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
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