Impulse

  they have to forgive themselves.

  That’s tough for anyone to do;

  for some, nearly impossible.

  Do you think they’re strong enough?

  I just stare. How can she

  be so dense? She’s only met

  them a time or two, but can’t

  she see through the pretense?

  “You really don’t get them at

  all, Dr. Starr. Blame themselves?

  Forgive themselves? For my

  fall from grace? Not even!

  My father can’t be to blame.

  He’s never home long enough

  to be an influence on me.

  And Mom? If she ever took

  responsibility for this,

  what would her bridge club

  think? Nope, the only person

  they could blame at all is me.”

  We’re Not Through Yet

  Okay, Conner. And who do

  you blame? Who do you think

  is responsible for you?

  She’s made it a whole new game.

  I’ve had plenty of time,

  alone in my room, to

  consider that very thing,

  hours and hours to hone

  my reply. “I blame Dad for

  my drive for perfection.

  He’s always demanded

  that Cara and I strive

  to attain the highest grade,

  highest score, to bring home

  gold. A silver medal

  meant losing, nothing more.

  Mom I blame for making

  me cold. What kind of

  mother flat-out refuses

  to hold her children, make

  them feel wanted, warm, safe?

  Emily made me feel all

  those things and more. Is that

  really so hard to understand?”

  The bulldog’s growl softens.

  No, of course it’s not. But

  surely you knew your affair

  couldn’t go on forever.

  “Forever has no meaning

  when you’re living in the

  moment. I wasn’t ready

  for that moment to end.”

  Amen.

  Tony

  Easter Weekend

  And the place has mostly

  cleared out. Aspen Springs,

  graveyard. Kind of fitting,

  I guess. My dad asked

  if I wanted to go visit

  him. Not ready for that.

  Apparently, Conner wasn’t

  ready to go home either.

  He’s sitting, staring

  at mindless television.

  But I can tell he’s not

  concentrating on the screen.

  Unusual, considering

  this sitcom features

  big-breasted women,

  with a minimum

  amount of clothing

  covering their silicone.

  “Hey, man. Damn quiet

  in here, huh?” I say.

  “Kind of spooky.”

  Not as spooky as home,

  he answers, Besides,

  I don’t mind the quiet

  “Uh. Oh, sorry. Didn’t

  mean to crowd your

  space or anything.”

  No problem. Crowd

  my space, I’m done

  brooding, anyway

  Brooding? Good word,

  one I’ve never once

  used. “About what?”

  Just thinking about

  home. Will I ever

  want to go back there?

  Carmella Bustles In

  Hey, you two. Want

  some company? Looks

  kind of lonely in here.

  She plops down on the

  couch, very close to

  Conner, who doesn’t move.

  “You stuck here with

  us this weekend, Car?”

  I measure her proximity

  to Conner, wonder if

  she’s flirting on purpose.

  “No place better to go?”

  She giggles. What could

  be better than spending

  time with two gorgeous

  guys? And, if you want,

  I’ve got permission to

  take you out of here tomorrow.

  Conner stirs, moves

  his leg even closer

  to hers, just a fraction

  of an inch from brushing.

  Out of here, where? Like

  maybe to San Francisco?

  Carmella laughs again.

  I don’t think we could

  get away with that.

  But we can take in

  a movie. There are

  some good ones playing.

  “I’m in. But aren’t they

  afraid we might overpower

  you and hit the road?”

  Don’t even talk like

  that. Someone might

  take you seriously.

  Someone Probably Should

  But right now, I really

  have nowhere better

  to go. And I wouldn’t

  want to get Carmella

  in trouble. Of course,

  I can’t speak for Conner.

  But he seems cool

  with the plan. Okay,

  count me in too. A

  movie would be great.

  Unless you can figure

  a way to San Francisco.

  I’ll work on that for

  next time. Meanwhile,

  can we please change

  the channel? Nothing

  worse than women

  with tits for brains.

  Conner laughs. Oh yeah,

  there are definitely worse

  things than that. But I

  wasn’t watching this

  show anyway. Here’s

  the remote. You choose.

