TV moms don’t count.
I’ve seen moms in the park.
Pushing their kids
on the merry-go-round, wearing permanent smiles and texting who-knows-who. Beneath Sephora makeup and Pilates bods, park moms are real
plastic.
I’ve seen moms at school.
Delivering forgotten homework or lunches, or birthday cupcakes, all decked out in fancy jogging suits and perfect ponytails, quick to hug, slow to scowl, at least in that setting.
School moms know how to make an entrance.
I’ve seen all these moms over the years, and none quite measured up to my romanticized, highly stylized vision of the mom I pretended belonged to me.
I can still picture her: She’s young and pretty.
Her favorite outfit is well-worn jeans, a soft angora sweater.
Her eyes are deep ponds of wisdom. If I stare into them long enough, I’ll find the answers I need. She’s tough and bold, but her lap is my haven, and her hands are cups of tenderness. When
she holds me, my thirst for home is satisfied.
I imagined her.
Yearned for her.
Went to sleep crying for her. Eventually, I gave up on her.
What am I supposed
to do with her now?
I Leave Zelda
Quietly drowning
her bewilderment
in tumblers of alcohol.
I must not inherently be a drunk, or I would have joined her. Escape seems preferable
to confrontation, but it’s the latter I go in search of, and I have zero idea what I’ll face when I walk in the door at home.
Passing the Triple G, I spy the distant silhouette of Gabe’s GTO parked in front of the house, and a sharp sense of loss slices into my solar plexus.
But I’m not sure
if Gabe is to blame.
I guess, thinking back over the past couple of weeks, he was pulling away, but it was a subtle change and not one I noticed.
What does that say
about me?
Oh, How I Wish
That losing Gabe (who I never exactly “had,” or even wanted to) was my biggest problem. If I concentrate solely on that, direct all my worry and energy there, will the too-immense-to-imagine problem just go away?
For years and years all I wanted was a solid home, and not one I had to invent
in my mind over and over again.
But not in my wildest dreams did I ever envision
the scope of Dad’s deception, and no matter what I do or want, there’s no way my life won’t change.
Dad’s at the House
When I get there. I expected that.
But the pandemonium inside
comes as a shock, don’t ask me
why. I should’ve guessed.
Dad’s running around in panic mode, stuffing personal possessions into a duffel bag. Three large suitcases already clog the hall by the front door.
“What are you doing, Dad?” I ask, though it’s pretty damn obvious
he’s making plans to disappear. Again.
Well, he’s going without me this time.
He pauses his packing long enough
to answer. We have to go now, Ari.
I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave your car here. Too easy to trace.
“Nope. Count me out. I’m staying
right here, along with my car.
I’m not running away, and neither are you. Can we just get real for once?”
I am getting real, and we are getting the hell out. This is all your fault.
Oh, you just had to get your ass on TV, didn’t you? You just had to fuck things up.
What the serious hell? “Me? You want to blame this on me? Are you totally out of your goddamn mind? You—”
I don’t see his backhand coming.
It connects with my right cheek,
snapping my mouth closed around
the remainder of the sentence.
Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Just who the hell do you think you are?
The look in his eyes defies
anything human. “Nobody.”
That’s exactly right. He’s pulling in breath like it’s an effort. Nobody.
His hands clench, and experience
whispers this could go from bad
to much worse.
I Lift My Hand
To my throbbing cheek,
hope to attract a small measure of sympathy,
as I start a slow backward creep, one foot behind
the other. He notices
and when he starts toward me, I get ready to run.
“Is my name Casey Baxter?”
The simple question stops his approach, and the concrete set of his jaw softens.
Not anymore.
“Who is Ariel Pearson?
And Mark? Who is he?”
Dad’s shoulders drop.
The tide of peril recedes.
Look, Ari. There are things you don’t know, and shouldn’t.
“You mean, like you went AWOL and officially now you’re a deserter?” Carefully.
Must play this carefully.
Who the fuck told you that?
Make It Personal
“Zelda. And what about her?
Is she just another use—
her-and-toss-her woman?
I thought she was different.”
No such thing as different.
All women are the same.
“Come on, Dad. You don’t believe that. Zelda’s special. I can tell.
Sonora’s special, too, and I don’t want to leave. I love it here.”
Too bad. We can’t stay.
“We can. Maya hasn’t called
the authorities, and I don’t think she will, unless we disappear again.