Glass - 02

  finally shakes his head.

  I’ll assess the damage.

  If I can pull it out, I’ll

  come get you. If not,

  we’ll call my buddy

  at Reno Tow. He owes

  me, anyway. Telltale wink.

  Brad takes off to find

  some jeans, and I find

  a growing affection for

  the guy who took me in.

  Brad Takes Off

  And I go upstairs, seriously in

  need of a smoke. When I reach

  for my Marlboros, my cell tells

  me I have two new voice mails.

  The first is from Trey.

  Hey, babe. It’s about nine

  on Saturday and it’s raining

  like insanity, which means

  it’s seriously blizzarding up

  in the mountains. I’m not

  going to chance it until it

  stops and they plow the roads.

  I’ll get there soon as I can, okay?

  I knew he was going to say

  that. But was there another—

  definitely female—voice

  in the background?

  The second message is from

  Mom. Kristina? Where are

  you? Are you okay? I just

  got a call from Deputy Freed.

  He found your car and had it

  towed to impound. But he had

  no idea what happened to you.

  Will you please call and let us

  know you’re okay? Please?

  Guess the snow filled in my

  tracks. Guess Brad’s off

  the hook. Guess Mom might

  care about me after all.

  But What About Trey?

  I step out onto the back step

  to smoke and fret about that.

  Snow falls, insistent, intent.

  I watch it tumble

  down.

  Was he with a girl when he

  called, or only somewhere

  where there was a girl? Am

  I paranoid? I know,

  deep down,

  that falling hard for the first

  guy to take interest in over

  a year was not the best idea.

  But how do you tell

  your heart,

  No, don’t swell with magic,

  you’ll only burst? How do

  you tell it to clamp itself off

  from possibilities? God

  knows

  I don’t need more pain in

  life. Why did I invite it in?

  Do I have to feel pain to

  believe I feel anything at all?

  I Guess I Should Call Mom

  She answers on the first ring.

  Kristina? Thank God you’re

  all right. What happened?

  I omit most of the story—

  the band, the booze, the monster.

  I do mention running into Quade

  at Wal-Mart. “We got to talking

  and by the time I left, there was

  too much snow on the road.”

  Her voice has relaxed. I’ll

  have to tell his mother you saw

  him. What about your car?

  “Impound won’t be open until

  Monday, so I don’t know how

  much they’ll want, or how

  much damage there is to my car.

  But Brad’s friend has a tow service.

  We can bring it back here.”

  Sounds like you’re not too

  worried about getting to work.

  Fishing. Definitely fishing.

  No use not copping. “Actually,

  I quit my job. It was a long drive,

  especially with gas so high.”

  I consider mentioning the pervert

  excuse, but decide to save it

  in case I need it in the future.

  Mom pauses, and I know she’s

  considering what to say next.

  What about Christmas?

  I knew it! Knew she couldn’t

  do Christmas without everyone

  home. That’s my mom. Everything

  has to be perfect. And how could

  it be perfect without me? [You’re

  kidding, right?] “What about it?”

  Are you going to spend it at

  home? Do you need me

  to come out there and get you?

  I’ve got a couple of choices

  here. I could play smart-ass—

  ask why she wants me to come

  home, when she knows I’ll

  only spoil the party. I could play

  coy—tell her I’m not sure

  of my holiday plans, could I let

  her know? But the truth is, I want

  to spend Christmas with my family.

  Still, I don’t want to sound too

  anxious. After all, she kicked me

  out. “Let’s play it by ear. If my car

  is okay and the roads are clear,

  I can drive down there. If not,

  we can figure out something.”

  We leave it there, and it isn’t

  until after I hang up that I realize

  I didn’t even ask about Hunter.

  I Sit at the Kitchen Table

  Sketching Hunter from a recent photo.

  Every now and then I look up to watch

  the snow. I’m lost in a silvery view

  when a little hand taps my shoulder.

  Whatcha doin’? asks Devon.

  Who’s that? referring to the portrait

  becoming flesh on my sketch pad.

  The girls don’t know about Hunter,

  and I don’t want them to know

  I left my child in my shadow.

  “That’s Hunter. Isn’t he cute?”

  Uh-huh. Will you draw my picture

  too? Self-absorbed, but what can

  you expect from a six-year-old?

