The You I've Never Known

  She cocks her head, looks at me

  as if I must be lying. What? No way.

  I just saw the two of you . . .

  I jump from Carolina’s bed onto

  Monica’s. “Way. What you just saw

  was us confirming we’re friends

  but not friends with privileges.

  I still think he’s hot, by the way,

  but not enough to sleep with him.”

  Go on. Go on. Don’t chicken out.

  “Sleep with him again. Because

  we did have sex a couple of times.”

  I thought so. Did you like it?

  Not what I expected, but then

  Monica often surprises me.

  How Do I Answer?

  Truth, remember? Truth.

  “Okay, I’m going to be honest

  here, because this is a good

  day for coming clean.

  I can’t say I’ll never lie

  again, but it will be

  a very long time.”

  I scoot closer, stroke

  her arm gently, note

  the knotting of her muscles

  and the fact that her eyes

  refuse to meet mine.

  “Look at me, novia.”

  I rest the back of my hand

  under her chin, tilt it up

  so she has no choice.

  “I did like having sex

  with Gabe. But it’s not

  the same as making love

  with you. I’ve come to

  the conclusion that I

  enjoy the physical act,

  and I refuse to feel guilty

  about that. But it’s real

  connection I crave, not

  just body part to body

  part, but heart to heart.

  No amo a Gabe, te amo.”

  I Don’t Love Gabe

  I love her.

  The door is closed,

  so I chance a kiss,

  this one with tongue,

  and the wet satin

  of her lips makes me

  want a whole lot more.

  Can’t happen here,

  of course, and there’s

  something kind of nice

  about having to wait.

  Like it’s an experience

  to anticipate. Still,

  the stunning rush

  of desire

  makes me tremble.

  That she returns

  my kiss with the same

  driving passion

  tells me all

  I need to know.

  She loves me, too.

  And I’m forgiven.

  At least, mostly.

  Panting

  We pull ourselves out

  of the what-will-be, return

  to the what-is-right-now.

  Which basically tosses

  me smack back into

  the what-happened-today.

  “Just so you know,

  Gabe is picking me up in

  the morning and taking me

  to work. I’m supposed to

  be at the barn by eight.”

  Pretty good friend to get up

  so early for you on a Sunday.

  “I guess, and I’m grateful.

  I need to make some money.

  Dad’s on the run. . . .” I fill

  her in on the evening’s ugliness.

  Anxiety creases her forehead.

  What are you going to do?

  “I don’t know, but I’ll

  figure out something.

  For sure I’m not leaving

  Sonora. I’ve got an actual

  life here, which includes you.

  It’s a year before I turn eighteen,

  but maybe I can emancipate.”

  You haven’t talked to your mom?

  I gave her your number.

  It was Monica? “Why did

  you do that? I figured it must

  have been Syrah, not you.

  And, no, I haven’t talked

  to her. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  She crosses her arms. Snorts.

  Maybe not. But she’s got plenty

  to say to you. I don’t get why

  you won’t listen. Don’t you

  want to know who you are?

  Stamp “pissed” across

  my face. “I know who I am,

  Monica. I don’t need Maya

  McCabe to explain it to me.”

  You only know what your dad’s

  told you, Air. You don’t even

  know what your birthday is.

  “What are you talking about?

  My birthday’s October ninth.”

  She shakes her head. That’s

  Ariel Pearson’s birthday.

  Bulldozed

  October 9

  is Ariel Pearson’s

  birthday. And

  I’m

  not Ariel Pearson.

  Meaning

  October 9

  is probably

  not

  my birthday.

  Spicy hominy

  stew gurgles

  in my stomach.

  Churns acid.

  My entire backstory

  has been fabricated.

  Birth certificate.

  School records.

  Driver’s license.

  Social security card.

  All bear the name

  Ariel

  Pearson.

  But I’m

  not

  Ariel

  Pearson.

  The Truth

  When delivered so abruptly

  is impossible to ignore.

  I fall back on the bed, nestle

  my head into the Monica-

  scented pillow, and my best

  friend settles beside me.

  I know it’s totally up to you,

  but my advice is to talk to her.

  A huge sigh escapes. “She left

  my dad for a woman, Monica.”

  So what? She reaches for my hand.

  You left your boyfriend for me.

  “That’s true.” I have to smile.

  “But I don’t want to leave here.

