Collateral (38 page)

let it run its natural course. Dam

it up, you're asking for trouble. It's

gonna go looking for a way to escape.

It only reinvents itself,

liquid, solid

liquid

gas, liquid,

forever

in random echo.

Every drop

encapsulates

the beginning, its

undulating

glass a window,

opening

into Genesis.

Wake to platinum

beads of dew,

the very first

morning breaking

within

the clutch

of dawn

dampened grass,

consider

that we are essentially

water and wonder

how many eons

we squander, every

time

we allow

ourselves to cry.

Cole Gleason

In a month, I find myself hitting

the highway to Lodi. Only this

time, I have Darian for company.

“You're sure Spencer's okay with this?”

Yeah. They're having a big to-do

at the hospital. Pretty sure his

physical therapist is dressing up

as Santa. She won't need a pillow.

The plan is for Dar to stay a couple

of days with me, while we scope

out the wine country. Then she'll

spend Christmas with her parents.

Mom says Dad cut a giant tree.

Not sure why. Guess he's trying

to make up for the last four years.

“What does he have to make up for?

You're the one who stayed away.”

I know.
She actually sounds contrite.

Since the accident, Dad has been so

supportive. He even offered to let us

move home when Spence is released.

“Really? Are you thinking about it?”

I'd kind of hate for them to leave

San Diego. Then again, who knows

where I'll be living after the wedding?

I'm not sure. Coming home seems

like backward motion, you know?

Still, if we can find a good VA

hospital not too far away, we'd

probably have to consider it.

She goes on to outline courses

of treatment, physical therapy

requirements, etc. Poor Spence.

“How's he doing, attitude-wise?”

Depends on the day. It's like he built

a big wall around himself. Sometimes

you can't break through it at all.

Other times you can peek through

a crack and see the old Spencer inside.

That brings up a lot of reminiscing.

Swallowed up by yesterday, the drive

passes quickly. Finally she asks if I've

heard from Cole. “Not lately. But I don't

expect to when he's outside the wire.”

Don't you get sick of that? God,

I couldn't stand not knowing.

Even this is better, I think.

“He promised he'd ask for stateside

deployment, or go into the reserves.”

She's quiet for a minute. Chewing

on it.
You don't really believe that?

This is Cole we're talking about.

For an explanation, when the radio,

which has been playing country

since San Diego, launches news.

Twenty-two-year-old Chandra Baird

was arraigned today, on a half-dozen

charges, ranging from child endangerment

to trafficking methamphetamine.

Baird, who plead not guilty . . .
I don't

want to listen to it all. But as I reach

to turn down the volume, I do hear

him say Soleil's condition has been

upgraded to critical. Hang in there,

Soleil. She's marginally improved.

Better than going the other direction.

“Thanks.” I send it to the universe,

mumbling the last word out loud.

You talking to me?
asks Dar, knowing,

I'm sure, that I'm going to say, “Nope.”

But now I reconsider. “Well, yes.

Thanks for riding along. Thanks for

supporting me. Thanks for being you.”

I think I'm blushing. You're welcome.

But when did you get God again?

Fair question. “I haven't exactly

acquired Him again. Just hedging

my bets, you know? I figure if

He's out there, I might as well be polite.”

Darian laughs.
I don't suppose

it could hurt. I've said a prayer

or two myself in the last few months.

If it worked for Spence . . .

“Like you said. Can't hurt. Poor

baby. Some people just shouldn't

have kids, you know what I mean?”

I turn the radio back up, encourage

Dar to sing along. Her voice is still

beautiful. “If you won't take up wedding

planning, I think you should try out

for
Idol,
or
The Voice,
or one of those

shows. Even if you didn't win, it would

give you great exposure. You could

make it in the business.” I mean every

word, but she acts like I'm joking.

Oh, definitely. And you know where

I'd get the leg up? Having a disabled

husband. “Please let me win. I need

to take care of my disfigured war vet.”

“Hey, whatever works. But just so

you know, you're talented enough

to do it all on your own.” We fall into

idle conversation, and the day dissolves.

It's late afternoon when we pull into

my parent's driveway. It's choked

with cars, so I pull around, park on

the street. “Wow. Wonder what's up.”

Is a reception for Troy and Gretchen,

who chose a quickie wedding in front

of a justice of the peace. The cars

belong to Troy's friends, who are

here, I think, for the champagne

and nice, little canapés, care of

Mom's favorite delicatessen. I know

they came from there because

the longtime owners, the Ellisons,

are here, celebrating with

the small crowd. I recognize a few

who were just behind me in high

school. Most are complete strangers.

