question, and one that will be
asked by more people than Dad.
Dylan totally is the baby’s father.
I’ve done my homework, too.
Dad is right. Dylan can’t just
decide he’s completely out of
the picture. Even if he never sees
his daughter, he has to help take
care of her financially. The question
really is: Will I make him step up?
But what if he did see her, and what
if he fell in love with her? Would
he remember falling in love with me,
and would he love me again?
March is too far away to find out.
I haven’t even had the chance
to tell him we’re having a girl.
He avoids me at school, and he
won’t take my calls, and I’m not
about to deliver that news via
voice mail. But he can’t keep away
from me forever. One way or
another, Dylan Douglas will see
the ultrasound pics of his baby
girl. And today will be the day.
Mom Always Says
When I set my mind on something
I am a force to be reckoned with.
Today I will be gravity—subtle,
but powerful and undeniable.
I see Dylan walking with friends
a few times, and once with Kristy.
But I need to find him alone, and
it finally happens right before fifth
period. He’s at his locker pulling
out books. My approach is silent.
“Hey.” I keep my voice gentle,
and when he looks at me, I’m sure
there’s a hint of love in his eyes.
“I wanted to show you something.”
I don’t want to be late for trig.
His tone is harsh. What is it?
Carefully, I extract the printout
from my notebook. “Our daughter.”
He studies it for a second, then shakes
his head, as if to clear it of confusion.
I don’t know what you want me
to say, Mikki. It barely even looks
like a baby. And it doesn’t change
a thing. I’ve got to go now.
“Please, Dylan. You’re her daddy.
She’s going to need you in her life.”
I touch his hand. “I need you in my life.
But she is what’s important.” He jerks
his arm away. Not to me, she’s not.
Now, leave me the fuck alone, Mikki.
He slams his locker and practically
runs down the hallway. My eyes sting
acid tears. “I am so going to make you pay!”
The words echo in the empty corridor.
My Last Class
Of the day is home ec.
A no-brainer elective.
I know how to cook.
But sometimes you need
an extra few credits.
In the Thanksgiving spirit,
we are experimenting with
stuffing. I hope next week
you’ll volunteer to make
something a little different
for your family’s holiday
meal, says Mrs. Brennan.
And I hope every single one
of you has something special
to be grateful for. She gives
me a knowing glance, and
I’m halfway to giving her
something special to suspend
me for when someone comes
up behind me, lays a hand
on my shoulder. We haven’t
talked in a while. Maybe we
should. Tyler. I turn and look
up into his eyes. I don’t know
if you want to. But I’d like to.
No one has been this nice
to me in weeks, and even
though there is a prohibition
against male/female touching
on campus, I slide my arms
around him. Lay my ear
against his heartbeat. And cry.
A soak-through-the-shirt-all-
the-way-to-the-chest-hair
kind of tears. Mrs. Brennan
doesn’t say a word and neither
does Ty, or anyone else here.
They just let me weep into
the onion-celery-sausage-
sage-scented air. Thanksgiving.
I Think I’m Having
An out-of-body experience.
I am not holding myself upright.
Ty is. Ty, who I’ve known for
years. Ty, who has dated friends.
And enemies. Ty, who has never
touched me before, at least not
in any significant way. Yet, at this
moment, he supports my weight.
The weight of my muscles, bones.
The weight of my psyche, which
hangs heavily. The slight weight
of my baby. The weight of my weight.
That Weight
Is oppressive. And yet, knowing
somebody cares enough to prop me
up makes me believe I can come out
okay on the other side. Just maybe.
I tell him I’m sorry.
He says not to worry.
I beg him to understand.
He promises to do his best.
And, considering how many people
make promises they can’t keep,
doing his best is all I can ask for.
Plus, in the haven of his arms
I find some slender ray
of hope that on the far
horizon a ghost girl lingers.
Mikayla Jean Carlisle,
as worthy as she ever was of fairy-tale
love. And why did that train of thought
even wind up on the same page
with me, anchored in Tyler’s harbor?
Tyler
Fairy-Tale Love
Isn’t something to aspire to.
At least, not if you dig down
beyond Disneyfied retellings.
Original
versions are pretty sick. Take
Sleeping Beauty. The cartoon
portrays Prince Charming’s love
as pure, but as first written,
sin
drives a randy married king
to rape a comatose beauty,
leaving her pregnant with twins.
