Triangles (9 page)

you sure?” But of course he is. “I can’t believe it. Ally always seemed so devoted.” How could she? [Oh, but you know how.]

How could anyone walk away from

her child—whether or not that child is whole? [One foot in front of the other.]

No, especially because he’s
not
whole.

He’s fractured. A clay pot, threatening to break into shards. His mother should be the glue, holding him together.

[Words are easy. Being the glue is hard.]

I still have to work, and a full-time
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caregiver would be so expensive.

There’s my mom, but she lives in L.A.

“I’m so sorry, Doug. Please let me know if I can help.” We both understand it’s an empty offer. No way to follow through.

ESCAPE

Ally chose it.

Can’t say I haven’t

thought about it, and I

ponder it all the way home.

In the backseat,

Shelby hums happiness.

She deserves every minute.

Every second. But what does

her time here

mean? To her? To me?

What would she do without

me? What would she be? Nothing

but a burden? Is

that what she is to me?

Her smallest accomplishments

bring such pleasure. Feel like gifts.

And yet, there are

times I could easily run

away from the sad soap opera.

To what, I don’t know. I wonder if

Ally knew—had

some preplanned place

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to go. Half of me is disgusted

by her. The other half wants to be her.

THE HOUSE IS EMPTY

When we arrive—Christian, away

on business; Shane,
Gone out with
a friend
, so the note he left informs me. I push Shelby’s stander down

the long hallway, the soft whir of

its wheels the only sound to break

the air-stealing weight of silence. I settle her into bed and am adjusting the web of tubes when the doorbell rings.

“Who could that be, my little mermaid?

You take your nap and I’ll go see.” Visitors are rare at Casa Trask; unannounced visitors are almost unheard of. If it’s a Jehovah’s Witness, I’m half tempted to let him in, if only to bring some sort of dialogue into the afternoon stretching long and longer in front of me. I’ve just about convinced myself I’ll come face to 141/881

front page with
The Watchtower
, so when I open the door, I’m almost shocked to find the first guy I ever kissed standing there. “Drew! What are you doing here?” The grin, spreading slowly across

his face, is well known. Well loved.

I had to run a few errands in Reno,
so I thought I’d stop by and catch up
a little. Aren’t you going to let me
in? Or is your loving husband home?

Christian doesn’t approve of my friendship with Drew, who moved to Tahoe several years ago to work at a ski resort. Or, possibly, to reconnect with me. That’s what Christian thinks, and he could be right. Still, Drew and I are just friends. And Christian isn’t here. I stand back from the door, blushing an apology.

“Come on in. I was just about to make some tea.” Drew follows me toward the kitchen and I am enveloped by a fog of patchouli.

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He’s worn the scent as long as I’ve known him and it conjures powerful memories of sneaking off to an Oregon barn for long, lustful (but sex-free) make-out sessions.

Sex-free, because we were only fourteen, and though the example set for us by our hippie parents was uncommitted rutting, somehow both Drew and I believed in love.

And love each other we did, in that pure, all-encompassing way that only adolescence knows. We even talked about getting married one day. Ridiculous, yes. But it didn’t feel that way then. I thought I’d die when my parents decided to abandon the Oregon farm in favor of northern Nevada suburbia. Drew and I wrote each other faithfully for a couple of years until the letter exchange became less frequent. Eventually, we tumbled for other people.

When his marriage crumbled, he moved to Tahoe.

My own tattered marriage somehow remains intact.

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The time-weathered constant has been the “us” of Drew and me. Our friendship has survived everything, including Shelby. He sees her as I do, calls her an angel with clipped wings.

AS I FILL THE KETTLE

He asks about her immediately.

How is Shelby? Still a Barney fan?

He stands just across the counter,

throwing off his unsettling energy

and scanning every inch of me

with molasses eyes. “She will always love Barney. And she’s maintaining.

She had swim therapy today. Vivian

says she’s hanging in there.” I smile, hoping he doesn’t intuit my Ally

envy.
And Shane? Anything new

with him?
Small talk, to be sure.

But Drew’s small talk makes me

feel like someone in my life cares.

“He smokes weed and watches gay

porn. Same ol’, same ol’. Ditto,

Christian. Works all the time. Travels too much. Sleeps in the guest room.” Drew reaches across the counter,

traces the counter of my jaw.

Sounds lonely. You deserve better.

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I close my eyes at his touch.

Remember too much of our history

in that briefest of moments. Turn

toward the whistling on the stove.

“I understand why he runs, Drew.

Not that understanding it makes

it better. But I’d run away too,

if Shelby didn’t need me.” There.

Said. Nothing left to intuition.

Ah, but see, that’s the difference
between Chris and you. He leaves
because of Shelby, but she’s

the reason you stay. You have

heart. He is a selfish prick.

What did you ever see in him?

My brain rewinds to the afternoon

Christian and I met, on a Reno-

to-Dallas flight. He was young,

handsome, new at InnoTechnoVent,

and flying first-class with his boss.

I was the purser. When I bent to serve him lunch, our eyes linked, and

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something in his whispered to me.