  I don’t want to leave you. I don’t

  want to have to go live with her.”

  You don’t have to go anywhere.

  Ariel might be seventeen, but

  Casey is eighteen. You were three

  when your dad took you away.

  This Revelation Sinks Like Lead

  “What? No! That’s impossible.

  I might not know my birthday,

  but I know how goddamn old I am.”

  Do I?

  “There’s no freaking way Dad

  could convince me I was younger

  than I was! That makes no sense.”

  Or does it?

  I’ve always been considered

  big for my age, but I always

  thought it was because

  of my height.

  Monica shrugs. Remember that

  time with Zelda and the coffee

  and he told her he drinks it black?

  On my not-birthday.

  You could tell she was all confused,

  like she’d never heard that before.

  But he swore she knew all along, right?

  How can I forget?

  There’s a word for what your dad

  did. It’s called gaslighting. If he could

  convince her, how hard would it be . . .

  “To convince a little kid.”

  Bits and pieces of memory flash

  like multicolored neon—people,

  mostly women, asking my age. Dad

  correcting my fingers.

  Until I finally got it right. Did I

  argue my name with him, too?

  Or was I simply content to become

  the Little Mermaid?

  My childhood is a jigsaw puzzle
,

  with chewed and misplaced

  pieces. I’ve always known that.

  What I didn’t realize

  is that even if every correct piece

  was fitted perfectly into place,

  the resulting picture would’ve been

  interpretive art.

  Gaslighting

  A quick search on my phone

  reveals a lot of information.

  Gaslighting is:

  a sophisticated manipulation

  tactic used to create doubt

  in the minds of others.

  Check.

  The word comes

  from an old movie

  (and earlier play)

  where:

  (paraphrased) a shithead

  husband tries to convince

  his wife she’s going insane.

  His tactics include isolation

  and making stuff disappear,

  then telling her she’s to blame,

  though she can’t remember it.

  Check.

  There are many

  ways to create

  said doubt:

  create self-doubt through

  intensity of conviction;

  if that fails, toss in a little

  self-righteous indignation;

  skew actual facts with

  distortions that can’t be

  proved or disproved.

  Check.

  Check.

  Check.

  At least until

  someone who

  might very well

  disprove them

  appears on scene.

  And overall:

  the best liars deceive

  by repeating stories

  that are mostly true,

  while leaving out (or

  adding) a fact or two

  that represents truth.

  That’s my fucking dad, okay.

  My father, master of lies,

  who raised me with affection.

  Except when he reminded

  me, with sharp words and

  the occasional slap across

  the face, that I was, in truth,

  little more than his possession.

  What all this gaslighting

  information neglects to

  mention is the power of warping

  love to accomplish a goal.

  Which Begs the Question

  Does anyone truly love

  anyone else, or is every

  supposed love relationship

  fueled by some messed-up

  desire to achieve or conquer?

  Will I ever have a legitimate

  answer to that question?

  How long must I travel

  to find it? Can I just start

  right here, right now, or will

  today’s revelations make me

  forevermore toss aside chances

  in favor of assurances?

  Would I even be asking

  these questions if I still

  believed myself to be

  only seventeen, with a dad

  who sacrificed everything

  and a mother who left

  me in her lust-fueled dust?

  Goddamn it, I’m only a kid

  (with or without the proof

  of eighteen), so why is any

  of this relevant to me?

  Why can’t I just

  be?

  I Fall Back Again

  On Monica’s pillow, only

  this time I’m crying.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  What good has crying

  ever done?

  “I’m sorry.”

  Not sure why.

  Not sure who

  I’m really talking to.

  All I know is I’m sorry

  and it isn’t enough

  for Maya

  or Zelda

  or Monica

  or me

  or anyone

  involved in this

  insane bullshit

  created by my dad.

  “Will you tell her

  I want to talk?”

  I can’t do it myself.

  Apparently

  Monica and my purported mother

  have been communicating today

  while she and her partner, Tatiana,

  traveled back to San Francisco.

  Maya McCabe is actually some

  hoity-toity network news anchor.

  Which means she has weekday

  commitments in the Bay Area.

  Monica sets up a meeting here

  in Sonora next Saturday afternoon.

