“Hey, Dad . . .”
“Absolutely not, Eli. Your mother, stepdad, and I discussed what would be the best kind of vehicle for you, and chose the Hummer because we figured all that metal wrapped around you was a good idea. Fiberglass? Not so much.”
“Carbon fiber, actually. They haven’t been fiberglass for years,” I say. “But your father’s point is valid. The statistics are grim enough for boys your age dying in automobile accidents. The Hummer is a tank, but it’s relatively safe.”
“But—”
Andrew clears his throat loudly, circumventing the pending argument. “How much do you want for it? I always told myself when I hit a certain age I’d treat myself to a sports car. I’ve got a finite amount of time left. If not now, when?”
“I looked at Kelley Blue Book a few weeks ago, when I first thought about selling it. It’s worth forty-five thousand. I’d take forty from you.”
The grin that pops up on his face could only be described as sly. “Thirty-eight?”
“Sold.”
“You don’t want to counter?” Andrew seems genuinely disappointed.
“What’s a couple grand between friends? Anyway, the car served a purpose at the time I bought it, but I’m beyond my midlife-crisis phase now, thanks to your son.”
“That’s very good to hear,” says Cavin. “But should you consider reentry, please let me know and I’ll work very hard to change your mind.”
“Well, I’m glad the Corvette will be in good hands. Now all we have to do is get you to San Francisco. Can you change your return ticket home?”
“It’ll cost me, but not as much as the car’s costing me. And the drive down the coast home will be worth it. Wait. It is a convertible, right? And what color is it?”
“Silver over midnight blue. And yes, it’s a convertible. Are you sure you don’t want to look at it before you commit?” I’d never buy a car sight unseen. “Tell you what. You drive it on home and send me a check if you like it.”
“And if you don’t like it, it’s mine,” says Eli.
He’s only half joking.
As the light fades, the evening chills and we move inside. Kayla and Cavin do the dishes and Andrew goes to call the airline, leaving me alone with Eli, who sits next to me on the couch, close enough so his knee kisses mine. I suppose I could move. But, then again, why?
Apparently he wants to talk semiprivately because he forces his voice very low. “So, are you mad about Kayla and me?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it was a possibility.”
“Listen, Eli. I will definitely be pissed if Kayla doesn’t start school, but your relationship doesn’t bother me.”
He looks at me earnestly. “You’re sure?”
“Do you want me to be angry?”
“Kind of, yeah. At least a little jealous.” He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. Just the barest touch, for only a second.
Highly inappropriate.
Sexy as hell.
I meet his gorgeous eyes—the gray-dappled green ones he inherited from his father and, as I noticed at dinner, his grandfather, too. “Jealousy is reserved for people with low self-esteem. Does that sound like me?”
“Not on your worst day.” He taps my knee gently with his. “It’s awesome you’re home. It was boring as hell without—”
“All finished!” Kayla interrupts, hustling into the room and wiping what’s left of the dishwater on her shorts. But now she takes notice of the unique energy passing between Eli and me, not to mention his proximity. Her smile dissolves. “What’s going on? Are you talking about me?”
Eli starts to say no, but this might as well be out in the open. “Yes, in fact, we were. Eli asked if I was angry about your relationship.”
“Oh. Well, are you?”
“No. I mean, I was miffed that he invited you to stay here without discussing it with his dad and me first. But if the two of you hit it off, who am I to complain? Especially since it doesn’t seem to bother your parents.”
“Yeah, well, they’re all wrapped up in their own problems. I wasn’t sure they’d even noticed I left.” Kayla starts in his direction and Eli wisely stands to let her take his place on the sofa. But when he moves into the adjacent chair, she plops into his lap.
I wait until they arrange their various body parts to ask, “So what’s up with your mom and dad?”
“Beats me. Regular married-people stuff, I guess. Either they’re arguing or they aren’t talking at all.”
Eli snorts. “Marriage, defined. Kick me if I ever consider it, will you, please?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Marriage has its advantages.”
