they have to forgive themselves.
That’s tough for anyone to do;
for some, nearly impossible.
Do you think they’re strong enough?
I just stare. How can she
be so dense? She’s only met
them a time or two, but can’t
she see through the pretense?
“You really don’t get them at
all, Dr. Starr. Blame themselves?
Forgive themselves? For my
fall from grace? Not even!
My father can’t be to blame.
He’s never home long enough
to be an influence on me.
And Mom? If she ever took
responsibility for this,
what would her bridge club
think? Nope, the only person
they could blame at all is me.”
We’re Not Through Yet
Okay, Conner. And who do
you blame? Who do you think
is responsible for you?
She’s made it a whole new game.
I’ve had plenty of time,
alone in my room, to
consider that very thing,
hours and hours to hone
my reply. “I blame Dad for
my drive for perfection.
He’s always demanded
that Cara and I strive
to attain the highest grade,
highest score, to bring home
gold. A silver medal
meant losing, nothing more.
Mom I blame for making
me cold. What kind of
mother flat-out refuses
to hold her children, make
them feel wanted, warm, safe?
Emily made me feel all
those things and more. Is that
really so hard to understand?”
The bulldog’s growl softens.
No, of course it’s not. But
surely you knew your affair
couldn’t go on forever.
“Forever has no meaning
when you’re living in the
moment. I wasn’t ready
for that moment to end.”
Amen.
Tony
Easter Weekend
And the place has mostly
cleared out. Aspen Springs,
graveyard. Kind of fitting,
I guess. My dad asked
if I wanted to go visit
him. Not ready for that.
Apparently, Conner wasn’t
ready to go home either.
He’s sitting, staring
at mindless television.
But I can tell he’s not
concentrating on the screen.
Unusual, considering
this sitcom features
big-breasted women,
with a minimum
amount of clothing
covering their silicone.
“Hey, man. Damn quiet
in here, huh?” I say.
“Kind of spooky.”
Not as spooky as home,
he answers, Besides,
I don’t mind the quiet
“Uh. Oh, sorry. Didn’t
mean to crowd your
space or anything.”
No problem. Crowd
my space, I’m done
brooding, anyway
Brooding? Good word,
one I’ve never once
used. “About what?”
Just thinking about
home. Will I ever
want to go back there?
Carmella Bustles In
Hey, you two. Want
some company? Looks
kind of lonely in here.
She plops down on the
couch, very close to
Conner, who doesn’t move.
“You stuck here with
us this weekend, Car?”
I measure her proximity
to Conner, wonder if
she’s flirting on purpose.
“No place better to go?”
She giggles. What could
be better than spending
time with two gorgeous
guys? And, if you want,
I’ve got permission to
take you out of here tomorrow.
Conner stirs, moves
his leg even closer
to hers, just a fraction
of an inch from brushing.
Out of here, where? Like
maybe to San Francisco?
Carmella laughs again.
I don’t think we could
get away with that.
But we can take in
a movie. There are
some good ones playing.
“I’m in. But aren’t they
afraid we might overpower
you and hit the road?”
Don’t even talk like
that. Someone might
take you seriously.
Someone Probably Should
But right now, I really
have nowhere better
to go. And I wouldn’t
want to get Carmella
in trouble. Of course,
I can’t speak for Conner.
But he seems cool
with the plan. Okay,
count me in too. A
movie would be great.
Unless you can figure
a way to San Francisco.
I’ll work on that for
next time. Meanwhile,
can we please change
the channel? Nothing
worse than women
with tits for brains.
Conner laughs. Oh yeah,
there are definitely worse
things than that. But I
wasn’t watching this
show anyway. Here’s
the remote. You choose.
It’s really kind of scary,
sitting here watching
TV with two people
I like. Almost like
having a real family—
not that I’d have a clue
what that was like.
The closest I ever
came was Phillip.
And he was so sick,
our time together
so short, it almost
doesn’t count.
Vanessa
Grandma’s House
Feels completely
foreign, completely like home.
It’s easier to breathe
here, where the walls
don’t gather me in,
smother me in their arms.
Hey, Nessa, shouts Bryan,
come in the kitchen.
We’re ready to color
Easter eggs. If we mix
blue and red, we’ll get
purple. Blue and yellow
make green. Come here.
I’ll show you how.
He’s so excited to have
me back, he hasn’t calmed
down for twenty seconds
since they picked me up,
yakking nonstop about
school and his new buddy,
Dean; about Cub Scouts
and popcorn fund-raisers.
“Be right there,” I promise.
But first I need to take
a little detour. I’ve been
pocketing the lithium,
so I don’t spend all three
days in the bathroom.
I’m not sick this afternoon,
but I feel a mad rush
of blue coming on.
And here I don’t have
to use paper clips
or pop-tops. My trusty
razor blade is in its
cubby, calling
out to me. Just a little
slice, for old time’s sake.
I Go into the Bedroom
Close the door,
; remove my steel lover
from its place of honor
on the closet shelf.
I touch its stainless
tip to my index finger.
Sharp! Without pressure,
it draws a crimson bead.
Peel back my sleeve—
the one that covers
the barbed-wire scar,
affectionately place
the blade beneath
my left thumb. This
is the best rush
of all—the moment
right before the cut.
It’s my decision now,
I’m in charge.
And just as I think
I’ll give in to temptation,
reopen the old wound,
Bryan calls, C’mon,
Nessa, please? I’m
waiting for you
I could still do it,
but I see my brother’s
face, scream frozen
in place, and I put
the blade back
in its velvet sleeve.
