Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  It’s not like I’ve never

  given Mom and Dad

  gifts, and nice ones at

  that. But this one feels

  so special—practically

  custom-made for Mom.

  (Not to mention free!)

  I punch the speed dial

  on my phone, wait for

  Mom to pick up at home.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

  No one’s here to take

  your call right now …

  Hmmm. Mom said they

  were staying home this

  weekend. I try her cell.

  No answer. Dad’s cell?

  All he has to do is say

  Hello for me to know …

  SOMETHING’S WRONG

  “Hey, Dad. Where are you

  guys?” Something nasty

  seethes in my gut, acid.

  I just dropped your mom

  off at the airport. His voice

  trembles. Anger? Worry?

  Kristina is in the hospital.

  That bastard beat her up.

  Like what else is new, huh?

  “Who beat her up? Ron?”

  An ex-boyfriend, in and out

  of her life because he is (or

  believes he is) the father

  of her two youngest kids.

  “I thought he was locked up.”

  Those places don’t keep ’em

  forever. Not cost effective.

  Like it’s cheaper in the long

  run to turn them loose and

  deal with the mayhem later.

  You’d think they’d learn.

  Ron has caused more than

  his fair share of mayhem, mostly

  when he’s off his meds and

  the voices only he can hear

  whisper evil in his ear. “Uh …

  is Kristina going to be okay?”

  She has a couple of broken

  ribs, and I guess he smashed

  her face pretty good. They’re

  taking her in for X-rays and

  an MRI…. He pauses. Tsks.

  She’ll never be okay.

  Sadness peppers his voice.

  Usually when he talks about

  her, it’s with anger. It hits me

  like an unexpected wind

  that he cares about her. In

  fact, he might even love her.

  THE REVELATION

  Throws me, but I’m not

  sure why. Dad came into

  Kristina’s life when she

  was only five. It was he

  who picked her up,

  put her on his shoulders

  to “see the world from way

  up high,” just like he later

  did for me. It was he who

  put her on her feet

  when she took a spill

  off her bicycle, not

  Grandpa Who’s-it in

  Albuquerque. The story

  goes it was Mom who

  told her to leave home,

  because she had turned

  all our lives inside out

  and we wanted them right

  again. It was Mom who

  said a sad but firm good-bye.

  So why has it always

  seemed to me that it

  was Dad who so firmly

  and irrevocably

  closed the door behind her?

  I REALIZE SUDDENLY

  That Dad is waiting for me

  to say something. Why did

  I call again? Oh, yeah. Tickets.

  “How long will Mom be in Vegas?”

  Not sure, he says. The kids

  need someone to take care

  of them. That’s why she had to

  drop everything and go. Why?

  “Uh …” Santa’s sleigh just

  crashed. “Nothing. I thought

  I might see you guys at the parade

  tomorrow is all. I’ve got a remote.”

  Not this year. Sorry. You know

  how Nevada Day traffic is,

  and I want to be available

  in case your mom needs me.

  “No prob, Dad. I understand.

  Tell Mom I love her, okay?”

  And, not quite an afterthought,

  “Hey, Dad? Love you, too.”

  A WARM GINGER FOG

  Spills across the floor. Nikki

  trails it into the blind-darkened

  room, drying her long golden hair.

  Backlit by the bathroom glow,

  her silhouette belongs to an angel.

  A Victoria’s Secret angel, but still …

  Her voice holds a hint of incredulity.

  Did you just tell your dad you love him?

  My eyes burn, but I force a laugh.

  “Why? Does that surprise you?”

  Not the loving him part. The telling him

  part. She sits on the bed. What’s wrong?

  I don’t like to discuss the Kristina

  crumbs of my life. Not even with Nikki.

  “I scored some David Cook tickets for

  tomorrow night. Mom is a fan. But she had

  to go to Vegas, spur of the moment.”

  Segue to … “So, you wanna go with me?”

  To Vegas or David Cook? Okay, bad

  segue. Either way, I can’t. I have to

  work. Nevada Day weekend is Big Tip

  Weekend at Bully’s, you know?

  Especially for a cocktail waitress

  with Nikki’s attributes. “Gotcha.”

  She’s not done with me yet, though.

  Why did your mom have to go to Vegas?

  I could lie. Omit. Make a joke. Too

  much work. “Why else? Kristina.”

  She knows enough to know that’s not

  good. Your mother’s in trouble again.

  “Previous mother,” I correct. “Or

  the uterus I once spent nine months in.”

  Nikki smiles, but asks with concern,

  Is your previous mother okay?

  I shake my head, echo Dad’s earlier

  words. “Kristina will never be okay.”

