a relationship that was less
than fulfilling to begin with.
With age comes wisdom.
Wonder If That’s True
For everyone.
I cycle through
the horses, and
with each, anxiety
about seeing Maya
in just a few hours
grows exponentially.
We’re meeting at
the Diamondback
Grill, best burgers
in town, which means
Syrah will be our
server, at least
if she gets her way,
and she will.
After the last filly
is put away, I take
the time to run
home (how can I
still think about
it that way?) and
shower. No use
immersing Maya
in equine drift
while she picks
at her salad or
whatever. I doubt
her diet includes
cheeseburgers.
I Get to the Restaurant
At six exactly. Maya’s already
there, and Syrah is, in fact,
taking care of our table.
I approach cautiously. Not sure
why. Not like she’s going to jump
up and hug me. Oh God, please, no.
She does stand. But all she does
is take my cold hand into her warm
one and stroke it gently.
She smiles. Casey, sit down.
I’m so glad you agreed to talk.
No pressure, I promise.
We slide into our seats and
Syrah comes over to take
our orders, or check up on me.
Or both. “I’ll have my usual,”
I tell her, and am surprised
when Maya nods and says,
Whatever she’s having, same
for me. Oh, unless you’re vegan.
Sorry, but I’m a carnivore.
Syrah giggles. Vegan? Ha!
That girl is way into meat.
The kind you eat, I mean.
So Syrah, but it’s okay because
the ice is now broken. “Thanks
for clarifying. Oh, and in case
you two haven’t actually met,
this is my friend, SEER-uh, like
Sarah, but spelled Syrah.”
Maya smiles, and her teeth,
of course, are perfect. I see.
Great information to know.
Syrah hesitates, but when
her manager puts his hands on
his hips, she hustles off to do her job.
We sit, sizing each other up, for
a few long minutes. Finally, I say,
“This isn’t nearly enough time
to work through everything
I’ve learned in the last week.
I don’t have a clue how to feel
about you, just to be clear.
But I do know one thing, and
that is how important the truth
has become to me. If we can
start there, maybe the rest
will fall into place eventually.”
Wordlessly
Maya studies my face,
feature by feature.
Finally, she says, I don’t
have time for lies, Casey.
Wait, may I please call
you that? You’ve always
been Casey to me.
All I can say back is,
“I don’t know who I am.
Call me whatever you want.”
She looks like I’ve slapped
her, and maybe I have.
Okay, listen. I get that
you’ve been lied to, and
believe me, I understand
what an outstanding liar
you father is. He’s clearly
a sociopath, not that I knew
what that was when we met.
“I don’t want to talk about
Dad.” Not yet. Maybe never.
Fine. This is on your terms.
So, tell me about school. Love
it? Hate it? Future plans?
“Future? I have to concentrate
on the present. My only plan
right now is to graduate high
school, apparently a year late.”
What do you mean?
“I mean, until last week,
I believed I was seventeen.
I had my birthday wrong, too.”
Oh, right. Monica told me.
I’m so sorry you were fed
a steady diet of deceit.
We let that sit. “Have you
talked to Monica a lot?”
Not a lot. But enough
to know she’s worried
about you. Everyone is.
Everyone except
my goddamn father,
who apparently
couldn’t care less.
But I hold that inside.
I need to keep my parents
separated, at least in my mind,
for a little longer.
Luckily
The food arrives.
Syrah shoots me
an are you okay?
look as she delivers
big platters
of comfort food.
Here we go, ladies.
Can I get you anything
else right now?
In answer
to both the voiced
and unvoiced
questions,
I shrug.
Smile.
Ask for ketchup.
Mustard.
Pickles.
Added comfort.
Allowing
the dialogue
to move away
from Dad.
For a little while.
Over Cheeseburgers and Fries
(Fries!)