When the queen finds out, she
is
rightly quite pissed, and orders
the castle chef to cook the kids
for dinner. Instead, he tells
the king, who decides
a
nubile, fertile fox is preferable
to a murderous hag. Guess who
winds up roasted, sliced and
given
a prominent place on the table?
Shane
There Are a Dozen Place Settings
On our Thanksgiving table.
That, in itself, is remarkable.
The guest list is kind of crazy:
Mom and Dad
Gram and Gramps
Aunt Andrea and Dr. Malik
Steve and Cassandra
Harley, Chad and me
(Plus Shelby!)
It was Gram’s idea to include her.
An outsider could not understand
the meaning of that gesture. Shelby:
Never nibbled turkey skin
Never tasted pecan pie
(Did their magical perfumes
mean anything at all to a nose
completely uninfluenced
by a food-virgin tongue?)
I wish, just one time, I would have
touched some tiny taste of ambrosia
to her lips, some forbidden pleasure:
New York cheesecake
Crème brûlée
Pineapple sorbet
Hot fudge sundae
(With vanilla bean Häagen-Dazs
and homemade whipped cream)
And I wish, on more than one occasion,
she could have sat upright at our dining
room table, one of a family of four. Shelby:
Comfortable in a velvet chair
Holding her own silver fork
Over one of Mom’s good china plates
Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin
Talking about her favorite Disney show
(Or taking a drive with me)
I Fantasize About That
As the very much still alive
(at least in most ways) rest of the guest
list sits down to dinner. Even without
Shelby, it’s a very strange cast of players.
All of whom pretend it’s not. All
of whom, for whatever reasons, are grateful
to be able to pretend it’s not. And that,
for my own reasons, includes me.
The dialogue, stilted at first, begins
to pick up speed as the food arrives.
Gram (putting bowls on the table):
Sorry Alex couldn’t join us. How is he?
“He’s feeling better, but thought he should
spend Thanksgiving with his family.”
Gramps (spooning candied yams):
Hey, now. We’re his extended family.
Cassandra (passing the cranberry
sauce): Yay for extended families!
Steve (slugging fine wine): Yes.
Thanks very much for the invite.
Chad (eyeing Dad’s turkey slicing):
Ditto. Real food for a change.
Mom (quickly to avert a retort):
Everything set for your wedding?
Cassie (overjoyed): I hope so! Only
a week away. You are all coming?
Mom and Dad exchange curious
glances with Gram and Gramps.
I ask the question they’re afraid to.
“Were we invited?” Pretty sure not.
Harley (panicked): Oh my God.
Didn’t I mail your invitations?
Aunt Andrea: Harley! How could . . . ?
The doctor puts his hand on her arm.
Cassie: You didn’t? But you prom—
Chad (guffawing): Way to go, Harl!
It Is Dad Who Comes to the Rescue
He bangs down the carving knife,
like a judge wielding his gavel. Okay,
everyone, let’s fill our plates and say
grace. We will all be at the wedding.
The relief, at least on the far end
of the table, is palpable. The food
goes around at dizzying speed, a blur
of, as Chad called it, real food.
Now Dad motions for everyone
to link hands. Heavenly Father.
Bless this table and all who sit here
surrounded by your presence.
Allow us to abandon our mourning
in favor of coming celebration.
Forgive our mistakes and please
let those who have been hurt by them
find the grace to forgive them, too.
We are thankful for this bounty,
each other, and you. In Christ’s
name we pray. Amen. Echoed amens.
Waves of Food
And drifts of conversation make me
a little woozy. No one seems to notice
that I pick at my food, much like
Cassandra does. She probably wants
to make sure she can fit in her size-skinny
wedding dress, which I will,
apparently, see if Dad has his way.
Eventually nothing much besides
gravy is left on the dinner plates.
Gentlemen, says Gramps. Why
don’t we clear so the ladies can
bring out the pie. I’ve had a peek.
Hope you all saved lots of room.
There are a few groans and several
yums and with all the guys helping,
the dirties disappear quickly. I stash
a few bites of leftover turkey for Gaga,
who I had to leave shut up in my room.
Earlier, I caught her on the counter
sniffing the cooling fowl. Feline!
