why, when she says, But
no woman deserves to be hit,
do I dare voice my opinion
that, “Not true. Some women
damn well beg for it”? I bite
down on the copper taste of anger.
Nikki takes a step back,
as if I might think she had
damn well begged for it.
But I could never hurt her.
So why, oh why, when she
asks, How can you be so cold?
do I walk toward Nikki, flexing
my fingers? “Look. If Kristina
doesn’t kill herself, some guy
will probably do it for her.”
And why, when she says,
You are just plain mean,
do I let loose a tsunami? “And
you know what? If something
bad did happen to Kristina,
I’m not sure I would care.”
Disbelief floods her eyes.
You can’t feel that way.
Rage-fueled words froth
from my
mouth. “That’s
exactly how I feel, and if
you don’t like it, fuck you.”
NIKKI’S EYES
Go wide, and I realize what
I just said. “I’m sorry,” I try.
I reach for her, but she slaps
my hand away. She stands,
goes to the closet for clothes.
Her voice is dead calm
when she says, You never tell
me how you feel about anything,
Hunter. You never communicate
at all. In fact, you might want
to rethink your major. And while
you’re doing that, you’d better rethink
you and me. If we can’t talk about
things like your “previous mother,”
we don’t have much of a future together.
I don’t know what to say.
All this because of Kristina?
I watch Nikki slip into jeans,
a curve-hugging jade green
sweater. For the millionth time,
I think how beautiful she is.
But what is it with women
and talking? Some things were
meant to stay private, right?
She comes over to me, touches
my cheek. Still nothing to say?
Goddamn it, I hate when you just
stare at me like that. Her hand
jerks away and her eyes harden,
morgue-cold with anger. Fine.
Fuck you too, then. Take your shit,
get out, and don’t come back.
I can’t deal with this anymore.
She storms from the room, slams
the door so hard a picture rocks
off the dresser, falls to the floor.
WHAT, EXACTLY, DID I DO?
I mean, yeah, I told her, “Fuck you.”
But that was heat of the moment,
and I said I was sorry. I can’t
believe she has such a short fuse.
She’ll cool off and it will all be
fine, right? First things first.
I need a shower. The bathroom
is so Nikki—green and yellow
and messy and smelling of ginger.
The water heater is old and Nikki’s
shampoo-condition-and-shave
routine pretty well emptied it.
I am barely rinsed by the time
the H2O fades from lukewarm
to frigid. Any other day, I’d be
mad. Today, all I can do is laugh.
I towel off giant goose bumps,
borrow a couple of swipes
of Nikki’s deodorant, use
her brush to spike my hair.
The face in the mirror is mine.
Yet somehow I feel disconnected
from the person wearing it. Nikki’s
words come back to me: I don’t know
who you are. So I ask Mirror
Man, “Who are you?” But he
just stares stupidly back at me.
Who am I? Don’t have a clue.
But I don’t have to figure
that out right now. I’m cold.
I have my own drawer in
Nikki’s dresser, where I keep
a few things for sleepovers.
I choose boxers. Wranglers.
A red long-sleeved tee. Take
your shit. No way. She’ll change
her mind. I leave the rest in
place, retrieve the fallen photo—
Nikki and me boarding at Mt. Rose.
Great day. There have to be more.
MIGHT AS WELL
Go home for a few hours,
I guess. It’s a twenty-five-
minute ride, so I twist one
up and by the time I pull
into the driveway, I feel
a whole helluva lot better.
At least until I go inside,
only to overhear Dad on
the phone. You can’t be
serious, Marie. We’ve
discussed this a dozen
times. … Stop yelling at
me, please. Of course I
understand. I’m not stupid….
See? The minute I walk in
the door, they’re arguing.
There goes my nice little
buzz. I sneak past Dad’s
office into the kitchen. Sex
and stress—not to mention
weed—make a guy hungry.
And thirsty. I consider
snagging a beer, but Dad’s
already in a snit. Better stick
with a sandwich and root beer.