We talk
about (in no
certain order,
and sometimes
we return to
various subject
matter):
school (finals)
basketball (winning and losing)
horses
Hillary
Gabe
Syrah
Monica
Monica
Monica
Maya suspects—
probably because
of how many times
I turn the conversation
back to Monica—
the depth
of our friendship.
But I don’t
confess it.
Will I ever?
That Circles Us Around
To talking about Maya.
We start with easy stuff,
some of which I’m aware
of. Most, I’m clueless about.
She’s originally from Texas.
(Yippee! I own a megadose
of Lone Star genes
because, as it turns out,
Dad isn’t from Oklahoma.)
Both her parents are dead.
(Awesome. More family
lost to me forever.)
She lives near San Francisco.
(Right on the beach, which,
by the way, is cool and gray
more often than not.)
She enjoys her newsroom job.
(But prefers sports announcing.
My mom—did I just think that?—
is a world-class jock, or jock lover,
or something like that.)
She prefers alternative music.
(When she was young she listened
to country, but now she can’t stand
it. It reminds her of Texas, where
she hopes never to return.)
We Avoid
Talking about Dad
for the longest time.
/>
The subject hovers,
just out of reach,
because neither of us
wants to touch it.
Eventually, of course,
we must, and there’s no
way around discussing
that fateful day fifteen
Decembers ago.
I was three.
Not two.
And my mother
was just twenty.
At my age, she already
had a baby.
She had one-year-old
me.
I’m not sure exactly
what Jason told you
about me, but I can say
that on some level it was
probably accurate.
He’s an expert at taking
basic truths and twisting
them into distortions
that suit his purposes.
So Far, So True
But I’m not quite ready
to agree with her philosophy,
no matter how accurate
it might be. “What he’s told
me about you, over and over,
is that you left your family—
that would be him and me—
for your girlfriend. I assume
he was referring to the person
I saw you with at the game?”
Tati—Tatiana—is my wife.
We’ve been together as partners
since after your father took off
with you, but we were friends
for years before that. However,
I did not leave you for her.
She was there to support me
when he stole you, and make
no mistake about it, that’s
exactly what he did. This was
never about me. It was always
about him needing to manipulate
everyone to suit his purposes.
I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that
included you. He’s an evil man.
Evil?
Don’t think so. Self-centered,
certainly. Narcissistic, probably.
But spawn of Satan? Nah.
“He took good care of me.”
Define “good.”
“Okay, he took decent care
of me. Most of the time.
Sometimes. Whatever.
But ‘evil’ is a strong word.”
Casey, do you know where
the names Ariel and Mark
Pearson came from?
“Yeah. Dad told me he took
them from a woman we lived
with. They belonged to her dead
husband and daughter.”
Right. Leona Pearson. I did
a little research last week.
Turns out Leona died under
suspicious circumstances.
Ostensibly, she overdosed.
But her brother claims she was
not on the medication the autopsy
revealed, and that at the time
of her death she was living happily
with a man and his little girl,
both of whom disappeared on
the day she died, along with her
deceased husband’s car. It was
later discovered abandoned.
“No. He wouldn’t.” But now
bits and pieces of his story surface:
. . . tetched in the head.
. . . tried to off herself.
. . . why I decided it was time to leave.
“He needed a way to protect me.”
That part slips out audibly.
I can’t speak to motive, Casey,
and maybe he didn’t go that far.
There’s no way to prove it
at this point. But it’s a very
real possibility. Leona’s brother
is convinced that it’s true.
It Can’t Be True
Can it?
I know my dad.
Really?
He’s not a killer.
Is he?
He’s a liar.
Totally.
A gaslighter.
Definitely.
A narcissist.
Exceptionally.
A sociopath?
Probably.
But a murderer?
Please
don’t
let
him
be.
My World
Just tipped, tilted
so hard on its axis
every rule of nature
has just been called
into question.
“I . . . uh . . .” I take
a gulp of water.
“He left, you know.”
I suspected he would.