“Some people make it a career.” Kayla sneers.
I do believe she was referring to me.
Andrew crests the stairs. “No problem switching the ticket, and they only charged an arm. I get to save the leg for next time.”
“Text me your flight information and I’ll arrange for Charlie to pick you up at the airport, take you over to the house, and let you into the garage.”
“I’ll drive you to the airport in Reno,” volunteers Eli.
Kayla glares. “And I’ll come, too, to make sure there are no unauthorized stops along the way.” She stands, stretches her hand toward Eli. “Let’s take a walk before it gets dark.”
Eli agrees, and as they head toward the door, he slips an arm around her waist, dangles his hand along her outer thigh. In turn, she encircles his back with her arm and they bump hips. The gesture reminds me how young they are and stirs a murmur of envy. While there’s much to be said for experience, discovery is more exciting.
Andrew notices me studying their departure. “Interesting couple, eh? Dissimilar halves that somehow create a workable whole.”
“Dissimilar, definitely. Workable, I’m not so sure. But hey, youth is all about making mistakes. Too bad so many kids insist on big ones, especially when it comes to partnering.”
“True. But sometimes they get lucky. I did, at least for a while.”
Ooh. He opened the door. “How old was your wife when she died? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about her.”
“Not at all. She was thirty-six.”
“Wow. So young. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” He closes his eyes. “She was something when we first met—a truly amazing girl. Why she chose a boring guy like me, I don’t know, but I was determined to keep her. I’m happy for the time we had, although things got bad near the end.” Now he straightens, blinks. “I take it you know about Maureen’s mental health issues?”
“Yes. Cavin told me.”
I don’t mention the fact that a private investigator informed me first or that I had to pry the details out of my husband, who encouraged me to hire the PI to look into his background before I agreed to marry him. Of course, he’d previously secured the services of one Dirk Caldwell to investigate me, something I found out about quite by accident. The timing of that, very early in our relationship, raised some suspicions. (Did he fall for me or my money?) But Cavin swore it was only to circumvent surprises similar to those that drove him and Sophia apart. I came up clean. The detective I hired discovered Cavin once had a large IRS debt, now satisfied, and the fact that his mother had committed suicide.
“There was no hint of her illness until her first pregnancy,” continues Andrew. “After she had Cavin, she suffered mild postpartum depression, which was successfully treated with medication. But when she got pregnant with Paul, she refused her meds, and after he was born her depression blossomed into full-blown bipolar disorder. Post-Pamela, she was never right again.”
“Sounds like she shouldn’t have had kids.”
“Probably not. But she loved children. Especially her own, though it became impossible for them to see it. Brain chemistry is fascinating. I’ve often wished I’d focused my research there. We’ve come a long way in our understanding, but there’s still a lo
t we don’t know.”
“At least we’re not blaming it on demon possession anymore.”
“You’d be surprised how many people still do.”
“Still do what?” This time it’s Cavin who’s interrupting.
“Nothing,” I say. Not sure he’d appreciate our discussing his mother. “Where have you been, anyway?”
“Just going over my schedule for the week. It’s going to be busy.”
“Well, at least I’ll be out of your hair,” says Andrew.
Cavin glances at his watch. “Padres and Dodgers are playing, Dad. We missed a couple of innings, but I’m game to watch the rest if Tara doesn’t mind.”
“Not if you don’t mind me taking a bath and reading.”
The deal is struck.
eight
T HE SUMMER GLARE OFF Idaho desert overwhelms my eyes. I stare at the tail end of an old Ford pickup fishtailing over the hardscrabble ground, moving away as fast as its ancient engine can take it. It burps and hiccups, and the scent of burning oil embraces hints of tobacco and booze. “Fuck off, Mom,” I call after it. “I prefer the company of buzzards.”
They circle overhead—huge black wraiths, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Patient bone pickers. “I’m not dead yet, you bastards.” But it’s ninety degrees out here, and she left me without a drop of water. It won’t be long.
