Triangles (17 page)

breathing trouble, she looks thinner.

Transparent, almost. Barely there.

And yet, her will to live is palpable, an entity unto itself. She is a flicker surrounded by very dark shadows.

ONE OF THOSE SHADOWS

Drifts down the hall, tries to

overtake me too.
Why would she

leave Shelby alone with you?

Keep. Temper. In. Check.

“She didn’t have much choice.

You ‘couldn’t be reached.’”

Christian and I are like vinegar

and baking soda. Bad interaction.

“Important meeting, I take it?”

It was, in fact. So…
The words seethe from between his teeth.

What was the emergency, anyway?

He doesn’t know? “Shane, playing

David to some kid’s Goliath. Only

this time the Philistine conquered.” Chris registers zero concern.

Instead, all he shows is contempt.

What crawled under his skin? Idiot.

Bite. Back. Anger. “Apparently,

he was sticking up for Shelby.

Does that make him an idiot?”

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Considering he’s at the ER, yes.

This philistine has lost all compassion.

You can go now. I’ve got it covered.

THE PHILISTINES

Of biblical fame were much

too bold for their britches—

er, kilts—eschewing their lovely

Greek isle homes in a bid

to conquer Egypt. A very

big

ambition, not to mention

irrational, iron or no

iron. Next they set their

sights on the Israelites,

sending forth armor-clad

dudes,

led by a hulking giant.

But a half-naked kid managed

dead aim into his brain

with a slingshot. You might

expect that Goliath’s fatal

tumble

might make them reconsider

their master plan for world

domination. But no. Battle

after battle, they went down

to defeat, until they crashed

hard

beneath the feet of Babylon.

Proving, then as now,

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some people never learn.

Holly

SOME KIDS NEVER LEARN

You try and try to cut ’em

a little slack, and the more

rope you give them, the more

determined they become to

burn themselves with it. Case in

point, as she has been for months,

is my brash daughter, Mikayla.

Here, I finally talk Jace into

ungrounding her, and what’s

the very first thing she does?

Totally disregards our imposed

midnight curfew. And not by

a few minutes. No, she comes

bopping in three hours late.

Like she had no clue we might

be waiting up? Parents to Mikki:

this was a test. One you failed

miserably. Which means, dear

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one, you are sequestered

again. Which is, doubtless,

a good thing. Less contact

with Dylan means less chance

of a summer STD. One can only

hope. Today, at least, she’ll escape her room for a barbecue at Jace’s

parents’ house. Whoopee. Wish

I could come up with a good excuse

not to go, but I’ve skipped out

on the family bonding thing too

many times in the past few months.

I’m putting together my not-quite-

world-famous potato salad when

Mik sweeps into the kitchen.
Mom!

She sock-slides across the floor.

Guess what! I found someone

who might know your parents.

Something like dread plummets

into my belly. Not the reaction

I would have expected. I turn

from my onion peeling. “Really?”

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Mik, who quivers excitement,

misinterprets my watering eyes.

Don’t cry, Mom. It’s only kind

of a maybe right now, but

I think it looks good. This lady
used to be married to this guy—

Leon Driscoll—who graduated

from Elko High in 1970. She says
his little brother got a girl in
his class pregnant the same

year. Could be a coincidence,

but I don’t think so. She gave

me this Leon’s email address.

I’m hoping to hear back soon.

Mikayla sucks in air, waiting for

me to say something. “Sounds

promising.” It’s the best I can do.

Mik deflates like I popped a hole

in her.
But aren’t you excited?

Look how close we’re getting!

“Only maybe,” I correct, dissolving her smile. “Oh, Mikki. I don’t mean 313/881

to seem ungrateful. It’s just … scary.

I don’t want to get my hopes

up until we know for sure. But

thank you for doing this for me.”

I OPEN MY ARMS

And she accepts my hug, but only for a millisecond.
Jeez, Mom, you smell
like onions! You’d better wash your
hands with lemon juice.
It’s an old remedy.
In fact, you’d better shower
with it.
At least she’s laughing.

When her face lights up like that, I can see her as a toddler—all smiles and wonder.

What happened to my cherub?

Is her halo still there somewhere?

“Okay. I should be finished here in a half hour or so. Will you let your father know? He’s giving Tick a bath.” Poor dog was long overdue. I watch

my daughter’s exit—all willow branch legs and exaggerated hip sway. Where did she learn that? I return to KP duty, mixing in mayonnaise, mustard. Sweet relish.

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Salt. Pepper. All without a taste test.

I’ll trust my instincts. And skip the calories.

THE SENIOR CARLISLES

Live a couple of miles away, on a sprawling five-acre ranchette, complete with a barn lacking horses and a pool they hardly ever use, except when we come over. The kids head straight for the backyard, where they’re greeted by a matched pair of lion-sized Newfoundlands. I can hear Brianna screaming about dog spit. Jace barrels through the front door, not bothering with the bell.