“Said he was afraid
you’d call the cops.
Did you call them?”
I wasn’t going to. My main
goal has always been to
reconnect with you. If you
only knew . . . She fights
the lump that has formed
in her throat. When I finally
found you, revenge wasn’t
so important. I might’ve let
it go. But when I learned about
Leona, I had to alert the police.
“But why? Like you said,
after all this time, it
would be hard to prove.”
Some things you can close
your eyes to. Others demand
serious consequences, or
the perpetrator is likely
to repeat them. I’ve been in
the news business for a while
and I can tell you that from
what I’ve seen, very few killers
and rapists act only once.
Besides, on the most intrinsic
level, Leona deserves justice.
Justice.
Right.
“Don’t you think
you deserve justice?”
She sighs heavily. Casey,
I wanted justice for years.
Wanted to see Jason locked
up for what he did to you
and me for as long as the law
would allow. That hunger
for payback has dissipated.
But I really wouldn’t want
him to hurt anyone else.
It’s my moral duty to do what
I can to see that doesn’t happen.
As Pissed As I Am
At Dad, it’s hard to reconcile
this information with how I’ve
always pictured him. But I only
saw what I wanted to, or what
he let me see. And if I came
too close, he knew exactly
how to manipulate me,
pull the blinders down over
my eyes. I hate that I’ve been
so naive. I despise what he’s done.
To her, yes.
But mostly to me.
I can’t blame Maya for
notifying the authorities.
“Did Monica tell you what
he did the night he left?”
You mean running you off
the road? Yes, and truthfully,
it’s also one reason I chose
to report him. I was afraid
if I didn’t he might come back
and hurt you worse than he did.
The implication is clear:
finish me off.
As much as I want to say
that’s impossible, I really
can’t. Last Saturday night
pops into view like a video.
Dad rode my bumper.
Passed. Too close. Swerved
in front of me. I can see
his profile clearly. I thought
then that he didn’t look at me,
but when I jerked my car
sideways, barely missing
/> him, his head turned toward
me and for one instant
before my head hit
the steering wheel,
I caught his expression.
Satisfied.
He smiled satisfaction.
“Do you think they’ll catch
him? What happens if they do?”
I don’t know. At the very
least he’d face a court-martial.
I don’t believe there’s a statute
of limitations on desertion.
But Jason seems to be an expert
on lying low. And without you
in tow, he’ll be damn hard to catch.
God, I Want to Be Angry
With her.
Not him.
But why?
I think it’s me
who’s crazy.
Obviously my brain
needs rewiring.
Or, at the very least,
reprogramming.
Are you okay?
Her hand sneaks
across the table,
meets mine, and
I don’t pull away.
It’s the first time
I’ve touched my mom
in fifteen years.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Except tears
stream down
my face, and not
because of Dad.
I lift my eyes
level with hers.
They’re the color
of mine and shiny
with tears, too.
“So, what now?”
Oh, Casey! All I want
is to know you.
Your childhood is lost
to me, but your adulthood
is just beginning. Please
let me be part of it.
Maybe I can help you
realize your dreams.
“I don’t like to dream.
Every time I do I get
royally screwed.”
Maybe we can change
that. I’d like to try.
Her voice is sincere
and she’s so damn nice
and I really wish
I wasn’t starting to like her.
Okay, with your dad gone,
where will you live? If you
need a place, I’ve got room—
Now I Pull My Hand Away
“No. I couldn’t.” Too far,
too soon, Maya McCabe.
“I don’t want to leave Sonora,
and besides, I can’t move in
with a stranger.” Mean, mean,
and it feels good, and now I’m sure
I’m crazy. “I’ve got options.”
Actually, I know where I’m going.
Gabe’s mom was released from
the hospital, and he’s moving
back to Stockton. Zelda’s invited
me to stay with her for now.
Maya does her best not to act
hurt. I understand. Just know
if you ever need a place to go