Tilt

  Chloe?

  Already has a good idea, but I’m not about

  to give her any details. Don’t really trust her.

  Bri?

  It’s just way too embarrassing. Maybe

  one day, if I get drunk enough. Except

  lately I’ve been thinking that getting

  drunk—especially blackout drunk—stinks.

  Which kind of leaves Mom.

  Who is currently crazy about her doctor

  boyfriend. Who happens to be what a boyfriend

  should be. Handsome. Rich. Upwardly mobile.

  And, most of all, respectful. Of her. And of me.

  I wish I could tell her. But I don’t know

  how. Where would I even begin?

  So I’ve Kept It All In

  And it’s eating me up.

  One good thing. I started

  my period today. I’ll be bloated

  for the wedding. But I won’t be pregnant.

  Speaking of that, seems

  Aunt Marissa and Uncle Chris

  might adopt Mikayla’s baby. I hope

  that works out. They’re talking about it

  now, I guess. Our families

  connect in weird ways. Triangles,

  kind of. I think it’s awesome, but Mom

  is worried that Aunt Marissa might be acting

  impulsively. Mom’s a fretter.

  I really don’t want to be the cause

  of her anxiety. So I’m just sitting here

  next to her, watching TV, acting like nothing’s

  bothering me. She’s doing

  the same thing. But I know she’s

  waiting to hear the latest from Aunt

  Marissa. The phone is right next to her.

  It’s So Close, in Fact

  That when it rings, she jumps.

  Guess she was caught up in the movie

  after all. But if I thought she was worried

  before, whatever she’s hearing is making

  her pace. Did Mikayla decide to keep

  the baby after all? Thanks for letting

  me know. We’ll be right there. She keeps

  her voice calm, but it trembles, and so do

  her hands. Get your coat. And hurry.

  Okay, this is bad. But we’re both

  bundled up and getting into the car

  before I ask, “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  She puts the car into reverse, backs

  carefully onto the icy street. It’s Shane.

  Oh, Jesus, how could he. . . ?

  “How could he what?” Now I’m

  getting scared. And just as it seems

  like we need to drive light speed,

  it starts to snow. Blizzard. The first

  major storm of the year, and it’s an early

  arrival. “Where are we going, Mom?”

  Saint Mary’s. Shane. . . well, they’re

  not sure if it was intentional, but he

  may have attempted suicide.

  He’s in critical condition. She swerves

  to avoid a coyote, and the Subaru fights

  to stay on the highway. Damn animals!

  “Take it easy, Mom. Slow down.

  Getting into an accident won’t help.”

  She regains control, lightens her foot

  on the accelerator. I know. Sorry. I

  just want to be there for Missy. How

  could he be so selfish? Good question,

  if he did try to kill himself. He wouldn’t,

  though, right? I just saw him at Thanksgiving.

  I would have known something was wrong.

  Right?

  Snow Swirls

  In the headlights are hypnotic.

  It’s like I can’t look away, and

  as I stare, questions materialize,

  ghosts, dancing against the windshield.

  Why did he do it, if he did?

  Why didn’t anyone see it coming?

  Why would he hurt his parents even

  more than they were already hurting?

  What, exactly, happened to make

  him choose today? Was it because

  of his mom wanting another baby?

  Why wouldn’t he want her to have one?

  Those are the easy ones. The next

  ones are darker. Macabre, even.

  How did he do it? Why didn’t it

  work? Will it work in the end?

  Who found him? How did he look?

  Was he fighting for life? Or so close

  to death that he looked like a corpse

  already? And am I sick to wonder?

  The Waiting Room

  Is crowded with family. Gramps

  meets us at the door, worry creasing

  his eyes. Missy’s in shock,

  he warns. They’ve sedated her.

  Her face is the color of parchment,

  and her eyes are empty. She leans against

  Uncle Chris, who clenches and unclenches

  his left fist. I’ve never seen him show

  emotion, not even at Shelby’s funeral. His

  right hand clutches Aunt Marissa’s like if

  he let it go she might leave him, too. “Sit

  down, Mom,” I tell her. She looks unsteady

  but she shakes her head. I want

  to talk to Gram. Gram, who paces

  from the far wall to the door, poking

  her head out every time she reaches it.

  I sit next to Gramps. “Where’s Alex?

  He knows, doesn’t he?” He must.

  He knows. I guess Shane called

  him to say goodbye. Which is why

  they think it was a suicide attempt.

