Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  Thinks a second, then yanks me

  all the way into her bedroom.

  Okay, give. What’s up with you?

  My throat goes thick and my fingers

  numb. “What do you mean?”

  Your aura. It’s like … ruby.

  Oh my God. Freaking gypsy aunt.

  “Um …” Can’t confess. “I, uh …”

  You’re in love. Who is he?

  She’s like a little kid at a pony ride.

  Me too, on champagne. “B-Bryce.”

  And why haven’t you mentioned him?

  Now my brain buzzes anger. “You … uh …”

  Go ahead, say it. “You’re never here.”

  SHE DOESN’T DENY

  She deflates. Like someone stuck

  her with a pin and the champagne

  bubbles escaped. You’re right. I’m sorry.

  “It’s okay. I mean, you’re getting

  married. It’s not like you should

  be thinking about me, anyway.”

  Her heads starts to shake. Getting

  married doesn’t mean you’re not

  important too. Tell me about Bryce.

  We sit on her bed and I recite

  the basic information, omitting

  everything about today. And babies.

  He s-sounds great, she sputters,

  champagne kicking in. Do you

  want to invite him to the wedding?

  A member of the family already?

  “Th-thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  Sputtering a little myself, the first

  time I’ve ever had alcohol go to

  my head. Makes me laugh. Makes

  me brave. Think I kind of like it.

  Summer

  STRADDLING A THIN WIRE

  Three hundred feet in the air.

  That’s how I feel.

  Safe for the moment.

  But not very.

  December gray shrouds

  the valley.

  Nothing new. Except

  colder than normal.

  I was almost looking forward

  to Christmas this year.

  Thought maybe

  it might be special.

  Despite Dad and Kortni.

  Because of Kyle.

  But now I’m not even sure

  where I’ll be.

  The wire sways in the wind.

  Half of me wants

  to hold on for dear life.

  Half wants to jump.

  IT’S BEEN THIS WAY

  Since Thanksgiving. The night

  Dad got pulled over, less than

  half a mile from Carrows.

  When the red and blue carousel

  started spinning behind us, we

  all knew things didn’t look good.

  Still, a guy has to give it his best

  try. Dad rolled down the window.

  Wussup, S … Off … cer?

  The cop leaned to look in the car,

  backed up at the smell. License

  and registration. As if they were all

  he was after. Flashlight illuminating

  every move, Dad reached for

  the glove box. Instinctively,

  the cop’s hand slipped down

  toward his hip, and the extremely

  large pistol poised there. Slowly.

  Dad rooted around for ten seconds

  or so. ’S here somewhere. Hang on.

  Finally he found the requisite paperwork.

  Expired. All of it. But even if it

  hadn’t been, Dad was going to jail

  after breathing point one two.

  A second cop arrived just in time

  to help with the breathalyzer.

  And, seeing as how Kortni was

  also more than a little wobbly, he

  ended up driving us home. They

  called a tow truck for Dad’s car.

  And since it was a holiday weekend,

  both Dad and car stayed in lockup

  for four days. Kortni slept for two

  of them. Woke up, ate some cereal,

  then jumped back on the beer train.

  Kyle was in Fresno until Sunday.

  His dad got pissed every time I called,

  so I didn’t even have phone time for comfort.

  I was stark, raving stir-crazy. Almost bored

  enough by Saturday to get an early start

  on my history essay. Almost enough by

  Sunday to call Matt. Instead I called Mom.

  CALLED FIRST

  Around ten a.m.

  No answer.

  Left a voice mail.

  Tried again

  an hour later.

  Same results.

  Second voice mail.

  The old saying

  goes, “Third time’s

  a charm.” Whoever said

  it didn’t know Mom.

  She never returned

  my calls. But the fifth

  time, I guess it was

  sometime well after

  two, she finally

  picked up.

  I SUSPECTED

  She was using again, not only

  because she was asleep (crashed)

  at two p.m., but also because

  she sounded spun. Her voice

  was clipped. Staccato. Hello?

  Summer? Is that you?

  “Uh, yeah, Mom. How come

  you were asleep?” Daring the lie.

  It’s Sunday. I don’t work

  Sunday. Don’t you ever sleep in?

  “Not until two. Anyway, how

  was your Thanksgiving?”

  You called to ask that?

  What’s wrong with you?

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I mean,

  well, Dad had a DUI….”

  You don’t expect me to bail

  him out, do you? Does he?

  “Uh, no. I don’t … I didn’t

  call about that, Mom….”

  WHY DID I CALL?