I take it to her, a peace offering, and
by the time I get back to the table,
it is covered with pies. Lemon. Cherry.
Pecan. Apple. And the requisite pumpkin.
The girls are busy cutting and taking
orders. I ask for a small slice of cherry.
Soon, everyone has a piece, even
Cassandra, who managed the thinnest
wedge of apple I have ever seen.
Now Gramps says, I think the chefs
of this fabulous feast deserve a toast.
He pops a bottle of champagne,
then another. Mom and Dad find
crystal flutes in the hutch, Steve
helps fill them. Gramps glances
around the table. How about the kids?
Generously (foolishly?), the parents
nod okay. Interestingly enough, it
is Harley who grabs a glass first.
Chad and I follow, and everyone
raises a toast to Mom and Gram
and Andrea, who brought the veggies
and the lemon pie. I sip the sparkly
slowly. No use calling attention
to myself. Besides, in my room I have
something stronger stashed for later.
It’s Really Sort of Surprising
That my parents haven’t missed
the alcohol that keeps vanishing
from the kitchen cabinet. To be
sure, there was a lot—bottles bought
and bottles gifted over the years.
I keep pulling them forward,
but sooner or later you’d think
someone would notice. Maybe
they will. And maybe that’s what
I’m hoping for, that Mom or Dad
will notice and care enough to say
something. Tonight was nice, I guess.
But you have to wonder where
this small sense of family retreats
to when it isn’t a holiday. I’m sure
part of the problem used to be Shelby.
Doesn’t seem fair that it took her
dying to bring us closer again.
Post Pie
The guests retire to the living
room. Gramps opens the piano
and this time decides to sing
amped-up Christmas carols.
The season is almost upon us,
he says. But before we begin,
Leah and I have an announcement.
He looks at Gram, who says, We
made an offer on a little house
and five acres in Pleasant Valley.
It’s a short sale and they’re anxious.
We hope to be in before Christmas.
It’s a sweet little place, adds Gramps.
We like it because it’s halfway between
Reno and Carson. Equidistant to our
girls and our brilliant grandkids.
“Brilliant, huh? I don’t know for
sure, Harley,” I say, “but I think
he’s fishing for help with the moving.”
Gramps smiles. Not only brilliant,
but intuitive. Andrea, pick a song.
She Asks for “White Christmas”
And, though Gramps does his best
to rock it out, it’s hard to get past
sounding too much like Bing Crosby.
I move stealthily toward the back
of the room. “I’m going to check
on Gaga,” I
explain to no one at all.
I am halfway down the hall when
footsteps fall in behind me. Who’s
Gaga? asks Harley, with Chad in tow.
Damn. Almost got away. “She’s my
kitten.” Oops. Mistake. I should
have said my vicious Rottweiler.
Really? I didn’t know you had a cat.
I thought . . . Oh. Well, can we meet
her? I’m not much for caroling.
What can I do but let them in?
Gaga is in her usual pillow palace,
purring and burping up turkey.
Harley plops down beside her.
Oh, she’s so adorable. Where
did you get her? I want a kitten!
I tell her Alex could probably
pull one out from under a sagebrush
for her. And that reminds me,
“I need to call my boyfriend. Put
on some music if you want.” Chad
goes over to my iPod dock as I reach
for my cell. I dial Alex, who answers
right away, but can’t talk, except
to say, I love you. See you tomorrow?
After my too-quick goodbye, I notice
a text from Lucas. Probably wants to
sell me some weed. But, no. It’s a pic.
Of a naked girl. Look familiar?
On closer inspection, she does. Oh,
my God. “Uh, Harley. Is this you?”
Chad
Naked Girl Pics
Delivered randomly
to my cell phone are generally
fine by me. Oh yes,
I
got this one, too, at pretty
much the same time, which
means it’s a blanket send, I
think.
Last I heard, Harley and Lucas
were still a thing, which disturbs
me deeply. What does
she
see in him? I did try to warn
her that he is not the nicest
guy, and that he obviously
has
an agenda. She told me not
to worry, that she understands
his motivation, but that it’s not
a problem
because she’s got a handle
on things. I’d say she totally
underestimated him.
Harley
What Is His Problem?
How could Lucas do this to me?
Not only did he get me to take
those pictures, but he actually
sent one of them to people I know?
Including my cousin and almost