  I’M SORT OF AMBIVALENT

  About that. I should feel

  bad, right? I mean, some

  jerk beat her bloody. No

  one deserves that, right?

  So why, when Nikki asks,

  What happened to her?

  do I shrug and say, “Guess

  she walked into her ex’s

  fist,” with pretty much

  zero emotion attached?

  And why, when she says,

  Oh, no! That’s terrible!

  do I respond, “Her fault, really.

  The only guys she ever invites

  into her life are felons, failed

  AAers, and other assorted losers”?

  And why, when she says, But

  no woman deserves to be hit,

  do I dare voice my opinion

  that, “Not true. Some women

  damn well beg for it”? I bite

  down on the copper taste of anger.

  Nikki takes a step back,

  as if I might think she had

  damn well begged for it.

  But I could never hurt her.

  So why, oh why, when she

  asks, How can you be so cold?

  do I walk toward Nikki, flexing

  my fingers? “Look. If Kristina

  doesn’t kill herself, some guy

  will probably do it for her.”

  And why, when she says,

  You are just plain mean,

  do I let loose a tsunami? “And

  you know what? If something

  bad did happen to Kristina,

  I’m not sure I would care.”

  Disbelief floods her eyes.

  You can’t feel that way.

  Rage-fueled words froth

  from my mouth. “That’s
/>
  exactly how I feel, and if

  you don’t like it, fuck you.”

  NIKKI’S EYES

  Go wide, and I realize what

  I just said. “I’m sorry,” I try.

  I reach for her, but she slaps

  my hand away. She stands,

  goes to the closet for clothes.

  Her voice is dead calm

  when she says, You never tell

  me how you feel about anything,

  Hunter. You never communicate

  at all. In fact, you might want

  to rethink your major. And while

  you’re doing that, you’d better rethink

  you and me. If we can’t talk about

  things like your “previous mother,”

  we don’t have much of a future together.

  I don’t know what to say.

  All this because of Kristina?

  I watch Nikki slip into jeans,

  a curve-hugging jade green

  sweater. For the millionth time,

  I think how beautiful she is.

  But what is it with women

  and talking? Some things were

  meant to stay private, right?

  She comes over to me, touches

  my cheek. Still nothing to say?

  Goddamn it, I hate when you just

  stare at me like that. Her hand

  jerks away and her eyes harden,

  morgue-cold with anger. Fine.

  Fuck you too, then. Take your shit,

  get out, and don’t come back.

  I can’t deal with this anymore.

  She storms from the room, slams

  the door so hard a picture rocks

  off the dresser, falls to the floor.

  WHAT, EXACTLY, DID I DO?

  I mean, yeah, I told her, “Fuck you.”

  But that was heat of the moment,

  and I said I was sorry. I can’t

  believe she has such a short fuse.

  She’ll cool off and it will all be

  fine, right? First things first.

  I need a shower. The bathroom

  is so Nikki—green and yellow

  and messy and smelling of ginger.

  The water heater is old and Nikki’s

  shampoo-condition-and-shave

  routine pretty well emptied it.

  I am barely rinsed by the time

  the H2O fades from lukewarm

  to frigid. Any other day, I’d be

  mad. Today, all I can do is laugh.

  I towel off giant goose bumps,

  borrow a couple of swipes

  of Nikki’s deodorant, use

  her brush to spike my hair.

  The face in the mirror is mine.

  Yet somehow I feel disconnected

  from the person wearing it. Nikki’s

  words come back to me: I don’t know

  who you are. So I ask Mirror

  Man, “Who are you?” But he

  just stares stupidly back at me.

  Who am I? Don’t have a clue.

  But I don’t have to figure

  that out right now. I’m cold.

  I have my own drawer in

  Nikki’s dresser, where I keep

  a few things for sleepovers.

  I choose boxers. Wranglers.

  A red long-sleeved tee. Take

  your shit. No way. She’ll change

  her mind. I leave the rest in

  place, retrieve the fallen photo—

  Nikki and me boarding at Mt. Rose.

  Great day. There have to be more.

  MIGHT AS WELL

  Go home for a few hours,

  I guess. It’s a twenty-five-

  minute ride, so I twist one

  up and by the time I pull

  into the driveway, I feel

  a whole helluva lot better.

  At least until I go inside,

  only to overhear Dad on

  the phone. You can’t be

  serious, Marie. We’ve

  discussed this a dozen

  times. … Stop yelling at

  me, please. Of course I

  understand. I’m not stupid….

  See? The minute I walk in

  the door, they’re arguing.