  It wasn’t just the boredom.

  It was the question that had

  been burning inside me for

  three days. Mom prompted,

  Okay, then. Why did you call?

  And out it came, slick as

  a baby pig. “Why didn’t you

  ever tell me how you and Dad

  met, and that I have a sister?”

  Very long pause. Who told you?

  Duh. “Who do you think, Mother?

  Anyway, that doesn’t matter.

  Don’t you think I have the right

  to know something like that?”

  Even longer pause. I guess so.

  Anger seethed. “You guess

  so? I know we don’t talk much,

  and when we do, it’s usually

  all about you, but—”

  No pause. Now, wait a minute—

  BUT I WAS ON A ROLL

  “No, Mother. We usually do

  only talk about you, and obviously

  not about stuff that matters….”

  My eyes stung, and the words

  I wanted to say tried to stick

  in my throat. I coughed them out.

  “I have a sister. Where the hell

  is she? What’s her name?

  I already know who her father

  is, and how you hooked up with

  Dad and all. Have you always

  been that way? Don’t you ever

  feel bad? I mean, for God’s sake,

  how can you just keep sleeping

  around, piling one guy on top

  of the next? How can you just

  keep making babies, then tossing

  them away? How can you …?”

  Right about then I noticed

  she had hung up the phone.

  KORTNI BAILED DAD OUT

  The next morning.

  They might have

  just booked him

&
nbsp; and let him go,

  except for a couple

  of pertinent things.

  One: Not his first DUI.

  He had one less

  than two years ago.

  Blood alcohol level:

  point zero nine.

  Two: Weed under

  the seat. Less than

  an ounce, but not

  only fineable, also

  contributable to his

  condition that night.

  He’s looking at

  thirty days’ jail time,

  license suspension,

  and a big chunk of

  change, and if he

  can’t pay it, more

  jail time. He goes

  to court this week.

  HE’S PRETTY MISERABLE

  And I almost feel sorry for him.

  Not that I didn’t try to warn him.

  And I almost want to comfort him.

  Not that he’s often been worthy of that.

  And I almost want to give him a hug.

  Not that I want anyone but Kyle to hug me.

  And I almost want to say it will all work out.

  Not that I really believe it will, for him. Or me.

  And I almost want to tell him I love him.

  Not that I have, since I was a little girl.

  And I almost think I should fix that.

  Who knows when I might have another chance?

  HE’S ON THE PORCH

  Smoking and, of course, sucking

  up suds. Who knows when he might

  have another chance at a good buzz?

  Kortni went to town for groceries.

  (She still has her driver’s license.)

  So there’s an empty chair. I sit.

  “Hey, Dad. I just want you to know …”

  Say it. Say it. Say it. Can’t. Not yet.

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  He doesn’t look at me. Just stares

  across the winter-bared fields.

  Me too. Sometimes I’m plain stupid.

  All the time. But I don’t tell him

  I think so. Say it. Say it. Say it.

  Ah, what the hell. “Love you, Dad.”

  Now he looks at me, eyes drawing

  slowly from the dirt, across dead

  air, to my face. What did you say?

  He didn’t hear? Didn’t believe

  it? And now I have to repeat it?

  “I said, uh … that I love you.”

  I EXPECT

  A reciprocal declaration—an “I love

  you, too.” Or maybe condemnation—

  a “Why don’t you say it more often?”

  Anything, really, but what he does say:

  Why?

  “What do you mean, why? You’re my

  dad, right?” Sounds lame, even to me.

  So?

  His one-word responses are pissing

  me off. “Shouldn’t I love my father?”

  Not necessarily.

  Two words. Communication.

  I realize, however, that he’s right.

  Loving your parents is not required.

  He inhales the last drag of his cigarette.

  Get me a beer?

  WHEN I RETURN

  He is ready to talk, as if words

  suddenly materialized in his brain.

  First, a long drink of brew.

  Then his mouth opens.

  I’m sorry I’m such a shit-

  for-brains. I thought I’d

  be a better dad. Wanted

  to be. Really, I did. But

  then I let my bad habits

  get the better of me.

  I watch him pull another long

  swallow. Light another cancer

  stick. “It’s called addiction, Dad.”

  I know. Can’t stop. And

  to tell you the truth, even

  if I could, I don’t want to.

  You’re the only good thing

  in my fucked-up life. And I

  couldn’t even be thankful

  enough to look after you

  right. They took you away….

  I want to shout, “No, you

  shoved me away!” Instead

  I say, “You’re selfish, Dad.”