Anybody home?
he yells. I follow him into the vaulted-ceilinged hall. Sunlight cascades from high windows, flooding the Italian marble floors. I’ve always loved this house, but not the way I feel when I’m here. I’ll never forget the first time Jace brought me home to meet his parents. Not sure if they expected something different in the woman their son would fall for, or if they were just a little jealous of Jace’s obvious attention to me. But that initial iced reception set the tone for our relationship ever since.

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In here,
calls Marion, powering us toward the kitchen. She is busy, putting marinade on fat chicken breasts.
Henry’s
out back, deslobbering Brianna. Grab
a drink and take a dip. The water’s perfect.

She barely glances in my direction as I set the Fiestaware bowl on the counter.

Oh, you made potato salad again. Thank
you, dear.
How can anyone so readily make the word
dear
translate as “bitch”?

Help me! “How have you been,
Marion
?” I try to make the name Marion translate as “bitch.” Don’t think it worked.
Not
bad. The arthritis has affected my golf
game a bit, but I’m trumping Henry.

Well, yeah. Henry’s still carrying a full client load at work. He’s lucky to find time for golf at all. “That’s great,
Marion
.” Ha. That one almost sounded like “bitch.” Jeez, Holly. Grow up, would you? Marion leaves the chicken to soak up the sauce, washes—no, scrubs—her hands, including 318/881

using a brush to go under the nails.
Anything
new with you?
she asks, expecting me to say no.

I’m not about to discuss my writing, or the search for my birth parents, so I guess she won’t be disappointed. “Not really.”
SMALL TALK ACCOMPLISHED

I excuse myself for a bathroom

break, try unsuccessfully not to

Mama

look at the photos studding every

wall—a family history not only

never

complete but also celebratory.

Jace and his brother, Stan, at each hung

stage of growth. Henry, Jace, and

and Stan, fishing. Marion, cutting

a single

flowers. The whole clan, skiing,

camping, traveling cross-country. picture.

picture.

I detour to Henry Carlisle’s well-stocked bar.

Papa

Four fingers of Dewar’s might make this day possible to wade through. I gulp pointer finger.

never

Wait for the brittle buzz before going outside to observe today’s chapter of Carlisle history in touched the making. Jace and Henry talk law at the big picnic table. Marion chides Mik for tanning sans a drop. sunscreen. Trace and Bri race laps in the pool.

Beneath the barbecue smoke

lingers the perfume of fresh-

mown grass. The sky is a blue

You couldn’t write a more

so deep no single crayon could

ordinary slice of Americana.

replicate it. The Newfies pant

Jace is smiling. The kids are

in the shade of an old maple.

laughing. And all I want to

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do is find a quiet chair where

I can power down Dewar’s.

I SCOOT INTO A LOUNGE CHAIR

Beneath the pergola, protected from UV threat. Slide on a pair of shades.

Lean back, close my eyes, welcome

the smog of alcohol, hope it will soften the grip of jealousy. Jace and I have been married twenty years. But I have never felt like a vital part of his family. There is only one photo of me hanging on

his mother’s walls—an uncertain bride and beaming groom, surrounded by

our wedding party. In it, Marion appears every bit as disquieted as I. I’ve always wondered why she chose that one.

I mentioned the dearth of my photos to Jace one time. His first reaction was to deny it, but upon wall inspection, he had to admit I was right. Then he excused his mother like this.
Well, you
have to admit you don’t exactly insist
on posing for snapshots with the fam.

Laid it right back on me. Truth is, he was right. The problem with wanting 322/881

too much to be a part of something is knowing you very well might be rejected.

WHICH IS WHY, I SUPPOSE

I am trying so hard to impress

myself. If you reject yourself,

for whatever reason, it’s time

to rethink. Reinvent. I watch

Trace and Bri play in the pool, still children in essence, despite maturing façades. I want to tell them not to hurry. Adolescence is the beginning of the end because the moment

you fall in love, you give away

the best part of yourself. I look at Mik, who I know has already made

that decision, and I want to tell her to take it back. Dylan will keep that part of her, no matter where the future leads them. I look at Jace, who I gave the best part of myself to two decades ago, and though I think he must still 324/881

carry it in his heart, I can’t help but want to take it back. If I could, would I give it away again?

NO TAKE-BACKS

Regrets are like molecules.

We’re all made up of a lot of them.

They are elemental. Building

blocks. The foundation of memory.

You

can dawdle in the past, allow

it to shadow you, or you can

walk forward into the light

of tomorrow. But you

can’t

altogether disregard what has

already been—byways chosen,

detours taken. The misbegotten

decisions you can never

reverse,

but only by sorting through

them can you find where

you took the wrong turns

and gain proper perspective.

Time

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is a parabolic lens,

bringing hindsight into focus.