Fallout (66 page)

HIS EYES LIFT

Then they settle somewhere

over my shoulder, grow cold.

He points.
Ask him.
Grandfather

has come into the room, silent as

still air. I don’t have to turn to feel

him there. The tension is solid.

His trembling voice falls, a bag

of marbles, over my shoulder.

You. Get out of my chair.

Trey does not comply right

away. But as Grandfather starts

to move, he stands.
Tell her.

Grandfather limps slowly

toward his chair. He is pale

as paper. I stay silent as

he sits and meets my eyes.

We were just trying to protect

you, Cora and I … we …

He pauses too long, so Trey

expands,
They kept moving

around when you were little.

THINGS FALL INTO PLACE

Suddenly. Frequent

moves to different

little Texas towns.

Different schools.

Different friends.

Different boyfriends

for Aunt Cora. Phone

numbers. Addresses I

could never quite recall,

and if I did, there were

frequent reminders

frequent lectures

frequent warnings

not to share them,

because a stranger

could get hold of

them, might come

kidnap me away.

Hidden photos.

Hidden paperwork.

Hidden stories

about my family.

To protect me from

my mother. Father.

And who else is out

there? Who else might

want to know what

has happened to me?

SUCKER PUNCHED

I can’t find air, and it has nothing to do with illogical panic.

It’s shock. Pure. Simple. Rational. “How could you?”

How could they make me believe I was a throwaway?

Grandfather is completely white, and the folds

of his eyes crease with pain. Good. I want him to hurt,

like he and Aunt Cora have hurt me.
I’m sorry
, he says.

“Sorry? Do you understand how it feels to believe

your parents don’t want you? Don’t tell me they didn’t

deserve me. I already know that. This isn’t about them.”

The look I shoot Trey withers him slightly. But his eyes

glitter defiance. A desire so different from any I’ve

known before strikes suddenly. “I want to meet her.”

TREY STRAIGHTENS

I can see the wheels

creak-turn in his head.

He looks at Grandfather,

says to me,
I’ll take you.

You should meet her.

Just don’t go thinking

she’s going to be like

some perfect mom. Kristina

is all about Kristina.

Far as I can tell, that pretty

much goes for everyone.

“Really? You’ll take me?”

Why not? I’d like to see

her again myself. I used

to love the bitch. Maybe

I can figure out why. She’s

on her way to Albuquerque

to see her dad, but will be

at her mom’s for Christmas.

Plenty of time for a road

trip. You’ll be a nice surprise.

GRANDFATHER IS SHAKING

Anger. Fear. Goat flu. Not sure

which is to blame. Maybe all three.

You’re not serious
, he says.
You

can’t take her. I won’t let you.

I want to go over. Give him a hug.

I want to go over. Slap him. Hard.

That’s the indecisive part of me—

well-known. A strange, new take-

charge part jumps in, “Yes, he can.

If I don’t go now, it may never happen.”

Grandfather crumbles.
You’re going

to leave me alone on Christmas?

I could thaw if I let myself. But no.

“Austin isn’t so far. Call Aunt Cora.”

My heart flip-flops in my chest. I might

meet my mother. It may very well turn

out all bad, but how else will I know

that? “I’ll go pack some clothes.”

BY THE TIME

My suitcase sits, barely half-full,

by the door, my anger has mostly

subsided. Grandfather slumps,

wounded, in his ratty recliner.

“Did you call Aunt Cora?” I ask

him. When he doesn’t reply,

Trey says,
He wouldn’t, so I did.

She said she’s on her way.

Which means we’d better go

before she gets here and tries

to make me change my mind.

She could probably do it.

I go over to Grandfather, put

my hand on his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

He refuses to meet my eyes.

I’ll be right here, waiting.

WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR

I’m surprised to see the car

parked at the curb. It’s a late

model Cadillac. White. Pin

neat. Wait. This can’t be Trey’s.

Suddenly I understand how

little I really know about him.

Am I making an awful mistake?

Wasn’t he in prison for grand

theft auto, among other things?

“Uh. Nice car. Whose is it?”

He pulls the key from his

pocket, waves it in the air,

pushes a button that opens

the trunk, puts my suitcase

inside.
Actually, it’s my mom’s.

Get in.
He waits for me to

make up my mind. It takes all

of two minutes before he says,

Well? Are you coming or what?

He starts the car. Exactly

the motivation I need. I slink

into the front passenger seat,

fingers tingling. Plush white leather

sucks me in. The stereo plays

metal and my heart drums along.

My nose wrinkles at an overpowering

stench of stale tobacco. The ashtray

practically overflows. “Will

you empty that, please? And you

won’t smoke with me in the car?”

I meant it as a question, sort of.

He takes it another way.
Kind

of demanding, aren’t you? I don’t

have to do this at all, you know.

Still, he opens the door, dumps

the ashtray into the gutter,

replaces it. Nice. Really nice.

I should haul my butt out of

the car, back into the house

where I belong. But I don’t.