She cocks her head, looks at me
as if I must be lying. What? No way.
I just saw the two of you . . .
I jump from Carolina’s bed onto
Monica’s. “Way. What you just saw
was us confirming we’re friends
but not friends with privileges.
I still think he’s hot, by the way,
but not enough to sleep with him.”
Go on. Go on. Don’t chicken out.
“Sleep with him again. Because
we did have sex a couple of times.”
I thought so. Did you like it?
Not what I expected, but then
Monica often surprises me.
How Do I Answer?
Truth, remember? Truth.
“Okay, I’m going to be honest
here, because this is a good
day for coming clean.
I can’t say I’ll never lie
again, but it will be
a very long time.”
I scoot closer, stroke
her arm gently, note
the knotting of her muscles
and the fact that her eyes
refuse to meet mine.
“Look at me, novia.”
I rest the back of my hand
under her chin, tilt it up
so she has no choice.
“I did like having sex
with Gabe. But it’s not
the same as making love
with you. I’ve come to
the conclusion that I
enjoy the physical act,
and I refuse to feel guilty
about that. But it’s real
connection I crave, not
just body part to body
part, but heart to heart.
No amo a Gabe, te amo.”
I Don’t Love Gabe
I love her.
The door is closed,
so I chance a kiss,
this one with tongue,
and the wet satin
of her lips makes me
want a whole lot more.
Can’t happen here,
of course, and there’s
something kind of nice
about having to wait.
Like it’s an experience
to anticipate. Still,
the stunning rush
of desire
makes me tremble.
That she returns
my kiss with the same
driving passion
tells me all
I need to know.
She loves me, too.
And I’m forgiven.
At least, mostly.
Panting
We pull ourselves out
of the what-will-be, return
to the what-is-right-now.
Which basically tosses
me smack back into
the what-happened-today.
“Just so you know,
Gabe is picking me up in
the morning and taking me
to work. I’m supposed to
be at the barn by eight.”
Pretty good friend to get up
so early for you on a Sunday.
“I guess, and I’m grateful.
I need to make some money.
Dad’s on the run. . . .” I fill
her in on the evening’s ugliness.
Anxiety creases her forehead.
What are you going to do?
“I don’t know, but I’ll
figure out something.
For sure I’m not leaving
Sonora. I’ve got an actual
life here, which includes you.
It’s a year before I turn eighteen,
but maybe I can emancipate.”
You haven’t talked to your mom?
I gave her your number.
It was Monica? “Why did
you do that? I figured it must
have been Syrah, not you.
And, no, I haven’t talked
to her. I’ve got nothing to say.”
She crosses her arms. Snorts.
Maybe not. But she’s got plenty
to say to you. I don’t get why
you won’t listen. Don’t you
want to know who you are?
Stamp “pissed” across
my face. “I know who I am,
Monica. I don’t need Maya
McCabe to explain it to me.”
You only know what your dad’s
told you, Air. You don’t even
know what your birthday is.
“What are you talking about?
My birthday’s October ninth.”
She shakes her head. That’s
Ariel Pearson’s birthday.
Bulldozed
October 9
is Ariel Pearson’s
birthday. And
I’m
not Ariel Pearson.
Meaning
October 9
is probably
not
my birthday.
Spicy hominy
stew gurgles
in my stomach.
Churns acid.
My entire backstory
has been fabricated.
Birth certificate.
School records.
Driver’s license.
Social security card.
All bear the name
Ariel
Pearson.
But I’m
not
Ariel
Pearson.
The Truth
When delivered so abruptly
is impossible to ignore.
I fall back on the bed, nestle
my head into the Monica-
scented pillow, and my best
friend settles beside me.
I know it’s totally up to you,
but my advice is to talk to her.
A huge sigh escapes. “She left
my dad for a woman, Monica.”
So what? She reaches for my hand.
You left your boyfriend for me.
“That’s true.” I have to smile.
“But I don’t want to leave here.
I don’t want to leave you. I don’t
want to have to go live with her.”
You don’t have to go anywhere.
Ariel might be seventeen, but
Casey is eighteen. You were three
when your dad took you away.
This Revelation Sinks Like Lead
“What? No! That’s impossible.
I might not know my birthday,
but I know how goddamn old I am.”
Do I?
“There’s no freaking way Dad
could convince me I was younger
than I was! That makes no sense.”
Or does it?
I’ve always been considered
big for my age, but I always
thought it was because
of my height.
Monica shrugs. Remember that
time with Zelda and the coffee
and he told her he drinks it black?
On my not-birthday.
You could tell she was all confused,
like she’d never heard that before.
But he swore she knew all along, right?
How can I forget?
There’s a word for what your dad
did. It’s called gaslighting. If he could
convince her, how hard would it be . . .
“To convince a little kid.”
Bits and pieces of memory flash
like multicolored neon—people,
mostly women, asking my age. Dad
correcting my fingers.
Until I finally got it right. Did I
argue my name with him, too?
Or was I simply content to become
the Little Mermaid?
My childhood is a jigsaw puzzle
,
with chewed and misplaced
pieces. I’ve always known that.
What I didn’t realize
is that even if every correct piece
was fitted perfectly into place,
the resulting picture would’ve been
interpretive art.
Gaslighting
A quick search on my phone
reveals a lot of information.
Gaslighting is:
a sophisticated manipulation
tactic used to create doubt
in the minds of others.
Check.
The word comes
from an old movie
(and earlier play)
where:
(paraphrased) a shithead
husband tries to convince
his wife she’s going insane.
His tactics include isolation
and making stuff disappear,
then telling her she’s to blame,
though she can’t remember it.
Check.
There are many
ways to create
said doubt:
create self-doubt through
intensity of conviction;
if that fails, toss in a little
self-righteous indignation;
skew actual facts with
distortions that can’t be
proved or disproved.
Check.
Check.
Check.
At least until
someone who
might very well
disprove them
appears on scene.
And overall:
the best liars deceive
by repeating stories
that are mostly true,
while leaving out (or
adding) a fact or two
that represents truth.
That’s my fucking dad, okay.
My father, master of lies,
who raised me with affection.
Except when he reminded
me, with sharp words and
the occasional slap across
the face, that I was, in truth,
little more than his possession.
What all this gaslighting
information neglects to
mention is the power of warping
love to accomplish a goal.
Which Begs the Question
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
come up with one good
reason for a complete
stranger to contrive such
a complicated deception,
so I guess she must be for real.”
She’s totally for real, Air.
You should’ve seen the look
on her face when she saw
you standing there in front
of the gym. I thought
she was going to pass out.
She seriously couldn’t believe
she was that close to you.
He stops to assess my sudden,
unbidden scowl. Whoa. Wait.
You’re not mad I said that, are you?
Wow
Everyone’s tiptoeing
around me. Way to go,
me. Ariel. Casey.
Whoever. This is not
how you treat friends.
“Gabe? I’m sorry I’ve been
so bitchy, okay? I really
don’t know how to process
this. To have every single
thing you believe about
yourself be proven a lie?”
But that’s not exactly
true. You’re still the same
warm, funny, sexy-as-hell
girl inside. No one knows