The You I've Never Known

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  This book is dedicated to every child who has ever lost a parent, and every parent who has ever lost a child.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With love and heartfelt appreciation to my husband, John, who steadfastly held my hand through the roller coaster ride so many years ago. Special thanks to my editing team—Emma, Ruta, and Annie—whose insights helped make this book the exceptional story it has become, and to my publisher, for offering understanding and patience when I desperately needed them. And a giant shout-out to my dear friend Susan Hart Lindquist, who listens to my rants and helps me sort through the reasons for them. Sometimes you just need an ear.

  To Begin

  Oh, to be given the gifts

  of the chameleon!

  Not only the ability

  to match the vital facade

  to circumstance at will,

  but also the capacity

  to see in two directions

  simultaneously.

  Left. Right.

  Forward. Backward.

  How much gentler

  our time on this planet,

  and how much more

  certain of our place

  in the world we would be,

  drawing comfort

  like water from the wells

  of our homes.

  Ariel

  Home

  Four letters,

  one silent.

  A single syllable

  pregnant with meaning.

  Home is more

  than a leak-free roof

  and insulated walls

  that keep you warm

  when the winter wind screams

  and cool when summer

  stomps all over you.

  Home is a clearing

  in the forest,

  a safe place to run

  when the trees shutter

  all light and the crunch

  of leaves in deepening darkness

  drills fear into your heart.

  Home is someone

  or two who accepts you

  for the person you believe

  you are, and if that happens

  to change, embraces the person

  you ultimately find yourself to be.

  I Can’t Remember

  Every place

  Dad and I have

  called home. When

  I was real little, the two

  of us sometimes lived in

  our car. Those memories

  are in motion. Always moving.

  I don’t think

  I minded it so much

  then, though mixed in

  with happy recollections

  are snippets of intense fear.

  I didn’t dare ask why one stretch

  of sky wasn’t good enough to settle

  under. My dad

  likes to say he came

  into this world infected

  with wanderlust. He claims

  I’m lucky, that at one day till

  I turn seventeen I’ve seen way

  more places than most folks see

  in an entire

  lifetime. I’m sure

  he’s right on the most

  basic level, and while I

  can’t dig up snapshots of

  North Dakota, West Virginia, or

  Nebraska, how could I ever forget

  watching Old

  Faithful spouting

  way up into the bold

  amethyst Yellowstone sky,

  or the granddaddy alligator

  ambling along beside our car

  on a stretch of Everglade roadway?

  I’ve inhaled

  heavenly sweet

  plumeria perfume,

  dodging pedicab traffic

  in the craziness of Waikiki.

  I’ve picnicked in the shadows

  of redwoods older than the rumored

  son of God;

  nudged up against

  the edge of the Grand

  Canyon as a pair of eagles

  played tag in the warm air

  currents; seen Atlantic whales

  spy-hop; bodysurfed in the Pacific;

  and picked spring-

  inspired Death Valley

  wildflowers. I’ve listened

  to Niagara Falls percussion,

  the haunting song of courting

  loons. So I guess my dad is right.

  I’m luckier than a whole lot of people.

  Yeah, On Paper

  All that sounds pretty damn

  awesome. But here’s the deal.

  I’d trade every bit of it to touch

  down somewhere Dad didn’t insist

  we leave as soon as we arrived.

  I truly don’t think I’m greedy.

  All I want is a real home, with

  a backyard and a bedroom

  I can fix up any way I choose,

  the chance to make a friend

  or two, and invite them to spend

  the night. Not so much to ask, is it?

  Well, I guess you’d have to query Dad.

  I know he only wants what’s best

  for me, but somehow he’s never

  cared about my soul-deep longing

  for roots. Home is where the two

  of us are, was a favorite saying, and,

  The sky is the best roof there is. Except

  when it’s leaking. The rain reference

  cracked me up when I was real young.

  But after a time or twenty, stranded

  in our car while it poured because

  we had nowhere else dry to stay,

  my sense of humor failed me.

  Then he’d teach me a new card

  game or let me win at the ones

  I already knew. He could be nice

  like that. But as I aged beyond

  the adorable little girl stage,

  the desire for “place” growing,

  he grew tired of my whining.

