Fallout (34 page)

I DON’T NEED HER HELP

I’ve made this recipe twice a year

(Christmas, too) since I could tell

the difference between a saucepan

and a skillet. It just seems strange,

going through the familiar motions

laughter free. The kitchen throbs

silence. The sound of my sock-padded

footsteps echoes, wall to wall to wall.

I yank open the cupboard, grab

the necessary utensils, clanging them

cacophonously. Noise to battle

the hush-edged aloneness.

Then I line up ingredients in correct order.

Cinnamon. Cranberries. Oranges. Sugar.

CRANBERRIES SIMMERED

Sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon

added. Everything in a pretty glass

bowl, gelling rich red in the fridge,

it occurs to me that contributing

to the eardrum-slicing quiet is the fact

that Grandfather has not yet appeared.

We should leave before too very

long. I explore. Living room? Empty.

Hall? No sign of anything living.

Foreboding strikes suddenly. I march

right up to Grandfather’s bedroom door.

Knock, half expecting no answer.

But on the far side, a drawer closes.

The sound precedes footsteps

across the complaining wood floor.

Coming
, Grandfather calls.
Coming.

Twice, as if convincing himself

he really needs to get a move on.

I imagine him pajama-clad

and candy-stripe-eyed, but

the grandfather who opens

the door is one I’ve never, ever

seen before. “Wow. I didn’t

know you even owned a suit.”

A genuine grin creeps cheekbone

to cheekbone, and his eyes—

clear as a cold-water creek—fill

with delight.
Dug it out of mothballs.

Today is a special occasion.

Thought Cora might appreciate

you and me dressing to the nines.

Go put on something real pretty.

It’s an order. But a gentle one.

THE WHOLE THING

Is so unexpected, I’m halfway

changed into a plum-colored silk

blouse when my fingers start to

tingle and my breath stutters short.

Wait. Why now? Nothing’s wrong

except … Except for this sudden

feeling like the world just flipped

upside down. South Pole on top.

Santa’s lair at the butt end. I close

my eyes, sip in air through clenching

teeth. What is going on with me?

It’s just one dinner at the home of total

strangers. One stupid holiday meal,

Grandfather and me putting on the dog

to impress … who? One Thanksgiving,

not a commitment, not forever … Dread

stuffs itself into my head, and I can’t say

why, let alone know how to fight it.

IT’S NOT EXACTLY UNUSUAL

For anxiety to trill suddenly.

But usually, somewhere in my brain,

there’s a certainty that it’s ridiculous.

This doesn’t feel that way. This feels

like a warning of coming chaos.

I finish buttoning my blouse,

tuck it into the striking tie-dyed skirt

Aunt Cora gave me on my last birthday.

I’ve never worn it before. It seemed

like a treasure. One to hang in

the closet, a safe place to keep

it. Now that it’s on, it’s only cloth.

I finish dressing, brush back my hair,

tie it loosely with blue velvet ribbon.

Grandfather will be pleased.

But I’m frightened by what

I see, held completely still in

the mirror’s glass grip. The girl

captured there, staring back at me,

is someone I don’t recognize.

THAT GIRL

Curves softly

inside flounces

of fabric. She looks

like the woman

I’m afraid to grow into.

Lifts her hand

with uncommon grace.

She could pass for

the sophisticate

I’m too clumsy to be.

Touches cheeks

blushed berry in

steep hollows.

I wish I knew who

sculpted her face.

I don’t know

that girl. The only

thing familiar about

her is how she wears

fear in her eyes.

IT IS THAT GIRL

Who gets in the car with

Grandfather. That girl who

rides, silent as a ghost, for

ninety-three minutes, barely

even acknowledging her

grandfather’s faltering small talk.

That girl who stares out

the window, counting water

tanks and watching big and

bigger American flags flap

in the wind. That girl who

quick-freezes after arrival.

Coming?
asks Grandfather,

exiting the driver’s side and

then, in a most gentlemanly

fashion, circling the car to

open the passenger door.

What can that girl do but join

her grandfather on the wide

sidewalk? Together, the two

assess the Cregan place—

a huge, upscale tract home.

One of those houses that

resembles its huge, upscale

neighbors to a creepy

degree. The houses come

in three hues—beige, gray,

and not-quite-white. Not much

to distinguish one from another

except the number of stories,

size of the garage, and gravel

color. Even the plants—native

Texas species, known to thrive

in this climate—are the same.

All, no doubt, must be approved

by the homeowners’ association.

Part of me likes the conformity.

The order. Part of me wonders

if anything ever disturbs it.

Wind? Rain? Hurricane?

Birth? Divorce? Argument?

What difference does it make?