  Alex called Chris, who found Shane,

  unconscious in the travel trailer. It

  smelled like gas, but he had taken pills,

  too. Antidepressants, Jägermeister and

  carbon monoxide can be lethal all by

  themselves. Combine them. . . He shakes

  his head. They pumped his stomach,

  put him on oxygen. They’re not sure if

  he’ll make it, or if he’ll be okay if he does.

  Alex must be freaking out. “So, where

  is Alex? Why isn’t he here?”

  He’s here. He went down to the chapel.

  He said he hasn’t prayed in a while, but. . .

  Alex

  But Maybe It’s Time

  To try prayer again.

  Gay and Catholic are hard

  to reconcile. Figure in

  molestation and HIV,

  I

  gave up on God a long time

  ago. Then I found Shane, who

  offered not only love, but real

  hope

  that there might be something

  beyond this life. Even for me.

  So here’s the thing,

  God.

  I’m asking for a really big favor.

  Maybe one I don’t deserve.

  But Shane does. He reopened

  my heart to you. So if it

  is

  your will, please, please send

  him back to us. We need his light—

  your light, shining through him.

  And if you’re feeling especially

  generous,

  please give him back whole.

  Mikayla

  I’m Feeling Good

  About my decision. The Trask house

  is huge. Beautiful. She’ll have a big

  room. Plenty of toys. Pretty clothes.

  Nice things. Lots of attention. Love.

  I’m feeling awful about my decision.

  Every time she moves inside me

  tonight, it’s like she’s asking, Why,

  Mama? Why do you want to give me away?

  In theory, getting to see her every

  now and again will allow me peace

  of mind. But what if knowing
she’s

  that close only makes me want

  to see her more? I hate being torn

  like this. Hate Dylan for making

  me fall in love with him. Hate

  my parents for glomming onto

  this solution, going on and on about

  what’s best for me, best for the baby,

  when what they’re really concerned

  about is what’s best for them.

  A Big Part of Me

  Feels like “my” decision has more

  to do with them than it does with me.

  When the Trasks walked us out to

  our car, Mrs. Trask hugged Mom,

  as if she was the one giving up her baby.

  Then Dad shook Mr. Trask’s hand.

  Like they were closing a business deal

  or something. My colleague will be in touch,

  Dad said. We need to spell out the details

  on paper. Go, Dad. Let’s sign the contract.

  I’m not sure if my current reticence

  has more to do with all that than the simple

  idea that I might be making a mistake.

  Why can’t this just be easy? Is it ever?

  Exhausted

  By the mental wrestling match,

  I fall back on my bed, look

  over the rising hill of my belly.

  Will it ever return to flat terrain,

  or will a small knoll always remain,

  no matter how many crunches I do—

  a reminder of sweet summer love

  turned sour? Where is Dylan tonight?

  Has he, for even the smallest fraction

  of a second, thought about me

  tonight at all? Does he ever feel regret?

  Just a minute ago, I hated him. Why

  am I filled with such love for him

  now? How long does it take to fall

  back out of love? How much time

  to blunt the sharp stab of pain?

  How many girls must I see him

  with before I don’t care anymore?

  Outside

  Snow falls softly from the night

  sky. Beautiful. Beautiful, and

  early this year. It brings hope

  of a white Christmas. Here

  in northern Nevada, the chances

  of late-December snow are what

  some people (especially tourists)

  might call a crapshoot. Growing

  up, I would send wish lists to Santa,

  and they always included snow,

  carpeting the ground, frosting

  windows and falling while we opened

  our presents. When it happened,

  I knew he was real because who

  but Santa could create such magic?

  But on off years, I wondered

  what I had done to displease

  him. Funny, how things work.

  Why snow this year?

  Bone Weary

  Still, I can’t sleep. Might as well

  study. Trigonometry. Radical.

  What will I ever need this shit

  for, and why did I sign up for it?

  Not like I need it to graduate,

  or to get into UNR. That’s where

  I have always planned to go.

  Why leave home, especially when

  your boyfriend is going to stay put,

  too? Except he’s not my boyfriend

  anymore. And if Mom and Dad stay

  on their current path, who knows

  where home might be next year?

  I could go to college somewhere

  else. Or skip it altogether. Travel

  Europe with a backpack and

  a college fund expense account.

  Meet some amazing guy, sipping

  cappuccino in Paris. The possibilities

  are limitless. Except with a baby.

  Dylan

  A Baby

  Was not in my plans, and

  the weird thing is, this ugly mess

  has opened an unforeseen door.