  That’s what he called it. Quit

  your goddamn whining, he’d say.

  You remind me of your mother. Why

  don’t you run off and leave me, too?

  Who’d look out for you then, Miss

  Nothing’s Ever Good Enough?

  No one, that’s who! Not one person

  on this planet cares about you.

  No one but Daddy, who loves you

  more than anything in the whole wide

  world, and would lay down his life

  for you. You remember that, hear me?

  I heard those words too often,

  in any number of combinations.

  Almost always they came floating

  in a fog of alcohol and tobacco.

  Once in a While

  But not often, those words

  came punctuated by a jab

  to my arm or the shake

  of my shoulders or a whack

  against the back of my head.

  I learned not to cry.

  Soldier up, he’d say. Soldiers

  don’t cry. They swallow pain.

  Keep blubbering, I’ll give you

  something to bawl about.

  He would, too. Afterward

  always came his idea

  of an apology—a piece of gum

&n
bsp; or a handful of peanuts or,

  if he felt really bad, he might

  spring for a Popsicle.

  Never a spoken, “I’m sorry.”

  Closest he ever came was,

  I’m raising you the way

  I was raised. I didn’t turn

  out so bad, and neither will you.

  Then he’d open the dog-eared

  atlas and we’d choose our next

  point of interest to explore.

  Together. Just the two of us.

  That’s all either of us needed.

  He always made that crystal

  clear. Of course, he managed

  to find plenty of female

  companionship whenever

  the desire struck.

  It took me years

  to understand the reasons

  for those relationships

  and how selfish

  his motives were.

  I’ve read about men

  who use their cute dogs

  to bait women

  into hooking up.

  Dad used me.

  The result was temporary

  housing, a shot at education,

  though I changed schools

  more often than most military

  kids do. All that moving, though

  Dad was out of the army.

  At least we slept

  in actual beds

  and used bathrooms

  that didn’t have stalls.

  But still, I always knew

  those houses would never

  be home.

  I Might Say

  We’ve actually found a real home

  in a simple rented house only Dad

  and I share, but I’d have to knock

  damn hard on wood to eliminate

  the jinx factor. We first came here

  fifteen months ago on one sizzling

  July day. I don’t know why Dad

  picked a California Gold Rush town,

  but I like Sonora, and actually spent

  my entire sophomore year, start

  to finish, at Sonora High School.

  Two whole summers, one complete

  grade, well, that’s a record, and

  I’m praying I can finish my junior

  year here, too. It’s only just started,

  and I’d say I’m probably doomed

  to finish it elsewhere except for a couple

  of things. One, Dad has a decent auto

  mechanic job he likes. And, two, he has

  an indecent woman he likes even better.

  Indecency

  Is subjective, I suppose,

  and it’s not like I’m listening

  at Dad’s bedroom door,

  trying to figure out exactly

  what the two of them might

  be doing on the far side.

  Truthfully, I don’t care

  that they have sex, or what

  variety it might be. Vanilla

  or kinky, doesn’t matter

  at all to me. I’m just glad

  they’re a couple, and that

  they’ve stayed together

  this long—six months

  and counting. It gives me

  hope that we won’t pull up

  stakes and hit the road anytime

  soon. Plus, the regular

  rutting seems to help Dad

  blow off steam. His violent

  outbursts are fewer and

  further in between. The last

  was a few weeks ago when

  I made the mistake of asking

  if I could bring a kitten home.

  Kitten? he actually bellowed. No!

  Kittens turn into cats. Disgusting

  animals. Shitting in boxes, leaving

  shitty litter all over the floor.

  And the smell! I don’t work

  my ass off to keep us from

  living in a nasty, dirty car

  to come home to cat stink.

  I didn’t mention his personal

  body odor could rival any feline

  stench. I wouldn’t dare tell him

  his cigarettes make me gag,

  even though I finally convinced

  him to smoke exclusively

  outside, so it’s only his nicotine

  haze that I have to endure.

  Instead, I shut my mouth,

  resigned myself to the fact

  I’d not share my bedroom

  (complete with cat box)

  with a furry companion.

  Dad’s never allowed me

  to have pets. I assumed

  it was due to our transient

  lifestyle. Now I realize

  it’s at least in part because

  of his impatience with dirt

  and disorder. Or maybe

  he’s afraid to share

  my affection. With anything.