  He shakes his head, smoke

  escaping side to side from

  the corners of his mouth.

  Not always. Nope. At first

  it was all about your mother.

  I loved her. God. Never love

  someone that much, because

  you’re sure to end up hurt.

  I would have married her.

  Would have raised up your

  sister like my own. Would

  have raised you better….

  This is the most he’s ever

  spoken to me at one time.

  Ever. “So what happened?”

  When she got pregnant with

  you, I told her all that, begged

  her to give up the crystal.

  To be fair, she tried to clean

  up. For you. Tried and mostly

  failed. Meth is a mean mother

  monster. But even if she could

  have given it up, the fact is

  she loved Trey more than she

  ever loved me. Or anyone.

  LEFT UNSAID:

  Even me.

  I always knew

  she chose drugs

  over me. Now I

  find out she chose

  some-guy-not-my-

  father over me too.

  Happy as I am

  to have any new

  information that

  imparts insight re:

  what made me, me,

  and why I’m here,

  I need more

  answers. Now, while

  he’s hopefully stuck

  in verbal mode, is

  the time to strike.

  After we catch our

  collective breath.

  Understanding

  my father is suddenly

  important. Not sure

  why. Understanding

  my mother very well

  might be impossible.

  BUT I HAVE TO TRY

  So here goes. “How did

  I end up with you when

  Mom went to prison?”

  He looks at me like I’m

  speaking Chinese. Hasn’t

  anyone ever told you this

  stuff? Not your mom? Not

  my mom? Seriously?

  “If someone had, I wouldn’t

  be asking, Dad. Not like

  I need to have stories

  repeated. I’m not a little kid.”

  He smiles tightly. Even when

  you were little, you never

  did want to hear the same

  story twice. Buying books

  for you was a waste of money,

  not that we ever had a whole

  lot to waste. So, okay, how

  much, exactly, do you know?

  “Only what you told me at

  Thanksgiving. That she was

  married to your old friend, Trey,

  and that you broke them up.”

  HE COCKS HIS HEAD

  Reaching way back into his brain,

  trying to locate that night.

  I said that? Guess I was pretty

  buzzed. Don’t remember it at all.

  Yes, Trey and I were friends, and I was

  passing through. Don’t remember

  where to, but once I was there a few

  days, I didn’t want to leave. Ever.

  “Because of the dope or

  because of Mom?”

  Both. Oh my God. You can’t imagine

  how much crystal they were moving.

  And as for your mom, she was skinny

  as hell, and a total tweaker bitch,

  but I fell for her right off. Something

  in thos
e eyes, and she was wild in b—

  Way TMI, Dad. Still, “Uh, it’s okay.

  Obviously you guys had sex.”

  It was more than that, at least

  for me. I was flat in love with her.

  Which was a fucked-up thing to be.

  Trey wasn’t around much.

  Working a little. Dealing a lot.

  Kristina and I were tight for a while.

  He stops. Lights another cig.

  Stares at his empty beer can.

  I should get him one. The deadly duo

  seems to be fueling his storytelling.

  I don’t think she ever really loved

  me, though. She was crazy about

  Trey. She liked making him jealous.

  Which was dangerous for both of

  us. He did have a temper! When

  he found out about us, he freaked.

  Dad looks longingly at the empty

  again. This time I just go get one.

  A very long swig and he begins

  again. We got into it pretty good.

  But even if I would have beat

  the crap out of him, she wouldn’t

  have chosen me. I got the picture

  and left. Didn’t know she was pregnant….

  PREGNANT WITH ME

  Mom never did figure out the birth

  control thing. I might be worried

  about my paternity, except I look

  almost exactly like Dad. Lucky me.

  Like most mid-level dealers, they

  smoked up the profits, and Denny’s tips

  didn’t exactly cover what they owed

  their supplier. Your mom got creative.

  And she got busted. She and Trey

  had already turned state’s evidence

  once to get off a trafficking charge.

  This time they were going away

  for fraud. Check kiting. Identity theft.

  They got two years in state prison.

  Your mom delivered you the day

  before they sent her away. Her mother

  took you home from the hospital.

  Kept you safe. Until she found me.

  I’VE ALWAYS FELT

  A strange connection

  to Grandma Marie. Strange,

  because we don’t see each other

  all that often. Also a sort

  of jealousy because

  of Hunter. I mean, she

  and Grandpa Scott adopted

  him. When I was younger, and

  in foster care, I wondered

  why him and not me?

  And I thought it was

  because they didn’t have

  enough love to go around. Semi-