  I

  had it in my mind that I would

  stay in Reno, go to UNR. Maybe

  share an apartment with Mikki

  or something. But since there

  will

  be no Mikki, I decided to join

  the Marines as soon as I turn

  eighteen. Fuck it. I could use

  a little adventure. Yes, there’s

  always

  the possibility of deployment

  to some third world hellhole.

  Maybe it would make me man up.

  I’m pretty sure there will never

  be

  another girl in my life quite like

  Mikki. But if there is, I’ll do things

  differently. I never, ever again

  want to feel so goddamn

  sorry.

  Share

  I’m Sorry

  Someone keeps saying that.

  Over and over. I think it’s. . .

  “Mom?” I open my eyes.

  Where the hell am I? Everything

  is blizzard white. But it’s warm.

  And it stinks like alcohol. So

  it must be, “Am I in the hospital?”

  Mom, who is sitting in a chair

  beside the bed I seem to be in,

  jumps to her feet, grabs my hand.

  Shane? Oh, honey! Look at me.

  I try, but it’s hard to focus

  past whatever tubes they’ve stuck

  in my nose, apparently to breathe

  for me. “Wha-what happened?”

  The emotion in her eyes segues

  from relief to suspicion. You don’t

  remember? When I shake my head,

  she goes rigid. You. . . you. . . you

  tried to kill yourself. If not for Alex,

  we’d be planning another funeral.

  Kill Myself?

  Did I try to kill myself? Wait.

  Splats of memory—

  Cold.

  Really cold.

  Snow falling as I slipped

  across the icy driveway.

  Jäger.

  Pills, three or four.

  Maybe more. I don’t remember.

  Lying on the bed,

  waiting for the heater.

  Something about air.

  Sliding toward darkness.

  Spinning.

  Alex.

  Yes, I called Alex, to. . .

  To say goodbye.

  But I didn’t try to die.

  Did I?

  Why Would I?

  Almost as soon as I think it,

  Mom echoes the question.

  Why, Shane? Why would you?

  Before I can respond, to tell her

  I’m not sure why I would or if

  I even did, she hits me with,

  How could you be so selfish?

  How could you do that to me?

  Something detonates inside me.

  Something hot and vile and raging.

  “Why is everything about you,

  Mom? What the fuck about me?

  When was the last time you talked

  to me, or really looked at me, or

  even thought about me? Goddamn

  it! For years, you were all about

  Shelby, and I got that you had to be.

  When she died, I thought maybe. . .”

  My heart knocks in my chest and

  I’m wheezing. But I can’t stop now.

  “I thought maybe you would pay

  attention to me. But, no. Now, you want

  a baby. A Shelby replacement. Only

  better because the baby won’t be sick.

  She’ll be cute and sweet and you can

  dress her up and take her for walks

  and show her off. . . .” I’m running out

  of steam. But I manage to repeat,

  “What the fuck about me,
Mom?”

  Tears drip onto my chest from eyes

  that can’t meet mine. She doesn’t say

  anything for a while. Then, finally,

  I—I. . . I don’t know what to say except

  I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve been so sad. . . .

  “Yeah, Mom. Me, too.” That makes

  her look at me. She shakes her head.

  Slowly, as if understanding is settling in.

  You’re right. About everything.

  Maybe we should all get help. Together.

  That She’s Willing

  To admit she might need help

  is a giant step in the right

  direction. I’ve known I need help

  for a while. I was just too proud

  or scared or straight-out stupid

  to ask for it. You can’t conquer

  every demon on your own.

  “Hey. I don’t suppose Alex would

  happen to be around here somewhere?”

  She smiles. Of course he is.

  It’s not regular visiting hours,

  but I’m happy to tell them he’s your

  brother. As long as you don’t kiss

  him when a nurse is in the room.

  It wouldn’t seem too brotherly.

  She goes to get him. It feels like

  we came a long way in a few minutes.

  But not nearly as far as we have to go.

  Brianna

  In a Few Minutes

  The “Wedding March” will start.

  Not played on the organ,

  but a recorded version by the old

  band Queen. According to

  Harley,

  it’s rockin’. I’m pretty sure I prefer

  it traditional. But, hey, not my choice.

  For a church wedding, this one

  is

  condemned to be off the wall.

  Harl says Cassandra’s dress

  is even shorter than hers is.

  Of course, Harley’s is scarlet.

  Still,

  red, white or silver (!), you sort of

  expect a bride not to flash thigh

  during her vows. I will do

  my best

  not to judge her, any more than

  I look down on Harley for things

  she’s done. Whatever. I’ll always

  be here for her. That’s what a real

  friend

  does.

  Harley

  Here I Am

  Waiting in the church nursery