Triangles (25 page)

in fact, that I made a momentous

decision. Why do I do that more

and more? The answer, of course,

is easy. I’ve grown tired of having every decision made
for
me. Tired of being a bystander to life, not even an observer because I’ve locked

myself away in self-imposed asylum

for almost five years. Out of the blue, as if waking from a nightmare and

choosing to beat back the fear,

I’ve decided to reimmerse myself in 468/881

living. To expose myself and my broken child to the throb of the city, the song of August wind, the smell of wet sage.

LITTLE STEPS

Forward—a shopping trip, fireworks

on the patio—have given me the impetus to lengthen my stride. So when Drew called to let me know our once-favorite band, Grit, is giving a free concert in the park today, I figured why not give Shelby a little taste of grunge?

But I don’t want to go alone. Drew has to work but said he might try to

meet up later. Andrea is busy. Some big date or something. And Shane,

who is more the rap type, would rather hang out here with Alex. Not that

I can really blame him. Only one other person came to mind—Claire, whose

husband, Tyler, was one of Christian’s college friends. His best friend, in fact. We used to spend time together—

played some tennis pairs, drank a little wine. But Shelby wedged us apart.

Claire is two weeks away from having her baby—a girl. Camille Emily looks to 470/881

be perfectly healthy, which, I think, makes Claire uncomfortable around me.

WHEN I INVITED CLAIRE

To come today, her hesitation hung, thick as a swarm of honeybees. When I twice added

“please,” she agreed. I dress Shelby in a pretty summer frock. “Look, baby girl, your outfit matches Mama’s.” I picked them up on a whim on my recent shopping spree, not sure we’d ever get the chance to wear them.

Mom told me then,
Create an opportunity.

It’s fractionally cooler today. Around eighty right now. Shelby does not often see the brightest light of day, so I’m careful to sunscreen every exposed millimeter, though Wingfield Park is shady.

“Look what else I’ve got for you.” The sunglasses have pink frames, studded with rhinestones.

I slip them over her eyes. “Beeee-yooo-tee-ful!

Just like a rock star!” Her face illuminates with the spread of her lopsided grin.

… ma … na … shun Moo,
she tries.

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“That’s right. Just like Imagination Movers.” A much-loved Disney Channel invention.

“Want to see how pretty you are, cupcake?” I wheel her over to the full-length mirror hanging on her door. “You’ll be the queen of the concert, and Mama will be your lady-in-waiting.” A worn lady-in-waiting, but it’s all good. Shane is in his room with Alex. “We’re leaving,” I call, pushing the stander down the hall. The door to Shane’s bedroom opens.
Let me help
you get her in the van,
volunteers Alex.

Shane follows, and I ask, “Sure you won’t change your mind and come along?” He smiles at Alex.
Yeah, right, Mom.

A has-been grunge band? No thanks.

Alex gives the stander a playful spin.

Anyway, we need a little alone time.

He blows Shane a kiss and I shudder to think what they’ve got planned.

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I file that somewhere beyond worry, help Alex strap Shelby in her special bed in the back of the van. “Ready, Queen Shelby? Wave goodbye.” She does her best.

CLAIRE AND TYLER LIVE

In the same tidy brick bungalow

they’ve shared practically forever.

They’ll probably need a bigger

place once the baby grows out

of her bassinet. Three short, staccato bursts of the horn and Claire

comes waddling out. Wow.

She’s huge. Camille is a whopper.

With a bit of effort, Claire climbs into the passenger seat. I reach

over for a quick hug. “So good to

to see you again. You look great.”

You too.
She smiles and then, at Shelby’s welcoming coo, pokes

her head over the seat.
Oh, my God.

I can’t believe how big she’s grown.

“Kids have a way of doing that.

You’ll see before too long.”

We take off for the park, chit-

chatting catch-up. She tells me

Tyler got laid off from work and

is driving her pretty much bonkers.

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I tell her all Christian does is work, which drives me totally crazy too.

I ALMOST CHOKE

At her response.
Tyler told

me about Chris’s new project.

Sounds like it keeps him busy.

“What? How does Tyler

know? I wasn’t even aware

of it myself until recently.”

Really?
She sounds totally surprised.
Chris discussed

it with Tyler months ago.

I had no idea they were

talking at all. Then again, why

wouldn’t they be? “Guess I didn’t

realize Christian and Tyler

had kept in contact. Shows

how much I know, doesn’t it?”

Claire reaches over, pats

my knee.
Sorry I haven’t

stayed in better touch. It’s

just, between the baby and

Tyler’s job and trying to

keep afloat of the bills …

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But I understand the real reason.

It’s hard to stay close to

a friend whose kid is dying.

BUT SHE WON’T DIE TODAY

Today, she’ll listen to grunge

beside the Truckee River,

beneath ancient cottonwoods.

I luck into a handicapped

parking place along the river

walk. “Here we are. You ready,

Queen Bee?” Shelby shivers

excitement as I unbuckle her

from her seat restraints. Claire

looks the other way as I strap

Shelby into her stander, tuck

the necessary bags and tubes

into covert cubbyholes. Then

I reach into the van for the wide

straw hat I brought to protect her

head from any errant sun ray.