I start in the general direction of home. What home, I’m not sure, only that I seem to belong there. My feet sink in the soft sand. That is, when they’re not tripping over the chunks of basalt and rhyolite that litter the landscape. This must be what it’s like to be walking on the moon. And now I’ve got that Police song playing in my head. I sing to the vultures as I stumble along, hoping my legs don’t break, either.
What’s that? Coming this way. No, lurching. That’s the verb I want. Lurching toward me, with arms extended, zombielike. As it nears, I can make out the face, though it’s starting to rot, and that smell hits me first. “Kayla? What happened?” But she doesn’t answer, just keeps moving closer, crunching on something that sounds like bones, and I can’t let her touch me because I’m sure her condition is contagious. I reverse motion, but as I turn away, I notice two more figures far behind her, traversing the sand in similar fashion. One male, one female, I think, and though I can’t see their features, I’m sure I know them.
I wheel.
Run.
Sprint.
Leak sweat from every pore.
I’m tempted to glance behind me but don’t dare slow. I use my other senses instead.
No detectable footsteps.
No sharp intake of crypt smell.
No crunching of bones.
I must be outpacing them.
But now I hear a clunking old Ford 302 closing in on me. It passes on my right and skids to a stop, and the door jerks open. “Get in.” The words exit a cavernous hole where my mother’s lips used to be. The skin peels back from her jawbone, and one eye socket is vacant. The eye that remains wobbles as it stares, and I cough on a scream. Beside her on the passenger seat, what’s left of our old collie, Liz, is gnawing on a very live snake whose fangs are useless against a corpse buried twenty-five years ago.
“Come on,” commands Mom-zombie. “Climb in back. They’ll be here any second.”
I don’t want to, but I do, just like when I was little, because I know things will be worse if I disobey. I swing a leg over the side of the bed, flop inside, and huddle against the cab. “Where are we going?”
“Stupid girl. To the moon.” She slams the door shut, punches the gas pedal.
As the truck picks up speed, everything blurs and the heat bellows. Suddenly, we jet into the sky, arrow through the orbiting buzzards, and rise up, up, toward the pale lunar shadow. The atmosphere thins quickly and I wheeze it in until it is no more.
Fighting for oxygen in a vacuum, I feel my lungs turn inside out, and . . .
I spring upright, desperately gulping in air and seeking substance in the present. Drapes of darkness. Silken silence. The scent of my husband, who doesn’t stir within his envelope of deep sleep. A subtle throb in my knee, as if it’s been fighting the sink of desert sand.
But no buzzards.
No snakes.
No walking, driving, teeth-snapping cadavers.
Another flickering nightmare set in the Idaho moonscape and starring my mother. And like most of them, as insane as it was, this one captured elements of truth. Chromosomes host some contagions.
I leave Cavin to his own dreams and creep from under the covers, into the night’s embrace. There will be no sleep for a while. I tiptoe to the bathroom to pee and search for a painkiller. Ibuprofen might quiet my knee, but a taste of poppy could whisk me back into the arms of Morpheus at some point tonight. Meanwhile, I’ll take my book into the living room. A soft wash of moon through the window guides my way into the hall. Once I’ve cleared the threshold and closed the door, the light is shuttered.
I shuffle along, mostly blind, but my ears pick up human interaction outside. The sound trickles in through the open sliding glass door, and it takes only a few seconds to identify Eli and Kayla, having sex. They don’t seem to care if someone hears them. Wonder how they’d feel about someone watching.
I should back away, hide my eyes. Instead, I’m compelled forward, moving soundlessly on bare feet. With the house steeped in shadow, moon glow spotlights the scene on the deck. Kayla is on her hands and knees, facing the forest. Eli kneels behind her—thankfully shielding the body parts that would be incestuous to view. But I can see one of his hands, knotted in her hair, pulling her head back so her face turns up toward the star-sequined sky. They perform as if on camera—his hard thrust and slow withdrawal eliciting her low growl of pleasure.
Stop watching.
Turn away.
Go back to bed.
