Glass (21 page)

Tracking wet snow,

LaTreya has joined the party.

Devon runs over, jumps up

and down.
I’m cooking, Daddy.

LaTreya keeps stirring a thick,

creamy batter.
Me too. Pancakes.

Brad takes in the domestic

scene.
Good thing. I’m hungry.

Then he turns to me.
I drove all

the way to the freeway, but couldn’t

find your car anywhere. It’s either

buried or they towed it.

“Mom called. They towed it.

I tried your cell, but no answer.”

Devon happily interrupts,

’Tina’s gonna draw my picture.

LaTreya shoots an envious look.

How come? What about me?

Before I can answer, Brad does.

I’m sure she’ll draw you, too.

But first let’s eat. I haven’t had

pancakes in a really long time.

I smile at him and he silently

mouths,
I need to talk to you.

The girls go upstairs to play

dress-up while Brad and I wash

the dishes. He waits for them

to leave the room, then says,

I’ve been thinking. Day care takes

a big chunk of my paychecks.

How would you like to play nanny?

Room, board, and a hun’ a week.

I make a few quick calculations.

A hundred a week isn’t much,

but it’s under the table, and hey,

I’ll also have food, a place to stay,

and nowhere I have to be but here,

so gas is not a concern. Just one little

thing. “That’s Monday through Friday,

right?” I still want my weekends free.

He grins.
Monday through Friday

works fine, party girl. And speaking

of parties, we can have one later.

I just got a delivery last night.

“Are you buying my cooperation?”

Fresh stash, works every time. Which

reminds me. “Oh, one of the guys

in the band wants an eight ball.

“I told him I’d check on it. But no

way can I deliver it to him now.”

Brad grows serious.
How well

do you know the guy?
It’s the first

hint of paranoia I’ve seen. “Not well.

But I’ve known Quade since we were

kids and Damian looks like more than

a casual user. I don’t think they’re narcs.”

Tension falls from his shoulders

like boulders off a cliff.
If you’re

sure, no problem. Maybe Trey can

take you when he finally gets here.

My turn for tension. “If he gets

here. He says not till the roads clear.”

Brad’s eyes travel the contours

of my body.
I promise. He’ll get here.

It has snowed all weekend,

and several feet of the sticky

wet white stuff cover everything.

Still, the day dawned critical

blue and the plows are busy.

Damian got his eight ball.

We met at the convenience store,

made a quick trade—awesome

ice for a pile of cash, including

fifty extra for me. Dealer me.

Quade didn’t come along. Part of

me hoped he would. Most of me

knew he wouldn’t. He definitely

doesn’t like the idea of his buddies—

or me—dancing with the monster.

Brad is home today. Not much

in the way of construction

jobs when you need a sleigh

to deliver nails. Wonder if Santa

could contract with the Home Depot.

Probably too busy today, it being

Christmas Eve and all. I put in

a call to the impound yard, but

the phone message says to try

back on Wednesday. Tick, tick.

Higher and higher go those

impound fees. Brad says

they’re twenty dollars a day, plus

the initial fifty for paperwork,

plus a hundred for the tow. Tick.

Around one
P.M.
Trey calls.

I’m on my way. Can’t wait

to see you. I’ve got something

special for you too. Hope

you like the way I play Santa.

The phone rings and I rush

to answer. It has to be Trey, and

I need to hear his voice, closer now.

Kristina?
It’s only Mom.
What’s

the game plan? Should I come pick you

up for Christmas Eve services?

Christmas Eve services? A yearly

family ritual. But I can’t leave.

Not now. “Uh, sorry, Mom. I have to

take care of the girls.” A lie. A big

fat lie, and on Christmas Eve! “Oh,

did I tell you I’m their nanny now?”

Hugely pregnant pause.
No, I

guess you forgot to mention that.

Well, what about tomorrow?

Tomorrow? Christmas. Presents

and dinner with the family. And Hunter.