  There goes my nice little

  buzz. I sneak past Dad’s

  office into the kitchen. Sex

  and stress—not to mention

  weed—make a guy hungry.

  And thirsty. I consider

  snagging a beer, but Dad’s

  already in a snit. Better stick

  with a sandwich and root beer.

  GOOD PLAN

  Dad comes into the kitchen

  while I’m still slopping

  mayonnaise on the bread.

  Hunter! Didn’t hear you

  come in. He reaches into

  the fridge for one of the three

  remaining Miller Lights.

  “You were on the phone.

  So what’s up in Vegas?”

  He shakes his head. A lot.

  None of it good. In addition

  to the ribs, Kristina’s jaw

  is fractured. And the MRI

  showed something unusual

  in her brain. They have to do

  more tests. Plus, the cops

  went to her apartment, looking

  for Ron. The manager

  let them in. They didn’t find

  Ron, but they did find

  three grams of crystal meth,

  sitting right out in the open

  on top of her dresser. Kristina

  claims it must be Ron’s,

  but it was in her apartment

  and he wasn’t. She could be

  in some serious trouble.

  Uh, yeah. A twice-convicted

  felon in possession of

  a substantial amount of ice?

  Even if she’s telling the truth,

  who’s going to believe her?

  The question now arises,

  “What about Donald and

  David?” Kristina’s youngest

  kids, ages eleven and seven.

  Well, there is a major problem,

  isn’t there? If they catch Ron,

  he’s going away. This is felony

  assault, on top of his record.

  Kristina may be going away

  too, and even if she isn’t, it will

  be weeks before she’ll be

  in a position to play mother

  to those kids. So it basically

  comes down to foster care,

  or … His jaw clenches, and

  every discernable muscle tenses.

  “Or you and Mom take them

  in.” No wonder they were

  arguing. Impossible situation.

  He nods. Marie wants to bring

  them home. It makes me so angry!

  We both swore we’d never do it

  again—not that we resent having

  you, but we’re too old to be parents

  of young children. The only alternative

  I can think of is Jake and Misty.

  But after what happened last time,

  it’s not really fair to ask them.

  THERE’S AN UNDERSTATEMENT

  Uncle Jake owns a bigger heart

  than any man should, because

  hearts are too easily broken.

  He gave a big chunk of his heart

  to me, playing babysitter while

  most of his buddies were focused

  on trying to score girls. The rest

  of his heart (minus what belongs

  to Mom and Dad) went to Misty

  in high school. They married soon

  after graduation, even though

  everyone said they were too young.

  So far, they’ve proved everyone

  wrong. School. Work. Paying bills.

  They’ve waded through
, together.

  Then, when Kristina got pregnant

  with David and decided she

  couldn’t put up with four-year-old

  Donald’s hardcore behavior

  problems, Jake volunteered to

  take him in. He and Misty dealt

  patiently with biting. Head

  banging. Scream-punctuated

  tantrums. Purposeful destruction.

  Not his fault, Jake claimed.

  She never taught him better.

  Truth is, he was wild as a bobcat.

  With nurturing and love, Jake

  and Misty tamed him. Taught

  him the meaning of “no,” how

  to say “please” and “thank you.”

  Then, of course, Kristina wanted

  him back. Sort of like sending

  your puppy out to be house-

  broken, was Dad’s comment.

  Donald did return to Kristina,

  better for the experience. But he

  has regressed some over time.

  Let’s just say there’s rarely

  a dull moment when Kristina

  and her brood come round

  for holidays and family reunions.

  AND NOW THE BROOD

  Might be moving in? No

  wonder Dad’s feeling

  a little anxious.

  A little pressured.

  A little concerned

  that his comfortable

  retirement might become

  decidedly uncomfortable.

  Everything at home

  has been relatively

  stable for a long time.

  The drama for the most

  part has remained

  housed in Las Vegas.

  Kristina has kept semi-

  steadily employed,

  and maintained a couple

  of semi-steady relationships.

  Of course, Ron was always

  lurking in the shadows,

  ready to pounce,

  ready to maim,

  ready to bring her down.

  And Kristina never

  played smart, never

  played the game like

  it was for real.

  Easier to play victim.

  SPEAKING OF PLAYING

  The last time Donald came

  to visit, he fried my brand-new

  Xbox. “Uh … So where are

  the demon kids going to sleep?”

  Apparently Dad hasn’t bothered

  much with the minutiae. I don’t

  know. Haven’t really thought

  about it. The guest room?

  I snort. “Mom’s white on white

  with white trim guest room?

  You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

  He thinks it over for a second,

  has to laugh, too. We could

  give them permanent markers