  It’s Saturday Night

  And Dad and Zelda are out

  getting trashed. Some local

  country band Zelda likes

  is playing at Dad’s favorite

  “watering hole,” as he calls it.

  Sonora has brought out Dad’s

  inner Oklahoma hick, and that’s okay

  except when he’s knocked back

  a few too many and starts yelling

  about “them goddamn Muslims”

  or, worse, “fucking wetbacks.”

  I’ve made a few friends here,

  and the one I’d call “best” happens

  to be Latina. Dad probably thinks

  I’m a traitor, but I don’t care about

  Monica’s heritage, or if the Torres

  family is one hundred percent legal.

  Starting a new school, knowing

  exactly no one, rates automatic Freak

  Club membership. Monica had already

  been inducted, for reasons I didn’t

  learn until later. Not that I cared

  about why. She was the first person

  at Sonora High to even say hello.

  Freak-freak connection’s a powerful thing.

  Discovering the Reasons

  For Monica’s Freak

  Club induction

  made me discover

  something about myself.

  Something disquieting.

  Disheartening, even,

  at least at first,

  because I found a facet

  I never suspected

  and, considering my history,

  was not prepared for.

  Sonora is small-town

  conservative, especially

  by California standards.

  Accepting to a point,

  but not exactly a mecca

  for the LGBTQ crowd.

  Monica Torres is not

  only a lesbian, but also

  a queer Mexican American,

  and while she’s mostly okay

  carrying both banners,

  they make her an outsider

  in a school that takes great

  pride in its Wild West spirit.

  I would’ve run in the other

  direction if I’d known she was

  gay when I first met her.

  The last thing I wanted

  was a lezzie best friend.

  For as long as I can remember,

  I’ve hated my mother

  for running off with her lesbian

  lover. Dad has branded

  that information into my brain,

  and with it the concept

  that queer equals vile.

  But Monica is warm. Kind.

  And funny. God, she makes

  me laugh. I crave her company.

  It was months before I figured

  out the way she leaned,

  and by then I already loved

  her as a friend. Now, I’m afraid,

  I’m starting to love her

  as someth
ing much more,

  not that we’ve explored

  the places romance often

  leads to. When we touch,

  we don’t touch there.

  When you’re ready, novia,

  she tells me. Only then.

  Monica understands

  the reasons for my hesitation.

  She’s the only person I’ve ever

  confided in about my parents—

  both my mother’s desertion

  and my dad’s instability.

  Realizing I might in fact carry

  some kind of queer gene,

  not to mention a predisposition

  toward imbalance, isn’t easy

  to accept. I still haven’t exactly

  embraced the idea, nor the theory

  that one could very well lead

  to the other.

  Even if and when that finally

  happens, I’ll have to contend

  with Dad, who will never admit

  to himself or anyone else

  that living inside his head

  is a person prone to cruelty.

  Despite that, I love him. Depend

  on him. He’s protected me.

  Overprotected me, really.

  I’m sure he only wants what’s best

  for me. I could never confess

  to him the way I feel about Monica.

  But I won’t hide the fact

  that we’re Freak Club sisters.

  Dad’ll Have to Get Over It

  He’s the one who created

  Freak Me to start with, so

  however I choose to deal

  with it had better be okay.

  With him and Zelda (who

  names their adorable newborn

  Zelda, anyway?) busy elsewhere

  for the evening, I invited

  Monica over. She shows up

  with a big foil-covered pan.

  Hope you’re into tamales.

  My mom doesn’t know how

  to make just a few, and I

  figured these would be better

  than frozen pizza.

  That would be our usual

  go-to spend-the-night dinner.

  “This is probably lame,” I admit,

  “but I’ve never tried tamales.”

  Monica walks past me on her

  way to the kitchen. Totally lame,

  she agrees. Tamales are dope.

  I fall in line behind her, experience

  a small sting of jealousy. What I

  wouldn’t give for her powerful,

  compact build. I’m way too tall,

  and thin to the point of looking

  anorexic, not because I purposely

  don’t eat, but rather because

  when I was growing up

  there was never an excessive