Does anyone truly love anyone else, or is every supposed love relationship fueled by some messed-up desire to achieve or conquer?
Will I ever have a legitimate answer to that question?
How long must I travel to find it? Can I just start right here, right now, or will today’s revelations make me forevermore toss aside chances in favor of assurances?
Would I even be asking these questions if I still believed myself to be
only seventeen, with a dad who sacrificed everything and a mother who left
me in her lust-fueled dust?
Goddamn it, I’m only a kid (with or without the proof of eighteen), so why is any of this relevant to me?
Why can’t I just
be?
I Fall Back Again
On Monica’s pillow, only this time I’m crying.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What good has crying ever done?
“I’m sorry.”
Not sure why.
Not sure who I’m really talking to.
All I know is I’m sorry and it isn’t enough for Maya
or Zelda
or Monica
or me
or anyone
involved in this insane bullshit created by my dad.
“Will you tell her I want to talk?”
I can’t do it myself.
Apparently
Monica and my purported mother have been communicating today while she and her partner, Tatiana, traveled back to San Francisco.
Maya McCabe is actually some
hoity-toity network news anchor.
Which means she has weekday
commitments in the Bay Area.
Monica sets up a meeting here
in Sonora next Saturday afternoon.
In other words, I’ve got an entire week to meander through, semi brain-dead. I spend this night in Carolina’s bed after almost getting busted seeking consolation in Monica’s arms. Good thing Carolina was anything but quiet when she came in, looking for her pajamas. I hope one day in the not-so-distant future I won’t have to disguise the integral truth of who I am.
As I Lie Here
Listening to Monica’s soft, even breathing, I wonder if I’ll ever really know the truth of who I am.
Is there truth in being two people, all wrapped up in one skin? If I accept that I am Casey, what happens to Ariel?
Now that I seem to have
become fatherless, do I invite a stranger in, embrace her as my mother, when before today resentment for her infiltrated every waking moment of my life? Does reconciliation require forgiveness when maybe, just maybe, she’s done nothing at all to forgive?
Perhaps an even bigger question is what about Dad? Is it okay to keep loving him despite everything? How could I believe all those lies? How will I ever completely trust anyone again?
Sunday Morning
Gabe’s right on time, honking
from the curb in front of the Torres house. Monica’s still drowsing
when I kiss her good-bye.
“Talk to you later. After work
I’ve got to go home, see if
it’s still home or if Dad deserted the place. Love you.”
I dare to slip my hand beneath
the covers, cup one breast
and then the other, circling
her attention-seeking nipples
with one finger. “Wish we had
more time, not to mention
privacy. Te quiero, novia.”
I do want her, and very soon.
Ten cuidado. You be careful.
Horses are big. Don’t fall off.
And stay out of your boyfriend’s backseat in case he’s changed his mind.
“Cross my heart. No backseat, and no spills off sixteen-hand horses.
That would hurt, and my head
is just starting to feel better.”
The swelling is down, the knot a lot smaller. What’s mostly left is a huge ugly bruise on my forehead.
And another on my right cheek.
When I reach the GTO, Gabe does
a double take. Wow. You look, uh . . .
That’s some kind of contusion you’ve got going on. Does it still hurt?
“Only when I touch it, so I’m
trying to avoid that. Of course, I haven’t tried thinking real
hard.” Mostly because that does hurt. I hop into the passenger
seat and as we take off, I ask,
“How’s Zelda doing? She was
pretty shaky yesterday.”
I wish I could tell you, but I really don’t know. By the time I got home last night, she’d drunk herself into a stupor, and she was still sleeping it off when I left this morning. She’s struggling, obviously, but that’s to be expected.
What about you? Better?
Better Is a Relative Term
That’s what I tell him
before running down
all the new information
Monica made me privy to.
“I don’t know what to do
with it, Gabe. One damn
lie piles onto the next
and now it’s just a huge
stinking heap of bullshit.”
I wouldn’t expect to shovel through that pile for a while.
One good thing, though.
Well, two, actually.
“Really? Do tell. I could
use some good news.”
Well, you are eighteen, which means you don’t have to leave Sonora and move in with Maya.
And, two, I’m glad you’ve decided to talk to your mom. It’s important. If you don’t, you’ll never get to the bottom of the manure.
“I still don’t think of her as my mom. It’s possible
I’ve managed to accept
‘mother.’ I’ve thought
and thought and can’t