The You I've Never Known

  my door is open. Maybe you

  could come for a visit at least.

  Aren’t you on winter break?

  “I am,” I admit, “but I’ve committed

  to extra hours at work. I need

  the income.” Nothing but the truth.

  Let’s keep it an open invitation

  That includes Christmas.

  Oh, hey. I brought a present for you.

  Dollar-Store Teddy Bear?

  But no. She cradles the gift,

  which is wrapped in newspaper

  with jute twine in place of ribbon.

  When she hands it to me,

  she says, I’ve kept this for you

  since you were born. I hope

  you’ll treasure it as much as I

  have. There’s a lot to go through,

  and I think it will explain much

  of what you’re struggling with.

  “Should I open it now?” I feel

  like a little kid on Christmas

  Eve. She nods, and I untie the simple

  bow, carefully remove the tape,

  though the paper isn’t worth

  keeping. “A journal?”

  Your journal, she corrects.

  I started it before I lost you,

  and kept it all these years.

  I wanted you to know, if I ever

  found you again, my own journey

  while you were missing.

  I dare to open it, and inside

  are lots of entries, long and

  shorter, plus photos of a young

  Maya, Dad in his late twenties, and . . .

  I’ve Never Seen Pictures

  Of baby me. That fact smacks

  me like Dad’s open hand, hard

  and stinging. “I . . . I . . . was cute.”

  You were adorable. Beautiful,

  in fact. And smart. And curious . . .

  Now her tears drip onto

  the table, and some foreign

  part of me wants to comfort

  her, but sincerely doesn’t know

  how. Or maybe is afraid to.

  I flip through more pages,

  come across a faded photo

  of a Christmas tree, toddler

  me sleeping just beneath it,

  with a golden-furred puppy.

  “Boo.” The name scratches

  up from a buried dream.

  Yes, Boo. Your father took her,

  too. She was a gift from Tati.

  Whatever became of her?

  “I . . . don’t . . . remember.”

  I should,

  shouldn’t I?

  But I can’t.

  You were very little. I hope

  the book fills in some blanks

  and that over your break

  you’ll have a little free time

  to read it in-depth. I’m sure

  you’ll have questions. You

  know how to get hold of me.

  Syrah’s been watching

  the scene unfold and seems

  to think we’ve reached

  a conclusion (or maybe

  they need the table; it is

  Saturday night), because

  she zips over with the bill.

  Unless you want dessert?

  We’ve got killer apple pie.

  Maya glances at me,

  the offer of pie in her eyes,

  but I shake my head.

  “I’m stuffed. But thanks.”

  She gives Syrah her credit

  card and says to me, Tati

  and I are staying in town

  for a couple of days. If you’re

  so inclined and can make

  the time, I’d love for you to

  meet her. Maybe we could have

  lunch or something. You could

  bring Monica, too. If there’s

  anything you need—anything

  at all—please don’t hesitate

  to give me a call. Okay?

  There she goes again,

  being oh-so-sweet, and

  making me feel cared about.

  “I have to work tomorrow,

  but maybe we can catch

  a bite after. Monica, too.”

  Her smile is genuine and

  seems to melt a year or two

  off her striking face.

  My mom is pretty.

  That sounds perfect. Text

  me when you finish up at

  the barn. Tati will be thrilled.

  Let me finish paying and

  I’ll walk you to your car.

  Outside

  The December night

  feels a little less frozen.

  I even accept Maya’s good-bye

  hug. It’s lingering, warm,

  and promises I never have

  to be alone in this world.

  You’ll remember my open-

  door policy, right? Anytime.

  And Casey? I love you.

  I don’t say it back. I can’t.

  For me that bond was severed

  years ago. But maybe it can be

  regrown. For now, I nod. “I know.”

  The simple acknowledgment

  seems to satisfy her. Smiling,

  she turns, and I watch her go

  before returning to my own car,

  clinging to the journal she kept for me.

  Before I start the engine, I check

  my phone and sure enough,

  there’s a message from Monica:

  WELL? HOW DID IT GO? TEXT

  ME ASAP! I consider going over

  to her house to dig deeper

  into the journal entries. What an

  amazing gift, one I’ll share

  with Monica eventually. But not

  tonight. The initial exploration

  is something I must do on my own.

  I don’t text. I call, to fortify myself

  with the sound of her voice.

  I let her know things are okay,

  invite her to a late lunch tomorrow

  with my mom and her wife, and

  the lightning thought strikes that I

  just might have someone I can confess

  to about my love for mi bella novia

  Monica. “Buenas noches, mi amor.