  In other words, I’ve got an entire

  week to meander through, semi

  brain-dead. I spend this night

  in Carolina’s bed after almost

  getting busted seeking consolation

  in Monica’s arms. Good thing Carolina

  was anything but quiet when she came

  in, looking for her pajamas. I hope one day

  in the not-so-distant future I won’t have

  to disguise the integral truth of who I am.

  As I Lie Here

  Listening to Monica’s soft,

  even breathing, I wonder

  if I’ll ever really know

  the truth of who I am.

  Is there truth in being two

  people, all wrapped up in

  one skin? If I accept that I am

  Casey, what happens to Ariel?

  Now that I seem to have

  become fatherless, do I invite

  a stranger in, embrace her

  as my mother, when before

  today resentment for her

  infiltrated every waking moment

  of my life? Does reconciliation

  require forgiveness when

  maybe, just maybe, she’s done

  nothing at all to forgive?

  Perhaps an even bigger question

  is what about Dad? Is it okay

  to keep loving him despite

  everything? How could I believe

  all those lies? How will I ever

  completely trust anyone again?

  Sunday Morning

  Gabe’s right on time, honking

  from the curb in front of the Torres

  house. Monica’s still drowsing

  when I kiss her good-bye.

  “Talk to you later. After work

  I’ve got to go home, see if

  it’s still home or if Dad deserted

  the place. Love you.”

  I dare to slip my hand beneath

  the covers, cup one breast

  and then the other, circling

  her attention-seeking nipples

  with one finger. “Wish we had

  more time, not to mention

  privacy. Te quiero, novia.”

  I do want her, and very soon.

  Ten cuidado. You be careful.

  Horses are big. Don’t fall off.

  And stay out of your boyfriend’s

  backseat in case he’s changed his mind.

  “Cross my heart. No backseat, and

  no spills off sixteen-hand horses.

  That would hurt, and my head

  is just starting to feel better.”

  The swelling is down, the knot

  a lot smaller. What’s mostly left

  is a huge ugly bruise on my forehead.

  And another on my right cheek.

  When I reach the GTO, Gabe does

  a double take. Wow. You look, uh . . .

  That’s some kind of contusion you’ve

  got going on. Does it still hurt?

  “Only when I touch it, so I’m

  trying to avoid that. Of course,

  I haven’t tried thinking real

  hard.” Mostly because that does

  hurt. I hop into the passenger

  seat and as we
take off, I ask,

  “How’s Zelda doing? She was

  pretty shaky yesterday.”

  I wish I could tell you, but I really

  don’t know. By the time I got

  home last night, she’d drunk

  herself into a stupor, and she was

  still sleeping it off when I left

  this morning. She’s struggling,

  obviously, but that’s to be expected.

  What about you? Better?

  Better Is a Relative Term

  That’s what I tell him

  before running down

  all the new information

  Monica made me privy to.

  “I don’t know what to do

  with it, Gabe. One damn

  lie piles onto the next

  and now it’s just a huge

  stinking heap of bullshit.”

  I wouldn’t expect to shovel

  through that pile for a while.

  One good thing, though.

  Well, two, actually.

  “Really? Do tell. I could

  use some good news.”

  Well, you are eighteen,

  which means you don’t

  have to leave Sonora

  and move in with Maya.

  And, two, I’m glad you’ve

  decided to talk to your

  mom. It’s important. If

  you don’t, you’ll never get

  to the bottom of the manure.

  “I still don’t think of her

  as my mom. It’s possible

  I’ve managed to accept

  ‘mother.’ I’ve thought

  and thought and can’t

  come up with one good

  reason for a complete

  stranger to contrive such

  a complicated deception,

  so I guess she must be for real.”

  She’s totally for real, Air.

  You should’ve seen the look

  on her face when she saw

  you standing there in front

  of the gym. I thought

  she was going to pass out.

  She seriously couldn’t believe

  she was that close to you.

  He stops to assess my sudden,

  unbidden scowl. Whoa. Wait.

  You’re not mad I said that, are you?

  Wow

  Everyone’s tiptoeing

  around me. Way to go,

  me. Ariel. Casey.

  Whoever. This is not

  how you treat friends.

  “Gabe? I’m sorry I’ve been

  so bitchy, okay? I really

  don’t know how to process

  this. To have every single

  thing you believe about

  yourself be proven a lie?”

  But that’s not exactly

  true. You’re still the same

  warm, funny, sexy-as-hell

  girl inside. No one knows