“I figured we could pick up

a couple of sandwiches. I don’t

know if it’s still there, but there used to be a great little deli

a couple of blocks from here.

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Christian and I used to eat

there a lot.” It was one of our

favorite places, with big windows

overlooking the river walk.

We would drink wine and

people-watch. Back in the day.

With the concert as a draw,

there are plenty of people

to watch today. The sidewalk

is crowded. A pleasant hum

enfolds us as we make our

way toward where I hope

the deli is still in business.

It is. And for some ridiculous

reason, it makes me really happy.

We push through the door,

and just as I turn to tell Claire

how great the chicken salad is,

she says,
Well, look who’s here.

It’s Christian, sitting at a table

in the very back, with a stunning

brunette. I recognize her from

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the newsletter photo. Skye Sheridan.

Her hand rests lightly on his forearm, and her tight-lipped expression

tells me their conversation isn’t

exactly going the way she wants it to.

AWKWARD

I’m not sure what to do, but then

the choice is taken from me as

Christian glances in our direction.

Claire and I both wave. What can

he do but shake off Skye’s hand and leave her sitting there while he comes over to say hello?
Good to see you,
Claire.
He bends to give Shelby a kiss.

Straightens.
What are you doing here?

“Getting lunch. Then we’re going

to the Grit concert in Wingfield.”

I don’t ask what he’s doing there.

But I can’t help but notice the way Skye stares with gold, lupine eyes.

“Well, I guess you should get back to …”
Skye. She’s ITV’s hotshot lobbyist.

He finally lets himself look at her.

Okay, then, I’ll see you at home.

He pivots, returns to his table.

Settles in across from hotshot Skye Sheridan, who does not return her hand 482/881

to his arm. I order chicken salad.

Take Shelby to the park for grunge.

Sit for an hour, not listening at all.

HOME

Is haven. A place

with familiar corners

to tuck yourself into

when you need

a bottomless cry

or to let loose a

bitter

scream, sans a single

judgmental eye.

It is where you know

you’re safe, alone.

And where you

can listen to the

sweet

song of family,

a melody to allay

all manner of heartache,

moored behind

the breakwater

in the harbor that is

home.

Andrea

MOORED

To buoys fringing the deepwater

drop-off, catamarans, fishing boats, and a handful of yachts bob and

dance in Tahoe’s sapphire sway.

I haven’t been to Camp Richardson

since Harley was a little girl.

One of the kids, running along

the edge of the beach, reminds

me of her—gold-streaked wheat-

colored hair, a cascade over copper skin. The breeze carries the sound

of the child’s delight as she dodges the reach of cool shore-drawn

ripples. I wish Harley could laugh

so easily. Why must adolescence

substitute angst for joy?

Nickel for your thoughts.

Robin sits close beside me

at the windowsill countertop.

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Ah, hell. I’ll give you a dollar.

“Cheap at half the price.” I smile.

“I was just thinking about my daughter and wondering what happens to

that great, pure childhood bliss.”

I’m sure I don’t know. I barely
even remember being a kid.

My father, using the term loosely,
buggered off before I was born.

I spent my childhood, such as it was,
trying to avoid Mum’s interchangeable
men. Most of them weren’t very nice.

I was on my own more than not.

Wow. Makes me almost nostalgic

for the “good old days” on the farm.

I’m not sure what more I can say

except, “Sorry.” Robin’s smile

is wistful.
No worries. I came

to terms with it a very long time
ago. How about you? Did you

have a nice, normal upbringing?

I almost snort my mimosa.

“Guess that depends on how you

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define ‘normal.’ My parents stayed

together somehow. Who knows

if that was what they should have

done.” I offer a brief history of life on the commune. “I grew up thinking

‘naked’ was how people dressed.”

Robin laughs.
Mostly, in the outback.

Too bloody hot to wear anything
but skin. Unless…
he watches a sculpted woman walk by,

wearing a thong bikini, totally

inappropriate for a family beach

like this one.
Unless you’re

wearing something like that.

“Reminds me of my friend,

Holly. The one I was with at

the party the other night? We

went to Wild Waters yesterday.

Her swimsuit was, like, a couple

of triangles held together by string.

Of course, she’s got a figure that

can wear something like that.”

He reaches over, puts his hand

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on top of mine.
So do you. Not all
of us men like twigs, you know.

Some of us appreciate curves.

THANKFULLY

Brunch arrives, distracting Robin’s attention from the, no doubt, horrid shade my face has turned. It burns.

Hopefully, the sauce on my huevos

rancheros will provide a decent excuse.

I take a quick bite. “Whoa. Way spicy.” Robin is not fooled.
Looks like it.

Would you like a taste of my crab
Benedict? It’s delicious. I’ll trade
you for a nibble of heat.
He offers a forkful, and we make the exchange, the gesture surprisingly intimate.

Robin’s eyes snap theatrically wide.

Okay, yeah, that’s hot, all right. Mimosa!

God, he’s cute. “So, have you ever