GOOD PLAN
Dad comes into the kitchen
while I’m still slopping
mayonnaise on the bread.
Hunter! Didn’t hear you
come in. He reaches into
the fridge for one of the three
remaining Miller Lights.
“You were on the phone.
So what’s up in Vegas?”
He shakes his head. A lot.
None of it good. In addition
to the ribs, Kristina’s jaw
is fractured. And the MRI
showed something unusual
in her brain. They have to do
more tests. Plus, the cops
went to her apartment, looking
for Ron. The manager
let them in. They didn’t find
Ron, but they did find
three grams of crystal meth,
sitting right out in the open
on top of her dresser. Kristina
claims it must be Ron’s,
but it was in her apartment
and he wasn’t. She could be
in some serious trouble.
Uh, yeah. A twice-convicted
felon in possession of
a substantial amount of ice?
Even if she’s telling the truth,
who’s going to believe her?
The question now arises,
“What about Donald and
David?” Kristina’s youngest
kids, ages eleven and seven.
Well, there is a major problem,
isn’t there? If they catch Ron,
he’s going away. This is felony
assault, on top of his record.
Kristina may be going away
too, and even if she isn’t, it will
be weeks before she’ll be
in a position to play mother
to those kids. So it basically
comes down to foster care,
or … His jaw clenches, and
every discernable muscle tenses.
“Or you and Mom take them
in.” No wonder they were
arguing. Impossible situation.
He nods. Marie wants to bring
them home. It makes me so angry!
We both swore we’d never do it
again—not that we resent having
you, but we’re too old to be parents
of young children. The only alternative
I can think of is Jake and Misty.
But after what happened last time,
it’s not really fair to ask them.
THERE’S AN UNDERSTATEMENT
Uncle Jake owns a bigger heart
than any man should, because
hearts are too easily broken.
He gave a big chunk of his heart
to me, playing babysitter while
most of his buddies were focused
on trying to score girls. The rest
of his heart (minus what belongs
to Mom and Dad) went to Misty
in high school. They married soon
after graduation, even though
everyone said they were too young.
So far, they’ve proved everyone
wrong. School. Work. Paying bills.
They’ve waded through, together.
Then, when Kristina got pregnant
with David and decided she
couldn’t put up with four-year-old
Donald’s hardcore behavior
problems, Jake volunteered to
take him in. He and Misty dealt
patiently with biting. Head
banging. Scream-punctuated
tantrums. Purposeful destruction.
Not his fault, Jake claimed.
She never taught him better.
Truth is, he was wild as a bobcat.
With nurturing and love, Jake
and Misty tamed him. Taught
him the meaning of “no,” how
to say “please” and “thank you.”
Then, of course, Kristina wanted
him back. Sort of like sending
your puppy out to be house-
broken, was Dad’s comment.
Donald did return to Kristina,
better for the experience. But he
has regressed some over time.
Let’s just say there’s rarely
a dull moment when Kristina
and her brood come round
for holidays and family reunions.
AND NOW THE BROOD
Might be moving in? No
wonder Dad’s feeling
a little anxious.
A little pressured.
A little concerned
that his comfortable
retirement might become
decidedly uncomfortable.
Everything at home
has been relatively
stable for a long time.
The drama for the most
part has remained
housed in Las Vegas.
Kristina has kept semi-
steadily employed,
and maintained a couple
of semi-steady relationships.
Of course, Ron was always
lurking in the shadows,
ready to pounce,
ready to maim,
ready to bring her down.
And Kristina never
played smart, never
played the game like
it was for real.
Easier to play victim.
SPEAKING OF PLAYING
The last time Donald came
to visit, he fried my brand-new
Xbox. “Uh … So where are
the demon kids going to sleep?”
Apparently Dad hasn’t bothered
much with the minutiae. I don’t
know. Haven’t really thought
about it. The guest room?
I snort. “Mom’s white on white
with white trim guest room?
You’ve got to be kidding, right?”
He thinks it over for a second,
has to laugh, too. We could
give them permanent markers