[He’s too little to care this year, anyway.]

I have to make a decision. Family.

Or Trey. Spending Christmas making

love with Trey. Easy decision.

Mom’s still waiting to hear it.

Kristina? Do you need a ride?

I can pick you up in the morning.

Okay, I can’t tell her I’m playing

nanny tomorrow. What kind of excuse

would placate her? Hard answer: none.

“No, no. Don’t pick me up. I’ll try

to get a ride from a friend. What

time are you planning dinner?”

The same time it’s been your

entire life. You do remember

what time that is, don’t you?

Voices, again. The same,

but not. Little voices.

Girls. Little girls.

Can’t find them now. I’m

flying.

Male voices, bigger.

One voice. Two.

Two men.

Not now. I’m

flying toward

Andromeda. Cassiopeia.

Pisces. Orion.

But the voices pull me back.

The interior me—the one

that flies—slips back inside

its shell, a turtle returning

home.

Home. That word again.

The one that makes me

want to release tethers,

fly away.

Don’t fly.

Must find the voices

instead.

Girls. Devon. LaTreya.

Men. Brad.

Trey.

Trey? I’m

flying again,

but not away.

Flying from bed.

Flying from dreams

into awake, aware.

Flying from dreams

toward love in the flesh.

I realize I must look like crap.

[Not to mention how you must taste.]

Quick detour to the bathroom,

and I do mean quick, to brush

teeth and hair, dab some perfume.

Screw the makeup, except to rinse

off what has puddled under my eyes.

Through the door, down the hall,

down the stairs and yes, while I flew,

Santa delivered my gift safe

and sound. He stands, moves toward

me, catches me in his arms, cinches

them around my waist, lifts me off

the ground. And now we’re kissing.

And I don’t ever want to stop kissing

him, even though the girls are squealing.

Ooooo! Cooties! Gross! Oooooo!

And we can’t help but laugh around

our kiss. And suddenly everything

is right. Everything forgiven. Every

minute apart and alone, forgotten.

Like a normal family—eating

and drinking and laughing together

like we’re a mom, dad, and uncle, plus a couple

of kids, instead of a father with two children

missing their mom and trying not

to resent their “nanny,” who has stolen

their uncle’s affection. Not that Trey

doesn’t play with them. He gets down

on the floor, helps them build a puzzle.

I watch, thinking what a great dad

he’ll make one day. I wonder if he could

ever become Hunter’s dad. [Stop it. Wishful

thinking will get you exactly nowhere.]

Brad builds a fire and lights the Christmas

tree, and if I were six again, I’d be chirping

“We Wish You a Merry Christmas” right along

with Devon and LaTreya. Finally, Brad

tells the girls they have to go to bed.

Santa won’t come if you’re awake, you know,

he says.
Come on. I’ll tuck you in.

The girls run ahead, and he turns to Trey

and me.
Hang on. I’ll break out the new stuff.

When he leaves the room, Trey pulls me into

his lap.
God I’ve missed you. I can’t wait

to give you your present
. He kisses me, hotter

this time, and beneath me, through his denim

and mine, I can feel the promise

of his Christmas gift soon to come.

With his personal stash.

[He can afford to be. Have

you ever seen so much uncut

meth in one place at one time?]

Once we’re sure the girls

are asleep, we help him play

Santa, filling the empty

space beneath the tree.

Gifts spill across the floor.

I wanted to make it up to

them for their mother not

being here,
he explains.

We share yet another

bowl, then Trey says,

It’s after one. We should

probably call it a night.

He pulls me to my feet,

and as we start upstairs,

I turn to say good night.

Brad’s looking at us

in an odd way. He smiles

and waves, but not before

I can interpret the look

on his face—envy.

We tiptoe upstairs, past

the pink bedroom where two

little girls dream of eight

tiny reindeer. My first Christmas

away from home. My first

Christmas in my new home.

My first Christmas with Trey,

and I pray it isn’t my last.