  “Sure. But how about if I make

  you breakfast first? What do you

  like?” I expect a simple answer

  like cereal or cinnamon toast.

  Bacon and eggs and pancakes.

  Mommy used to cook those.

  Can you? Some sort of a challenge?

  “Of course I can cook them,

  and you can help, if we have

  the ingredients. Let’s go look.”

  I push back from the table,

  and am surprised to feel a little

  hand slip into mine. The eggs

  is in the ’frigerator. She tugs gently.

  It’s the first time I’ve really

  realized how much she misses her

  mother, and she tugs more than my

  hand. She tugs at my heart.

  By the Time Brad Stomps In

  Tracking wet snow,

  LaTreya has joined the party.

  Devon runs over, jumps up

  and down. I’m cooking, Daddy.

  LaTreya keeps stirring a thick,

  creamy batter. Me too. Pancakes.

  Brad takes in the domestic

  scene. Good thing. I’m hungry.

  Then he turns to me. I drove all

  the way to the freeway, but couldn’t

  find your car anywhere. It’s either

  buried or they towed it.

  “Mom called. They towed it.

  I tried your cell, but no answer.”

  Devon happily interrupts,

  ’Tina’s gonna draw my picture.

  LaTreya shoots an envious look.

  How come? What about me?

  Before I can answer, Brad does.

  I’m sure she’ll draw you, too.

  But first let’s eat. I haven’t had

  pancakes in a really long time.

  I smile at him and he silently

  mouths, I need to talk to you.

  After Breakfast

  The gi
rls go upstairs to play

  dress-up while Brad and I wash

  the dishes. He waits for them

  to leave the room, then says,

  I’ve been thinking. Day care takes

  a big chunk of my paychecks.

  How would you like to play nanny?

  Room, board, and a hun’ a week.

  I make a few quick calculations.

  A hundred a week isn’t much,

  but it’s under the table, and hey,

  I’ll also have food, a place to stay,

  and nowhere I have to be but here,

  so gas is not a concern. Just one little

  thing. “That’s Monday through Friday,

  right?” I still want my weekends free.

  He grins. Monday through Friday

  works fine, party girl. And speaking

  of parties, we can have one later.

  I just got a delivery last night.

  “Are you buying my cooperation?”

  Fresh stash, works every time. Which

  reminds me. “Oh, one of the guys

  in the band wants an eight ball.

  “I told him I’d check on it. But no

  way can I deliver it to him now.”

  Brad grows serious. How well

  do you know the guy? It’s the first

  hint of paranoia I’ve seen. “Not well.

  But I’ve known Quade since we were

  kids and Damian looks like more than

  a casual user. I don’t think they’re narcs.”

  Tension falls from his shoulders

  like boulders off a cliff. If you’re

  sure, no problem. Maybe Trey can

  take you when he finally gets here.

  My turn for tension. “If he gets

  here. He says not till the roads clear.”

  Brad’s eyes travel the contours

  of my body. I promise. He’ll get here.

  Monday Morning

  It has snowed all weekend,

  and several feet of the sticky

  wet white stuff cover everything.

  Still, the day dawned critical

  blue and the plows are busy.

  Damian got his eight ball.

  We met at the convenience store,

  made a quick trade—awesome

  ice for a pile of cash, including

  fifty extra for me. Dealer me.

  Quade didn’t come along. Part of

  me hoped he would. Most of me

  knew he wouldn’t. He definitely

  doesn’t like the idea of his buddies—

  or me—dancing with the monster.

  Brad is home today. Not much

  in the way of construction

  jobs when you need a sleigh

  to deliver nails. Wonder if Santa

  could contract with the Home Depot.

  Probably too busy today, it being

  Christmas Eve and all. I put in

  a call to the impound yard, but

  the phone message says to try

  back on Wednesday. Tick, tick.

  Higher and higher go those

  impound fees. Brad says

  they’re twenty dollars a day, plus

  the initial fifty for paperwork,

  plus a hundred for the tow. Tick.

  Around one P.M. Trey calls.

  I’m on my way. Can’t wait

  to see you. I’ve got something

  special for you too. Hope

  you like the way I play Santa.

  Santa Is Coming

  I can’t

  believe I

  will finally get

  to see him in the flesh.