Whatever. A party's a party. Darian

and I mingle. I survey the house.

Nudge Dar. “Looks like my mom

is compensating for your dad going

overboard this year. We don't even

have
a tree. Or mistletoe. Or stockings

hung by the chimney, with or without

care.” The house is too obviously bare

of accoutrement, a rare occurrence

over the span of my lifetime. In fact,

it has never happened before. My mom

is the Martha Stewart of Christmas.

“I'd better go find her,” I whisper

to Dar. “Something's up.” I leave

Darian to her own devices. Which

only worries me a little. These young

inebriated men don't stand a chance.

Finally locate Mom, alone and sipping

tea, in the solarium. “There you are.”

The low winter sun lights the window

behind her, painting her platinum hair

with a gentle glow, almost like a halo.

It softens her features and I can almost

see the girl she was in our family photo

albums. Oh my God. I can almost see me.

You made it. How was the drive?

Generic. She makes no move to get

up, so I go sit beside her. “The drive

was fine. Definitely more interesting

with Darian along. She's the life of any

party. And speaking of parties, what's up?

This party's out there. So, why are you

back here?” She sips her tea before

answering.
It's still a party without

me there. I just needed a little quiet.

This is so unlike Mom, who is ever

the hostess. “You okay? Where's Dad?”

She shrugs.
He's here somewhere,

I guess. Didn't you see him?

“No, but I didn't look very hard.

And I wanted to talk to you first.

So, talk to me. Something's wrong.

Tell me what it is. You're not . . . sick?”

She smiles, but it's a smile defined

by sadness.
No. Nothing like that.

It's just . . . everything's changing.

Oh, news flash. The school district's

cutting jobs. Librarians are at the top

of the list. I'm lucky, I suppose. They're

only slicing mine back to part-time.

I don't know what I'll do with myself.

Find some insipid hobby? Volunteer?

She pauses. Thinks for a few seconds.

Once, I thought if we had the energy

and resources, your father and I would

travel together. But, unfortunately,

your father prefers to travel “alone.”

The last word is weighted, leaving no

doubt what she means. “Why do you stay?”

Where would I go? This is my home.

Anyway, you know me. Ms. Propriety.

Always doing the right thing.

Except maybe not for her.

I hate that. Mostly because

she reminds me of me—

always trying to please others

first. It's an annoying habit.

One I'm struggling to break.

This probably isn't the right

time to bring this up, but I doubt

there is a perfect time. So, here

goes. The new me. Ashley, who

is not worried about pleasing

everyone else first. “So, Mom.

I've been thinking things over

and I'm seriously considering

changing my course of study.”

I can't say Ms. Propriety looks

totally surprised. Still, she says,

Now? But, Ashley, you're halfway

there. Do you really think that's wise?

Unbidden, my fingers start tapping.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“Maybe not. But I think it's necessary.”

“I just don't believe I can spend my

life failing the people who most need

help. There's too much at stake. I think

it takes a stronger person than me.

There are things I love about it.

Working at the VA Hospital, for one.

But I could still help out there, even

if it wasn't in an official capacity.”

Mom has listened without comment.

Finally, she says,
But creative writing?

What can you do with a master's

except teach?
Immediately, she answers

herself,
Which is what you always

wanted to do, anyway. That was

your plan, ever since you were little,

wasn't it? To be totally honest

here, your father is probably right

about teaching. Too little pay, less

respect, and that's only getting worse.

I'm not sure how people expect

their children to succeed without

a good education. But that seems

to be the tenor of our country right

now. You need to understand that.

“I know, Mom. I'm not worried

about the money, although I guess

I should be. It's more about making

a difference. If I can, that is.”

I'm sure you could. You'd make

a great teacher, Ashley. As long

as you remember you'll probably

fail a few of your students, too.

I wish it were possible to save

them all. It's not. Some will fall

through the cracks, same as social

work. You'll see ugly things you might

not be able to change. But someone

needs to try. Your father, of course,

will be livid. But if this is really what

you want, I'll support your decision.

My fingers quiet. “Thanks, Mom.”

I change the subject, before she can

reconsider. “Hey. What happened

to Christmas? Did the Grinch come by?”

Her smile is sad.
I figured I should

get used to it. Both you and Troy

are starting new lives and will build

your own traditions. It doesn't make

sense to go crazy with decorating

if I'm going to spend the holidays

alone.
The last word is worrisome.

Why would she spend them alone?

That would never happen,

that Troy or I or both of us

will always come home

for the holidays, with spouses