  Dulces sueños.” Good night, my love.

  Sweet dreams. I need alone time

  to process way too much

  information, both good and terrible.

  I point the Focus back toward

  the house, no longer home, but home

  is not a building. It’s a harbor.

  As I Drive

  Images flurry, a hint

  of snow before the blizzard.

  Maya’s hand, tentatively

  reaching for mine

  across the table, nervous

  in its desire for connection.

  Monica’s hand, sensuously

  tracing the outline of my face,

  the peaks and valleys

  of my anxious body.

  Dad’s hand, a lightning

  strike against my cheek,

  an outburst of rage,

  undeserved, unnecessary.

  Garrett’s hand, viciously

  snapping my head back

  in his grotesque bid

  to prove I’m straight.

  Killers.

  Rapists.

  Justice.

  I doubt I can find justice

  by reporting an attempted

  assault that’s a week old,

  but I think I have to try.

  If not for me,

  for the next girl Garrett

  decides needs convincing.

  At the very least, if I go public,

  I’ll have done what I can

  to prevent a repeat performance.

  The idea of confrontation

  scares the hell out of me.

  For my entire life,

>   I’ve been coached

  to keep my mouth shut

  about things I knew were wrong.

  Enough.

  It’s time to stand

  up for what’s right.

  I can’t do it alone.

  I’ll lose my nerve.

  But I’ve got people

  in my corner who’ll help.

  Tomorrow.

  Tonight I dive into

  chapters of my history

  I believed were lost to me.

  I Read for Hours

  Reread. Return again

  to many passages.

  Learn a lot I didn’t know

  and more I never expected.

  Absorb information.

  Build knowledge about

  myself.

  My mother.

  Her wife.

  And my father.

  Much I still find hard

  to believe.

  Who.

  What.

  When.

  Where.

  And most of all,

  why.

  Taped on a page, beneath

  an entry dated December 2001,

  is a letter from Jason to Maya.

  Maya, Maya, Maya,

  You conniving whore. Well, fuck you and your dyke lover, too. You thought I didn’t know, that I didn’t see you kissing her in our living room, with little Casey sleeping right there on the floor? You’re disgusting.

  I saw you, and I heard you talking, too. Did you really believe you could desert me, run off with your “best friend,” the one I can just see you finger banging? And you didn’t even let me in on the fun. Oh, that would be a picture, wouldn’t it? You and me and lezzie makes three?

  I get it now. Marrying me was a farce, a way out of your miserable childhood. I guess I gave you that much, didn’t I? Not to mention a home, a paycheck, and a baby girl. Well, guess what? You won’t see her again. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let you near me or my daughter.

  I bet you hoped they’d send me over there to that hellhole, didn’t you? I bet you hoped they’d send me back home zipped inside a body bag. Well, bitch, I’m not going over there again, and it will be a cold day in hell before you find a trace of Casey or me. Or the damn dog, either.

  Boo

  Oh my God.

  I remember now!

  Boo.

  Sweet little Boo.

  She traveled

  with us for a while.

  Dad always bitched

  about having to feed her

  and the messes she made.

  But I loved Boo.

  She was all I had left

  of Mommy.

  I must’ve said that

  too many times

  because one day

  Dad let her out

  of the car to pee.

  He drove off

  without her.

  I cried and cried.

  But he said it was best

  for her because dogs

  belonged running

  free, and wasn’t I

  just a selfish little girl

  to want to keep

  a puppy cooped up?

  The Sudden Insight

  Zaps me like a stun gun.

  Freezes in certainty

  a watery concept

  recently introduced

  to me: gaslighting.

  I go back to a paragraph

  that won’t let go of me:

  Oh, to be given the gifts of the chameleon! Not only the ability to

  match the appropriate facade to circumstance at will, but also the

  capacity to look in two directions simultaneously. How much gentler our

  time on this planet would be.

  I think most people

  are chameleons,

  hiding pain and anger

  beneath a mask of civility.

  We call those who

  aren’t afraid to disguise

  it dangerous, but I wonder

  if hiding behind the facade

  is not, in fact, the more

  perilous pursuit.

  I have lots of time

  to dissect the past

  fifteen years of my life,

  look for clues to the man

  behind Dad’s veneer.

  I Close My Journal

  Lay it on the bed,

  beside the pillow I sink

  my head down into,

  a cushion for my dreams.

  Funny, but before all this

  I didn’t dare dream too far

  into the future. It’s like unlocking

  the past freed me to move

  into tomorrow in pursuit

  of bigger goals than I ever

  thought possible.