When he slipped me his number,

I had no idea how far we would go

together—or how far we would fall.

All I saw on that day was “Potential.”
POTENTIAL

That’s what desert-weary

settlers saw in the river-fed

verdure they called the Truckee

Meadows. There, as they rested

before the Sierra crossing,

greed

took easy root. Build a bridge,

demand a toll, your own journey

halted east of the mountain’s

stark skirts. And in its shadow,

you watch a cow town spring up,

graft

central to what it becomes

over the years—the Biggest

Little City in the West, brick

and concrete denying granite

grandeur;

harsh neon glitter fighting

the pale light of moonrise.

Quick, plastic weddings.

Six weeks to divorce.

Broken

promises,

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circlets of gold, memories

tossed from the bridge

to fall into forever

beneath the pulsing rapids.

Andrea

A RAPID PULSE

That’s what I’ve got, courtesy of the guy on the other end of the line. He is a wad, and I am the chief wad catcher. Guess that’s what comes with being in

the same department for twenty

years. I just wish more frequent

raises came along with it too.

But considering Nevada’s budget

crunch, I’m lucky to have a job

without furloughs. I started at DMV

the year after I graduated from high school. Figured I could retire before I hit fifty. I’m still on track to do that. But I’ve still got a dozen years to go. And that will be an extremely long twelve years if I keep getting wads like this. “I’m sorry, sir …” Remain polite, despite the fact that he has just called me an
ignoramus
. Hey, it’s better 150/881

than
bitch
. “But without the required documentation, we cannot issue

a duplicate title.” Wait for the rant.

Hold the phone away from your ear.

Wow. This man is really worked up.

What I have to remember is, it’s all coming from a place of deep emotion.

“Sir, I understand the car belonged to your father. But he put the title in his girlfriend’s name. We can’t just assume he meant for you to have it

when he died.” He’s losing a little steam.

His energy level is dropping, along with the pitch of his voice. “Here’s what I suggest. Go to the nursing home and ask her what she thinks your father would want her to do. She can’t drive any longer, anyway. Maybe she’ll sign it over to you.” Maybe not, but worth a try. And even if she says no, it’s not like he’s lost much. A ’78 Caddy isn’t exactly topping everyone’s wish list.

Its value for him is strictly sentimental.

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“You’re very welcome, sir. My name

is Andrea. You can ask for me when

you call back.” Full-on wad dispersal averted. “Of course I’ll remember you.” Who wouldn’t? “Best of luck.” And

that’s
why they pay me the big bucks.

I HANG UP

To a round of applause. No one

wants to deal with a wad, and we

get them much too often here

in title research. At least, being

behind the scenes, in back of

a bank of locked doors, we don’t

have to worry about someone

showing up with a gun. No way

would I want to work out front.

Phone calls are a level walk in

the park. “Thank you, thank you.

I believe I’ve reached my nasty

customer quota for the day.

Think I’ll take my p.m. break.”

Our breaks are mandated—

fifteen minutes, midmorning.

A half hour for lunch. Fifteen

minutes midafternoon. Some

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people smoke on the patio, but

tobacco has never been my thing.

I’M MORE

Of a once-around-the-parking-lot,

with feeling, kind of a girl, though in summer I prefer a morning walk.

But, still June, it’s not too hot yet, and I need to burn off a little wad stress. I’m about a dozen steps toward my goal when someone behind me

calls,
Andy! Wait up!
Andy? I hate nicknames, especially when they’re

tossed at me. Only one person

here calls me Andy—Vern Brando.

He thinks it’s cool because his late wife, Valerie, used to call me Andy.

Of course, she and I were tight in high school and back then I didn’t mind

epithets. I slow to let him catch up.

“Hey, Vern. How’s things in licenses?

Any good stories lately?” He conducts the actual driving tests and has had a few close calls, not to mention many amusing experiences.
Always. Always.

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I pick up the pace and he launches

a relatively funny tale about a girl who celebrated her sixteenth birthday at DMV. She waited for an extended

period, because a parent had to sign the paperwork …
not to mention,
bring a car for her to drive. Her dad
couldn’t get off work. Her mom

had taken cold medicine—twice in two
hours. She got pulled over, suspected
of DUI. Luckily, she drew a sympathetic
cop, with a ride-along who drove her over.

Mom hung tough while Daughter passed
the test, then motored both of them home.

All’s well that ends well, you know?

Would that life’s myriad faux pas

could all end so well. I can barely look at Vern without remembering

him and Valerie on their wedding

day. I was her maid of honor, barely average in royal blue, my own young marriage already in unforeseen danger.

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She was striking in ice blue, a confession of sorts. But everyone who knew

the happy couple believed they would weather forever. It took a delivery truck, spinning out on sleet, to prove us wrong.

HER FUNERAL

Was the first

I’d ever been to.

Everyone there

was fractured.

Broken by her absence,

and more, by the

absolute surety that

she would never

return to us.

It was a defining

experience for me,

who knew nothing

of death. Had never

witnessed such power.

Death is omnipotent.

Or is it?

It took years to go

looking for answers.

Is death absolute?

Or might there be