Triangles (8 page)

Apparently, Mikayla paid attention.
You
want to know where you came from, right?

Don’t all adoptees? Oh, I guess some claim not to. But how could you really
not
want to know where you came from? Why you look the way you do. Why they gave you away.

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Threw you away.
I’ll help, Mom,
Mik says.

So yeah, of course she volunteered so she’d have a legit reason to be on the computer.

But she hasn’t offered to help me do anything since the last time we baked cookies together. She was maybe eleven. She’ll be eighteen in less than five months. I’m betting she’ll hit the door running two minutes past graduation. Maybe doing this research together will help us grow a little closer before life wedges us completely apart.
Tell me what you know
about your birth parents. No names, right?

No names. No ages. No real clues except,

“Your grandma told me they were from Elko and my mother got pregnant in high school.” Mama may have known more. But she wasn’t about to share it with me. I think she worried I’d love my birth mother more. Maybe. Mama wasn’t the nicest woman.
So you were born
in … God, Mom, you’re going to be forty.

“Don’t remind me.” All the running in the world won’t fix the corners of my eyes. Laser erasure 117/881

beckons. “I can almost see the Grim Reaper.”
Mom! Don’t say that
. She shudders.

You are not allowed to die. Ever!

MIK STARTS HER RESEARCH

I think about Mama and Papa and how they arranged my adoption through

their church. My childhood was weighty with Christian expectation. The kind that makes a person never want to set foot in a church again. The kind that bumps a girl into teenage rebellion. Or maybe I inherited the tendency—some hit-sixteen-and-go-crazy-wild gene. Mikayla, in turn, seems to have gotten it from me. What else did I receive via DNA? My stubbornness?

Distaste for chocolate? Rabbitbrush allergy?

What roll of genetic dice gave me these topaz eyes and burnished bronze hair? I didn’t dare investigate while Mama and Papa were alive.

But with both of them lost to cancer, I’m free to try. Connection. The idea shimmers like summer heat on a stretch of distant highway. Vanishes, a mirage, within the very real possibility of never finding it.

Okay, I think I know what to do first.

I’ll see if Elko High School is on Facebook.

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I can get on the computer, right?
Mik drops her voice.
Dad doesn’t have to know.

CONSPIRACY

FIRMLY

ESTABLISHED

I allow Mikki an hour on her laptop while I return to my desktop web surf.

I’m thinking about going back to school.

I had almost five semesters in before I dropped out to get married and have my own babies.

It wouldn’t take that much to finish.

A degree would be something all mine.

Not sure why I want it. Probably won’t ever use a BA in English. But ever since this writing bug chewed into me, I’ve had a fever to put words on paper. Might as well make sure they go down right. Uh … correctly.

Maybe I could even take a class this summer.

I’m looking into that when I come across this:
High Desert Muses invites all local writers
to join us for communion and critique.

Second and fourth Wednesday evenings
of every month at Starbucks in Carson City.

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All writing levels and genres encouraged.

Wonder how they feel about erotica.

BEFORE I GET THE CHANCE

To call the number listed for more

information, there’s a firestorm of footsteps in the front hall. Jace crashes in, cursing some client, only to find Mikayla

on her computer.
What the hell are
you doing online? Shut that down.

Here we go again. And once again,

I rush to Mik’s rescue. “Hang on, okay?

She’s doing some research for me.”

At Jace’s dubious look, Mikki explains,
Yeah, Dad. I’m helping her search for
her birth parents. Facebook is the new—

No! Not that again, Holly. The last time …

He shakes his head.
I wish you’d just leave
it alone. When it all goes to shit, you turn
into a basket case. Even if you did find them,
what would it prove? That they still don’t want
you, or would have come looking themselves?

God, Holly, what is it with you? You have
people right here who love you. Your family
is all you need. Why go sniffing elsewhere?

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His words are bullets. I want to shoot back, but going to war is probably exactly what he wants. I try diversion instead. “Bad day?”
Crap day. I don’t know why …
and off he goes, ranting about whatever it is his client did that’s going to screw up all his hard work. I could follow, listen.

Try to soothe him out of this mood, but at the moment I’m wondering why

it’s always up to me to offer sympathy.

“You should probably log off,” I tell Mik. “No use irritating your father more.”
Fine,
she huffs.
But it’s so not fair.

Why does he have to be such a jerk?

Can I call Dylan? Just to say hello?

At my hesitation, she pleads,
Please, Mom!

I haven’t talked to him in days. I need to hear
his voice. Don’t you remember being in love?

Some sort of commentary? Most likely unintended, however close to home.

“Of course I do. But I don’t want your dad to get mad at you.” Her cheeks compress, 124/881

pinching her mouth into a tiny O, and her eyes threaten tears. “Okay, but no more than two minutes. I’ll keep Dad occupied.” The O becomes a wide U before she mouths
Thank you,
scurries off into the other room.

I FOLLOW A TRAIL

Of Jace’s clothes, left scattered on the floor.

He’s in the bathroom, so Mikki should be okay for a few minutes. Wordlessly, I pick up the strewn garments, take them to the laundry room, feeling the tiniest bit traitorous.