  Thank you, Maya McCabe,

  for never giving up

  on finding me.

  I inherited your looks.

  I hope you’ve given

  me your courage

  and determination, too.

  I’m still scared

  to try and make it

  on my own. But I don’t have

  to do it all alone.

  I have friends.

  I have Monica.

  And I have a mom.

  No More Tonight

  I glance at the clock.

  One a.m.

  Seems I missed

  Hillary’s Christmas party.

  Christmas.

  Not my favorite holiday,

  but this year, beyond

  the drama, I find hope

  in the gift Mom’s given me.

  Not just the journal

  itself, but in what it represents:

  moving into the New Year

  blessed with the hindsight

  of yesterday.

  Looking two directions

  at once.

  I still don’t know

  exactly who I am.

  But I’m a lot closer.

  I’m Casey Baxter,

  eighteen years old.

  I’m in love with a girl

  named Monica.

  And I don’t want that

  to be a secret anymore.

  I’m done with secrets.

  Postscript

  Held fast atop terra firma,

  by a force not yet fully explained,

  I gaze upon the electric waltz

  of the aurora borealis and consider

  what

  mystical Intelligence might in fact

  have created such mad beauty.

  From here the northern lights appear

  random in flow, but I understand

  if I

  could peer down from outer space,

  I’d see how auroras crown the poles,

  north and south, where the earth’s

  magnetic field is strongest. I

  am

  amazed by the science. Probability.

  But more intriguing is the design,

  past in relationship to future.

  Possibility flung from a faraway

  solar

  plane. Sometimes I wonder if I am

  only flesh, bone, and blood, or might

  I be a spark of stellar fire, carried

  through time on the tail of astral

  wind?

  Maya’s Journal

  For Casey

  November 2001

  In the wake of the World Trade Center tragedy, every American life feels changed. Patriotism is running high. Red, white, and blue is a common theme. Flags fly in the usual places, but also on porch pillars, car antennas, and trees in yards and parks. I’ve even seen one hoisted above a doghouse!

  Neighbors are helping neighbors. Families have bonded tighter. (Mine happens to be an exception, but some relationships can’t be repaired.) Couples are holding each other closer. Your daddy and I even felt lovey-dovey again for a few days.

  Things on base are a little crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. Rumors are flying about eventual deployment to
the Middle East. Your daddy’s gone a lot, with extra training and lots of drills. Any military installation could be the next target, so everyone’s on edge. The hijackers took out part of the Pentagon, so it’s not much of a stretch to think we could be in danger here.

  It didn’t take long to figure out who the hijackers were. The FBI found suitcases one of them left behind in Boston, where he took the jet. Inside was a list of every one of them, nineteen altogether. Most were from Saudi Arabia and had ties to some organization called Al-Qaeda.

  I never heard of it before, but everyone’s heard of it now. They hate the United States because of our friendship with Israel, and because we have our own problems here at home. But now they hate us because of our presence in the Middle East. I think a lot of Americans were kind of like me—ignorant about all that. But now we’ve become very aware of the wider world and how it views the US.

  I mean, it had to take an oversize load of hate to do what they did. We still aren’t sure how many people died that day. It will take a while to sift through all the wreckage. But it’s thousands, including hundreds of the rescue workers who tried to save lives and a bunch of little kids in a daycare center. It’s the saddest thing ever.

  What if I lost you? You are the best part of every single day. You entertain me. Make me laugh. Make me learn, because you’re always asking questions I don’t know the answer to. Best of all, you keep me from being lonely.

  Your daddy insists I need to go to work, that his paycheck isn’t enough to cover all we need. I don’t think that’s true. We’re doing okay, even if we can’t afford to go out to dinner or buy a bigger TV. And the thought of leaving you with strangers scares me to death.

  I probably shouldn’t confess this here, but no one else will listen. When I told Jason I didn’t want to work until you got older, we had the biggest fight ever. He’d been drinking, of course, though that isn’t any kind of excuse for slapping me around.

  Thank God you were asleep, and totally unaware of the ugly scene going down just beyond your bedroom door. I suppose I should be grateful he used an open hand instead of his fist, but I’ll wear his bruises on my face for many days.

  Oh, he apologized, swore it would never happen again, but something in his eyes says it will. And now I’m scared he might do the same thing to you. I can’t take that chance, Casey. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t dare call the cops. From what I’ve heard other army wives say, military policemen hate domestic abuse situations, which could ruin the career of one of their comrades in arms.

  No, I’ll have to find another answer, and quickly. I won’t ever let Sgt. Jason Baxter lay a hand on you.