“I’m coming right
now, Bryan. Save
some purple
dye for me.”
The Kitchen
Is a Norman Rockwell painting—
Grandma, at the sink, draining
eggs; Bryan, at the table, drawing
wax pictures on cooled shells,
waiting for me to come help
with the dye. It’s all so …
normal, something I rarely
feel. And I’m expected
to blend in, head
backstroking through blue.
I’m determined to do it too.
Look, Nessa. I put
your name on this one.
And I drew a train on it too.
Bryan always did love
trains. Once Grandma took
us on the Amtrak, from Reno
to Sacramento. I was pretty
well bored out of my tree—
except for the cute guy
sitting across from me in
the observation car. And Bryan
loved it so much, how could
I possibly complain?
I saved lots of purple
for you. And all the other
colors too. I know! Let’s
make a rainbow.
We go to work, dying
bands of blue, red,
and yellow. They bleed
a little, but so do rainbows.
Just as we’re dipping the eggs
into the green,
the front door opens.
Grandma turns.
Bryan jumps up.
I can’t believe my eyes.
“Daddy!”
Conner
Talk About Jumping
Through hoops! To get to go
to the movie, Tony and I
had to put in writing that
we know our privileges
will be suspended if we
so much as sneeze wrong.
And just to make sure, Dr.
Boston is coming along.
I suspect that’s because she
has nowhere better to go—
no spring break for her, I guess.
Anyway, I’m happy to share
a bag of popcorn with
the delectable Dr. B.
I hope the movie’s an R-
rated romp—something sexy
to fire up her pistons. “What
are we going to see?” I ask.
“A taste of Tarantino? Tim
Burton? Don’t tell me Disney!”
Carmella laughs. Heather
and I were thinking more
along the lines of Spielberg’s
new csi-fi flick. Work for you?
Dr. Boston is a Heather.
Sounds about right. And
as for Spielberg, well, we
just might catch sight of
someone curvaceous and
yummy, if not exactly
slutty. “Sure, works fine for
me. I’m easy to please.”
We Take the Aspen Springs Limo
A minivan that must be
at least ten years old. It
wheezes along the icy road,
a decrepit old beast, and I
hope we make it the eight
miles to the theater.
Spring or no, it’s much too
cold to walk it from here.
Dahlia is with us too—
another won’t-go-home.
Da-hamn, it’s cold out here,
like a whole other planet.
Weird, says Tony, how you
disconnect from what’s outside
when you spend your life inside.
I never know what to expect
when I walk out the door. April,
and snow on the ground. Do kids
hunt Easter eggs in the snow? I
was never a kid, so I don’t know.
“I only ever went to one
egg hunt,” I answer. “Our
nanny took us because,
to be blunt, our parents
considered such frivolity
a total waste of time. Once
was more than enough for
me—that six-foot, pimply-faced
rabbit, leering like a lech,
wrecked me for weeks. Poor
Leona thought the experience
just might affect me for life.”
Enough About Giant Bunnies
We reach the theater, all
in one piece, buy tickets, go
inside. Just as I think
this could turn into fun,
a familiar voice scratches
my eardrums. Hey, Conner.
What a surprise. I heard
you tried to die. That right?
“Hello, Kendra.” Stiffly,
I turn around to face the
pretty blond cheerleader who
drowned in Emily’s wake.
I consider the accident
excuse, but why even
go there? “Guess I did. Next
time I’ll have to try harder.”
Her face goes white. Don’t say
that. Believe it or not, a few
people care about you. One
or two of us even love you.
Holy shit. How could she
love me? I dropped her like
a hot piece of tin. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
There’s Sean. Gotta go. Hope
to see you again soon, Conner.
Give me a call, if you want
to. I’m a good listener.
I shuffle off to Screen
Three, settle beside Dr.
Boston, try to concentrate on
the black-humored movie, mind
on Kendra.
Tony
The Greatest Thing
About today is how
normal I feel—like
totally mainstream. Okay,
so I’m at the movies
with two crazy people,
one lonely psychologist,
and one totally demented
“house mother.” At least
I’m at the movies, a place
I’ve only been twice
before. And these freaky
people feel like family.
Hey, Tony, says Dahlia,
check it out. That girl
has the hots for Conner.
The girl in question,
a too-skinny blonde,
definitely knows
Conner. He tells her
something and she
looks ready to cry.
Jeez, man, what’s up
with that guy? Does
he have a magic wand?
“I suppose you could
call it a wand,” I answer,
and we both bust up.
Ca
rmella shimmies
up, arms loaded with
buckets of popcorn and
oversize sodas. Hurry
up! I hate missing
the start of a movie.
I Sit in Between
Carmella and Dahlia,
passing popcorn and
laughing at how the girls
hold their ears every
time the gunplay gets
real loud. Too funny.
Every now and then
I glance at Conner,
who’s way too quiet
to be enjoying himself.
Dr. Boston notices
too. Even in the dark
of the theater, I see
concern in the set of
her jaw. She leans over and
whispers something, and
he shakes his head.
Then it seems to me,
and I could be wrong,
that she moves her knee
so it just touches Conner’s.
Now I don’t know which
scene intrigues me more:
the one on the screen,
or the one two seats away.
I divide my attention
between the two and
make a mental note
to ask Conner about
the twig-thin blonde,
Dr. Boston, and Emily.
Dahlia’s right. His wand
must hold magic. For
the first time in a long
time, I feel a tug in my
own magic-free wand.
I Know I Should Wait
To ask Conner about
any of that, but on
the way back to Aspen
Springs, my mouth springs
open. “Hey, Conner.
“Who was the cute blonde