  It’s really kind of scary,

  sitting here watching

  TV with two people

  I like. Almost like

  having a real family—

  not that I’d have a clue

  what that was like.

  The closest I ever

  came was Phillip.

  And he was so sick,

  our time together

  so short, it almost

  doesn’t count.

  Vanessa

  Grandma’s House

  Feels completely

  foreign, completely like home.

  It’s easier to breathe

  here, where the walls

  don’t gather me in,

  smother me in their arms.

  Hey, Nessa, shouts Bryan,

  come in the kitchen.

  We’re ready to color

  Easter eggs. If we mix

  blue and red, we’ll get

  purple. Blue and yellow

  make green. Come here.

  I’ll show you how.

  He’s so excited to have

  me back, he hasn’t calmed

  down for twenty seconds

  since they picked me up,

  yakking nonstop about

  school and his new buddy,

  Dean; about Cub Scouts

  and popcorn fund-raisers.

  “Be right there,” I promise.

  But first I need to take

  a little detour. I’ve been

  pocketing the lithium,

  so I don’t spend all three

  days in the bathroom.

  I’m not sick this afternoon,

  but I feel a mad rush

  of blue coming on.

  And here I don’t have

  to use paper clips

  or pop-tops. My trusty

  razor blade is in its

  cubby, calling

  out to me. Just a little

  slice, for old time’s sake.

  I Go into the Bedroom

  Close the door,

&nbsp
; remove my steel lover

  from its place of honor

  on the closet shelf.

  I touch its stainless

  tip to my index finger.

  Sharp! Without pressure,

  it draws a crimson bead.

  Peel back my sleeve—

  the one that covers

  the barbed-wire scar,

  affectionately place

  the blade beneath

  my left thumb. This

  is the best rush

  of all—the moment

  right before the cut.

  It’s my decision now,

  I’m in charge.

  And just as I think

  I’ll give in to temptation,

  reopen the old wound,

  Bryan calls, C’mon,

  Nessa, please? I’m

  waiting for you

  I could still do it,

  but I see my brother’s

  face, scream frozen

  in place, and I put

  the blade back

  in its velvet sleeve.

  “I’m coming right

  now, Bryan. Save

  some purple

  dye for me.”

  The Kitchen

  Is a Norman Rockwell painting—

  Grandma, at the sink, draining

  eggs; Bryan, at the table, drawing

  wax pictures on cooled shells,

  waiting for me to come help

  with the dye. It’s all so …

  normal, something I rarely

  feel. And I’m expected

  to blend in, head

  backstroking through blue.

  I’m determined to do it too.

  Look, Nessa. I put

  your name on this one.

  And I drew a train on it too.

  Bryan always did love

  trains. Once Grandma took

  us on the Amtrak, from Reno

  to Sacramento. I was pretty

  well bored out of my tree—

  except for the cute guy

  sitting across from me in

  the observation car. And Bryan

  loved it so much, how could

  I possibly complain?

  I saved lots of purple

  for you. And all the other

  colors too. I know! Let’s

  make a rainbow.

  We go to work, dying

  bands of blue, red,

  and yellow. They bleed

  a little, but so do rainbows.

  Just as we’re dipping the eggs

  into the green,

  the front door opens.

  Grandma turns.

  Bryan jumps up.

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  “Daddy!”

  Conner

  Talk About Jumping

  Through hoops! To get to go

  to the movie, Tony and I

  had to put in writing that

  we know our privileges

  will be suspended if we

  so much as sneeze wrong.

  And just to make sure, Dr.

  Boston is coming along.

  I suspect that’s because she

  has nowhere better to go—

  no spring break for her, I guess.

  Anyway, I’m happy to share

  a bag of popcorn with

  the delectable Dr. B.

  I hope the movie’s an R-

  rated romp—something sexy

  to fire up her pistons. “What

  are we going to see?” I ask.

  “A taste of Tarantino? Tim

  Burton? Don’t tell me Disney!”

  Carmella laughs. Heather

  and I were thinking more

  along the lines of Spielberg’s

  new csi-fi flick. Work for you?

  Dr. Boston is a Heather.