  Touch his flesh. Taste his

  flesh, and beg him to taste mine.

  I want to be in his arms again, sleep

  in his arms again, and wake, skin to skin.

  Just thinking about it breaks me out in a cold

  sweat, sends quivers through me, all the way to the

  very center of me. How long has it been? Only a few

  weeks? It seems an eternity. They say the best things in life

  are worth waiting for, but patience is not my best thing. Still,

  he’s coming, and will be here in just a few short hours. So I’ll do

  my best to sit here,

  arms crossed. Yes,

  it’s going to be an

  extremely merry

  Christmas after all.

  Around Four P.M.

  The phone rings and I rush

  to answer. It has to be Trey, and

  I need to hear his voice, closer now.

  Kristina? It’s only Mom. What’s

  the game plan? Should I come pick you

  up for Christmas Eve services?

  Christmas Eve services? A yearly

  family ritual. But I can’t leave.

  Not now. “Uh, sorry, Mom. I have to

  take care of the girls.” A lie. A big

  fat lie, and on Christmas Eve! “Oh,

  did I tell you I’m their nanny now?”

  Hugely pregnant pause. No, I

  guess you forgot to mention that.

  Well, what about tomorrow?

  Tomorrow? Christmas. Presents

  and dinner with the family. And Hunter.

  [He’s too little to care this year, anyway.]

  I have to make a decision. Family.

  Or Trey. Spending Christmas making

  love with Trey. Easy decision.

  Mom’s still waiting to hear it.

  Kristina? Do you need a ride?

  I can pick you up in the morning.

  Okay, I can’t tell her I’m playing

  nanny tomorrow. What kind of excuse

  would placate her? Hard answer: none.

  “No, no. Don’t pick me up. I’ll try

  to get a ride from a friend. What

  time are you planning dinner?”

  The same time it’s been your

  entire life. You do remember

  what time that is, don’t you?

  Snippy?

  No doubt, and she

  has every right to snip.

  Only problem is, right now

  I’m unsnippable, shielded by glass-

  plated armor. Another choice: Try

  to find peace in the twilight zone,

  or climb into the monster’s

  rocket and lift off.

  Plenty of time

  to get buzzed anon. I’ll

  try to slide into some manner

  of sleep, to make up for what I’ll

  miss later. “I love you,” I murmur,

  knowing Trey’s not here, but

  feeling him next to me

  anyway. Next to…

  Voices. Where

  are the voices? I want

  to find them. Need to find them,

  can’t say why. But it’s dark here.

  I run, searching, until some foreign

  vine wraps itself around my

  ankles, stopping my feet

  cold, strapping

  my body in

  place while the rest

  of me flies. Insane! It’s so

  easy to fly, and I rise over ever

  green spires, granite cathedrals,

  slip into the troposphere,

  surf vertical winds,

  still seeking…

  Voices

  Voices, again. The same,

  but not. Little voices.

  Girls. Little girls.

  Can’t find them now. I’m

  flying.

  Male voices, bigger.

  One voice. Two.

  Two men.

  Not now. I’m

  flying toward

  Andromeda. Cassiopeia.

  Pisces. Orion.

  But the voices pull me back.

  The interior me—the one

  that flies—slips back inside

  its shell, a turtle returning
>
  home.

  Home. That word again.

  The one that makes me

  want to release tethers,

  fly away.

  Don’t fly.

  Must find the voices

  instead.

  Girls. Devon. LaTreya.

  Men. Brad.

  Trey.

  Trey? I’m

  flying again,

  but not away.

  Flying from bed.

  Flying from dreams

  into awake, aware.

  Flying from dreams

  toward love in the flesh.

  Halfway to the Door

  I realize I must look like crap.

  [Not to mention how you must taste.]

  Quick detour to the bathroom,

  and I do mean quick, to brush

  teeth and hair, dab some perfume.

  Screw the makeup, except to rinse

  off what has puddled under my eyes.

  Through the door, down the hall,

  down the stairs and yes, while I flew,

  Santa delivered my gift safe

  and sound. He stands, moves toward

  me, catches me in his arms, cinches

  them around my waist, lifts me off

  the ground. And now we’re kissing.

  And I don’t ever want to stop kissing