“Hose ’em off like you do the house,” Gran chimes in.
Dad throws up his hands and stalks away, leaving a vapor of anger behind him, but Mom is there to pick up where he left off. “You have a grand sense of timing, don’t you? Can’t you see that he’s under tremendous pressure?” Her voice descends to a whisper. “I told you earlier, someone in his condition shouldn’t be under such stress. Why are you adding to it?”
“By standing up for myself?”
“Uh, child of mine! At least call it what it is!”
“A tantrum!” Gran blurts. I wish she could see me roll my eyes at her.
Mom blows out an exasperated breath. “Lay low for a few days. I’ve got my hands full enough with your daddy and the business.”
“But Mom, he?—”
She turns her back and walks away, mumbling something about how she doesn’t need to attend every fight she’s invited to.
Gran shuffles across the room and straight to me like a homing beacon. “I used to have to rub your mama’s legs when she was a girl, growing pains were so bad.”
“Yeah?” I answer noncommittally. Who knows where Gran’s going with this. It’ll either be gibberish or a frying pan of hot truth upside the head.
“I suspect your growing pains will be the kind I can’t rub out.”
“Maybe,” I answer. I know I sound obstinate. I’m so freaking exhausted all of a sudden.
Gran’s broken eyes somehow bore into mine. It’s unnerving. “When you gonna realize that every threat you make to your parents is really a threat against yourself?”
“I’m tired. Can I just go to bed and have a do-over tomorrow, Gran?”
“Wish it worked that way, sugar. My advice is, don’t go doing things you wish you could undo.”
Eight
I THOUGHT SLEEP WOULD quiet me, but I’m too restless. It’s not a physical restlessness; sex and skydiving smoothed that edge. It’s a mental itch. My head is my problem. It wants to replay everything that scared me today, everything that stripped the protective coating off my wires. It wants to open doors labeled fear, vulnerability, and self-doubt.
I don’t open those doors.
Not for anyone. Or any thing.
Behind what psychological door is the mirage girl hiding?
As soon as the house slips into the quiet hum of night, I slip out the back door. Sneaking out drunk and alone is the potent dose of rebellion I need after the fight with my dad, the lecture from my mom, and Gran’s vague warnings. They gang up on me and expect that I’ll swallow their bitter medicine without a chaser. Ha. I take another swig of my spiked cranberry juice and march down the road, using the raised road reflectors like braille so I don’t veer off into the brush and disappear forever.
The night stills me. The sky is a cap of blue-black with constellations as familiar as Gran’s age spots. I’m lost in it until a reflector winks light at me and I realize a car is approaching from behind. The tires make a sticky-wet sound on the asphalt as the car slows. It crawls alongside me as I walk the dusty shoulder. It’s not the leering face of the crusty old man that kicks my adrenaline into high gear and sends my heart rocketing. It’s her face, rolling up and over, up and over in the chrome rims: a ghost on wheels with eyes that promise to follow me everywhere.
With my heart beating drums in my temples, I turn back and run straight home.
Even in the safety of my room, in the cocoon of my bed, my mind spins like the face in those tires. I lie there and realize . . . every barred door is wide open.
I grit my teeth against the feelings. This haunt is pissing me off.
“See this cowbell?” Mauricio holds up a large copper bell dangling from a thick leather braid and gives it a good shake. It clangs through the motor home so loud that my eyes squint. “If anyone walks out the door, put the bell around your neck. That way we can find your dumb ass if you’re wandering around in the desert.”
The motley assortment of people chuckle and shuffle nervously. I imagine it would be terrifying to be lost in the vast desert while trippin’ on hallucinogenic drugs. The Mojave Desert will swallow you whole and spit your bleached skeleton in the sand.
I’m glad to be in the safety of a closed hangar, but I have to admit, coming back into this RV makes me feel like I’ve walked into a meat locker. Not warm and safe like a cocoon in the summer, where humidity hides under the felt leaves of the succulents. In here it’s snow and sand: a cold and rough paste against my skin.