But I can’t. I’m perversely fascinated. It’s not like I’ve never witnessed people having sex before. I mean, right out of high school I worked at a Vegas strip club, and while I never interacted that way with a customer, plenty of the girls did, often right there for all to see. But those ladies were “seasoned,” to be kind, and their clients were mostly out for cheap thrills. The act, bought and paid for, tended to be drunken, fast, and dirty. Nothing I wanted to see.
This, however . . . I can’t not watch. It’s an unfolding. Raw. Unpretentious. A little clumsy, even. For all Eli’s older lover claims he’s “all man,” the truth is he’s just a boy. And though I know Kayla has been intimate with at least a couple of guys, she’s every bit as inexperienced. The two are relying on instinct. Pure animal drive, like big cats called by nature to mate for the first time.
I expect Eli to finish quickly. Instead he brakes himself, more mature than I believed, coaxes Kayla onto her back. I sink to the floor as close as I can get to the door without them noticing my presence and lean against the wall, watching Eli’s hands travel the length of Kayla’s legs. When he reaches her thighs, he pushes them apart, burrows his face between them, and it’s all I can do to swallow the moan that has lodged in my throat. I’m a sick, sad voyeur.
Lust-fueled, he enters her again, missionary-style. All lion now, he fucks hard and fast, and when her growl blossoms into the roar of orgasm, I don’t need to touch myself to come, too. I catch my breath, the sound barely audible, but enough to make Eli twist his head slightly, left ear toward the open door. I can’t see his face, but I suspect he’s smiling. Unreasonably, I am, too.
He rolls off Kayla, lying next to her and holding her hand, and I realize I’ve got a small problem. Eli might suspect my presence, but I don’t think Kayla does, nor should she. Slowly, quiet as a sigh, I scoot my rear end sideways along the hardwood. This proves a stealthy means of transportation, thanks in no small part to the silk of my robe. The green perfume of marijuana drifts in from outside and follows me into the hall. I have a couple of minutes to complete my escape.
Once I’m out of sight, I push myself up onto my feet, too quickly. Suddenly
and forcefully, I’m reminded of the problem with my knee. Despite the lovely opioid haze I’ve been enjoying, pain spasms from shin to groin.
I am an idiot.
You are a voyeur.
Who knew?
I close my eyes and wait for the sizzling in my knee to subside. Eventually it does, though a quick check informs me the joint is ballooning. Ice, that’s what I need, and at this point I refuse discretion. This is my home, and I’m certainly allowed a trip to the kitchen. I turn on the light in the hallway to announce my approach and allow them to cover up the essentials, and I underline the fact that I’m here by saying, quite loudly, “If you’re going to smoke that stuff, the least you could do is shut the door so it doesn’t stink up the house.”
There is movement on the deck as Kayla tries to cover up. Eli doesn’t bother and in fact is quite content to let me peek, going as far as to stand and reach for the door handle, his entire package in full view. “My bad,” he says. “I thought everyone was asleep.”
I try to keep my eyes above his waist, but the temptation to compare him to Cavin is massive and I succumb. Eli definitely inherited his father’s exceptional asset. He smiles at my interest. Kayla, however, isn’t amused. “Put some clothes on, Eli. Don’t be disgusting.”
But her injured look targets me.
I leave them to work it out while I locate ice. My head is in the freezer when I become aware of someone standing behind me. I extricate a gel pack, which is preferable to cubes because it will fold around my knee, working equally on all sides. Then I turn to face Eli, who is half-dressed. Thankfully, it’s the shirt he’s lacking.
“Sorry,” he says, appearing anything but.
“About what?”
“The weed. I forgot it offends you.”
I shrug. “It doesn’t really offend me. I just prefer not to have an illegal substance in my home. And I’m sure your father feels the same way.”
“It’s not illegal anymore, and you apparently haven’t discussed it with Dad. Before Nevada approved recreational use, he actually encouraged me to apply for a medical marijuana card.”
Oh, that’s a regular truckload of manure. “Medical marijuana for what condition, exactly?”
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