when Maya nods and says,
Whatever she’s having, same for me. Oh, unless you’re vegan.
Sorry, but I’m a carnivore.
Syrah giggles. Vegan? Ha!
That girl is way into meat.
The kind you eat, I mean.
So Syrah, but it’s okay because the ice is now broken. “Thanks for clarifying. Oh, and in case you two haven’t actually met,
this is my friend, SEER-uh, like Sarah, but spelled Syrah.”
Maya smiles, and her teeth,
of course, are perfect. I see.
Great information to know.
Syrah hesitates, but when
her manager puts his hands on
his hips, she hustles off to do her job.
We sit, sizing each other up, for a few long minutes. Finally, I say, “This isn’t nearly enough time to work through everything
I’ve learned in the last week.
I don’t have a clue how to feel about you, just to be clear.
But I do know one thing, and
that is how important the truth has become to me. If we can
start there, maybe the rest
will fall into place eventually.”
Wordlessly
Maya studies my face,
feature by feature.
Finally, she says, I don’t have time for lies, Casey.
Wait, may I please call you that? You’ve always been Casey to me.
All I can say back is,
“I don’t know who I am.
Call me whatever you want.”
She looks like I’ve slapped her, and maybe I have.
Okay, listen. I get that you’ve been lied to, and believe me, I understand what an outstanding liar you father is. He’s clearly a sociopath, not that I knew what that was when we met.
“I don’t want to talk about Dad.” Not yet. Maybe never.
Fine. This is on your terms.
So, tell me about school. Love it? Hate it? Future plans?
“Future? I have to concentrate on the present. My only plan right now is to graduate high school, apparently a year late.”
What do you mean?
“I mean, until last week, I believed I was seventeen.
I had my birthday wrong, too.”
Oh, right. Monica told me.
I’m so sorry you were fed a steady diet of deceit.
We let that sit. “Have you talked to Monica a lot?”
Not a lot. But enough to know she’s worried about you. Everyone is.
Everyone except
my goddamn father,
who apparently
couldn’t care less.
But I hold that inside.
I need to keep my parents separated, at least in my mind, for a little longer.
Luckily
The food arrives.
Syrah shoots me an are you okay?
look as she delivers big platters
of comfort food.
Here we go, ladies.
Can I get you anything else right now?
In answer
to both the voiced and unvoiced
questions,
I shrug.
Smile.
Ask for ketchup.
Mustard.
Pickles.
Added comfort.
Allowing
the dialogue
to move away
from Dad.
For a little while.
Over Cheeseburgers and Fries
(Fries!) We talk
about (in no certain order, and sometimes we return to various subject matter): school (finals) basketball (winning and losing) horses
Hillary
Gabe
Syrah
Monica
Monica
Monica
Maya suspects— probably because of how many times I turn the conversation back to Monica— the depth of our friendship.
But I don’t confess it.
Will I ever?
That Circles Us Around
To talking about Maya.
We start with easy stuff, some of which I’m aware
of. Most, I’m clueless about.
She’s originally from Texas.
(Yippee! I own a megadose of Lone Star genes
because, as it turns out, Dad isn’t from Oklahoma.) Both her parents are dead.
(Awesome. More family
lost to me forever.)
She lives near San Francisco.
(Right on the beach, which, by the way, is cool and gray more often than not.)
She enjoys her newsroom job.
(But prefers sports announcing.
My mom—did I just think that?— is a world-class jock, or jock lover, or something like that.) She prefers alternative music.
(When she was young she listened to country, but now she can’t stand it. It reminds her of Texas, where she hopes never to return.)
We Avoid
Talking about Dad for the longest time.
The subject hovers, just out of reach, because neither of us wants to touch it.
Eventually, of course, we must, and there’s no way around discussing that fateful day fifteen Decembers ago.
I was three.
Not two.
And my mother
was just twenty.
At my age, she already had a baby.
She had one-year-old me.
I’m not sure exactly what Jason told you about me, but I can say that on some level it was probably accurate.
He’s an expert at taking basic truths and twisting them into distortions that suit his purposes.
So Far, So True
But I’m not quite ready
to agree with her philosophy, no matter how accurate
it might be. “What he’s told me about you, over and over, is that you left your family— that would be him and me—
for your girlfriend. I assume he was referring to the person I saw you with at the game?”
Tati—Tatiana—is my wife.