  Sounds about right. And

  as for Spielberg, well, we

  just might catch sight of

  someone curvaceous and

  yummy, if not exactly

  slutty. “Sure, works fine for

  me. I’m easy to please.”

  We Take the Aspen Springs Limo

  A minivan that must be

  at least ten years old. It

  wheezes along the icy road,

  a decrepit old beast, and I

  hope we make it the eight

  miles to the theater.

  Spring or no, it’s much too

  cold to walk it from here.

  Dahlia is with us too—

  another won’t-go-home.

  Da-hamn, it’s cold out here,

  like a whole other planet.

  Weird, says Tony, how you

  disconnect from what’s outside

  when you spend your life inside.

  I never know what to expect

  when I walk out the door. April,

  and snow on the ground. Do kids

  hunt Easter eggs in the snow? I

  was never a kid, so I don’t know.

  “I only ever went to one

  egg hunt,” I answer. “Our

  nanny took us because,

  to be blunt, our parents

  considered such frivolity

  a total waste of time. Once

  was more than enough for

  me—that six-foot, pimply-faced

  rabbit, leering like a lech,

  wrecked me for weeks. Poor

  Leona thought the experience

  just might affect me for life.”

  Enough About Giant Bunnies

  We reach the theater, all

  in one piece, buy tickets, go

  inside. Just as I think

  this could turn into fun,

  a familiar voice scratches

  my eardrums. Hey, Conner.

  What a surprise. I heard

  you tried to die. That right?

  “Hello, Kendra.” Stiffly,

  I turn around to face the

  pretty blond cheerleader who

  drowned in Emily’s wake.

  I consider the accident

  excuse, but why even

  go there? “Guess I did. Next

  time I’ll have to try harder.”

  Her face goes white. Don’t say

  that. Believe it or not, a few

  people care about you. One

  or two of us even love you.

  Holy shit. How could she

  love me? I dropped her like

  a hot piece of tin. “I’m

  sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  There’s Sean. Gotta go. Hope

  to see you again soon, Conner.

  Give me a call, if you want

  to. I’m a good listener.

  I shuffle off to Screen

  Three, settle beside Dr.

  Boston, try to concentrate on

  the black-humored movie, mind

  on Kendra.

  Tony

  The Greatest Thing

  About today is how

  normal I feel—like

  totally mainstream. Okay,

  so I’m at the movies

  with two crazy people,

  one lonely psychologist,

  and one totally demented

  “house mother.” At least

  I’m at the movies, a place

  I’ve only been twice

  before. And these freaky

  people feel like family.

  Hey, Tony, says Dahlia,

  check it out. That girl

  has the hots for Conner.

  The girl in question,

  a too-skinny blonde,

  definitely knows

  Conner. He tells her

  something and she

  looks ready to cry.

  Jeez, man, what’s up

  with that guy? Does

  he have a magic wand?

  “I suppose you could

  call it a wand,” I answer,

  and we both bust up.

  Ca
rmella shimmies

  up, arms loaded with

  buckets of popcorn and

  oversize sodas. Hurry

  up! I hate missing

  the start of a movie.

  I Sit in Between

  Carmella and Dahlia,

  passing popcorn and

  laughing at how the girls

  hold their ears every

  time the gunplay gets

  real loud. Too funny.

  Every now and then

  I glance at Conner,

  who’s way too quiet

  to be enjoying himself.

  Dr. Boston notices

  too. Even in the dark

  of the theater, I see

  concern in the set of

  her jaw. She leans over and

  whispers something, and

  he shakes his head.

  Then it seems to me,

  and I could be wrong,

  that she moves her knee

  so it just touches Conner’s.

  Now I don’t know which

  scene intrigues me more:

  the one on the screen,

  or the one two seats away.

  I divide my attention

  between the two and

  make a mental note

  to ask Conner about

  the twig-thin blonde,

  Dr. Boston, and Emily.

  Dahlia’s right. His wand

  must hold magic. For

  the first time in a long

  time, I feel a tug in my

  own magic-free wand.

  I Know I Should Wait

  To ask Conner about

  any of that, but on

  the way back to Aspen

  Springs, my mouth springs

  open. “Hey, Conner.

  “Who was the cute blonde