As I clean out the pockets of my favorite denim jacket, I find a business card. Grant Sothersby? Oh, yes. Mr. Vanilla—the one who I decided not to call. But suddenly I get the urge to do just that. Suddenly, war sounds good. A covert war—to be more than a little traitorous. My family is all I need? Hardly. I need to be spoiled.

Spotlighted. I want someone to tell me I’m beautiful. Hot. Kick-fucking-ass.

I go to the kitchen. Pick up the phone.

Dial Grant’s number. Change my mind.

Hang up. What am I doing? Seriously.

Plotting infidelity at my kitchen counter?

Flirting, even semi-dangerous flirting, is not the same thing as arranging a shameless roll in the sack. But now the phone rings in my hand. Grant, returning his caller ID, 126/881

no doubt. I have to answer or someone else will. “Hello? This is Holly, remember …”
HE DEFINITELY REMEMBERS

And now the decision seems to have

been wrested from me. We plan to meet downtown for drinks. The unvoiced “after, we’ll see” hangs like a lace curtain between us.

Rather than try to think up a convincing excuse, I say to Mikki, “Tell your dad I prefer not to collect his clothes like he is six.

I’m going to a movie.” She owes me, nods wordlessly. I am all the way down the driveway before my cell rings.
Hey.

I’m sorry about the clothes. Are you
really mad at me?
Sharp little teeth of guilt gnaw, but not viciously enough.

“I’ll get over it. I just need some time to myself.” I hang up and he doesn’t call back. Must be a sign. By the time I get to the bar, Grant is already there, better-looking than I recalled. As I nestle beside him, a waitress saunters over with mojitos. I break a smile. “You remembered.” He licks his lips, catlike.
Of course.

You are unforgettable.
Ka-ching.
I was
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beginning to think you weren’t going
to call. But I’m really glad you did.

WE SHED ALL PRETENSE QUICKLY

Before we finish the first drink,

it’s clear we’re both here for sex.

When the under-the-table foreplay

becomes too intense, Grant pays

the bill and we walk down the street to a cheap motel. Okay, it’s a dive.

It doesn’t have hourly rates, but by the look of things, it should have.

The room smells of Lysol, and its

elderly carpet is stained with God-

only-knows-what. “Not exactly

five-star. Better check the sheets.” They look okay, are perfumed

with bleach. Guess that’s really all that matters. I make sure the door

is locked, and when I turn around,

Grant is already out of his clothes.

His body is thicker than I expected, and hairier. Just two of the things I have to get over as I strip to skin, crawl into bed next to him, starved for specialized attention. Instead, what I get from this stranger is the 130/881

same sex waiting at home. Missionary.

Ordinary. He comes. I don’t. Done.

I leave him there, dozing. Walk back to my car, past hookers and drug

deals. Feeling cheaper than the room.

SEX WITH A STRANGER

Is an eye-opening experience.

Just when you think you know all

there is to know, come to find out

you ain’t learned everything yet.

No

strings

means doing things your way,

but only if you happen to be

the top. When you’re not, it means

accepting the particular brand of

sex

you’re being offered, mostly

without complaint. That’s when

things can get sticky, and not

just literally. Saying stop

can

be

problematic when your partner

is headlong into orgasm. Asking

for longer or gentler or once more, with feeling, is quite often

disappointing.

Sex with a stranger can fill in

the blanks, but whether or not

you like the turn of phrase

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depends on the stranger.

Marissa

SWIM THERAPY DAY

Is Shelby’s favorite day of the week.

I’d take her more often if I could, but not only is it expensive, it’s hard to get her there by myself. Once

upon a time, Christian helped.

But now it’s pretty much up to me

to load her into the van, strap her into her special bed, drive twenty

miles to the one gym that allows

special therapy programs in their

heated indoor pool. The water

must be very warm because kids

with SMA have lower muscle mass

and tend to chill easily. No chills allowed, and absolutely no head

dips below the surface. Water in

the lungs would be disastrous.

But in the pool, helped only to

float, Shelby is a manta. She can

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move on her own, something

she can do hardly at all, lying flat on her back. When she swims,

she gains the tiniest bit of control.

She transforms. Spreads her wings.

SOMETIMES I SWIM

With her. But today, her physical

therapist instructs her to lift her knees, straighten her legs, bring her arms up in the water. Shelby has no clue

that she is being assessed for progress or failure. All she knows is she’s having fun.

Hello, again.
The voice falls over my shoulder, a shadow.
How are

things? Your daughter looks happy.

It’s Doug Schneider, another SMA

parent. When Shelby was first diagnosed, and we were struggling to make sense of it all, he and his wife, Ally, were so helpful—

sort of an unofficial support group of two.

“Shelby’s happiest when wet, and she loves Vivian. Hey there, Joey. You ready for a swim?” Joey, who’s type 2 and so less severely impacted than Shelby, nods and holds up a hand.
High five.

The gesture comes easily for him,

though the words are difficult.

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“Way to go, little dude. Hey, where’s your mommy today?” Joey shrugs,

and his grin narrows. Doug leans in close to me, speaks quietly into my ear.

Ally left. She says it’s temporary—a little
time away to think. But she’s not coming
back.
He swallows deeply, as if drowning words he’s frightened to let surface.

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

“Oh, Doug. I can’t … I don’t … are