Perfect (6 page)

her four years ago, fried in a fiery bus

crash. Half of his football team died

with him. He would have been forty-five

today. Sean’s making his annual

pilgrimage to the cemetery, and I’m

going along. Here comes his jock-

worthy GMC pickup. It was a gift from

his uncle Jeff, who will never quite

measure up, no matter how hard he tries.

Sean idolized his father. He pulls into

the driveway, and even from here I can

see sadness in the forward tilt of his

shoulders. It’s a memory-shadowed day.

The Sean Who Stops

And gets out to open the passenger

door for me is subdued.
Hey, you
.

It comes out a throaty whisper.

He kisses me, and the kiss is quiet too.

Sean helps me up into the cab. It over-

flows flowers. I haven’t seen so much

color in months. “Where did you find

such a big variety this time of year?”

He gives me a tepid smile.
I had to

go to five grocery stores and Wal-Mart
.

Stupid, I know. They’ll freeze first

thing. It’s supposed to snow tonight
.

“Well, at least it’s nice right now.”

Nice, meaning thirty degrees, partly

cloudy, not much wind. Some would

call that inclement. But Sean agrees

with my assessment.
Yes, it is. Let’s

go before something nasty blows in
.

As we drive toward the city, I notice

there isn’t one rose in these dozens

of flowers. Lilies and asters, tulips,

carnations, sunflowers and mums,

but… “You couldn’t find roses in all

those stores?” Sean drums the steering

wheel with one hand, musing.

Finally he says,
My mom loved

roses. She grew them everywhere

in our yard, and when she died
,

Dad went kind of crazy and

tore them all out. I can’t even

look at a rose without thinking

about that day. I was so afraid

he’d flipped out for good and

I would lose him, too. He kept

saying he’d replant them in

her memory. Never happened
.

February Doesn’t Seem

To be a big month for mourning.

Maybe it’s too cold to die?

Wow. Too cold to die. Wonder

if that’s why Conner’s still alive.

Okay. That’s dumb. I know people

die in February. But obviously,

their loved ones don’t come to say

hi in dead of winter. The cemetery

is—uh—dead. No one here but

Sean and me. Which makes it

exponentially creepy, even in

daylight. The only time I’ve been

to a graveyard was for my grand-

father’s burial. Dad said the old

jerk deserved to go early. Who

knows? I had one bad experience

with him. Of course, it was the only

time I actually met him. So, yeah.

Anyway, I’ve never shared any

of that with Sean yet. And this

is probably not the right time

or place to mention it. He looks

scared. Flustered. Duh. The flowers.

“Let me carry some of those.”

Sean leads the way, and as we walk,

a fist of clouds chokes out the sun.

Despite the overwhelming gray, our

blossoms mist the gloom with color.

Scarlet. Lilac. Tangerine. Bronze.

Evening star gold. Late morning

sun yellow. Any place but here,

it would be romantic. It isn’t far

to the gravesite, on a slight rise well

away from the road. This time of year,

there’s no grass, just packed layers of old

snow. Sean stops to lay his flowers

in front of an ice-rimmed headstone.

Hey, Dad
. Sean’s breath steams into

frozen air, and his voice pierces

the silence of death.
Happy birthday
.

No Answer

At least, not one I can hear, unless

it is the disturbing mutter of wind.

“Should we find something to hold

the flowers?” They’ll soon clutter

the cemetery if we don’t, but Sean

says,
Let them blow if they want to
.

That way everyone here can enjoy them
.

It is so unlike anything I’d expect

from him, I hardly know how to

react. So I kneel to place an armful

of spring atop slick layers of winter.

Within seconds, they chase each other

across the grounds, halted here and

there by marble and granite head-

stones. I glance at the inscriptions here:

CLAIRE JENNIFER O’CONNELL
, adjacent to

“
COACH” BRYAN PIERCE O’CONNELL
.

It hits me, electric, like lightning.

“Your mom was so young when she

died.” Only twenty-eight. I wait for some

sign of sadness. But Sean responds

instead with a quick jab of anger.
Stupid

bitch
. He takes a deep breath.
If she hadn’t

gone all New Agey, she wouldn’t be dead
.

We’ve never really talked about

her, or how exactly she died.

“New Agey? What do you mean?”

He trembles, but whether from cold

or memory, I can’t be sure.
She decided

to use a midwife instead of going to

the hospital. If she had been at Saint Mary’s
,

she wouldn’t have bled to death when

she hemorrhaged. The paramedics

couldn’t save her. And you know

the worst thing? I was standing right

there. I saw her go. I was just a little

kid, but I’ll never forget watching her

fade away. One minute she was Mommy
.

The next, she was a mannequin
.

All that was left of her was Wade
.

Bitterness

Tints his voice. That, and anger.

How can he blame his mom?

I’m not sure I understand. Then

again, I have no frame of reference.

My mother is still one of the walking,

talking, breathing. But she doesn’t

do a whole lot more for me than Sean’s

mom does for him now. We never

spend time together. Rarely even

attempt to communicate. For all

our daily interaction, she might

as well be dead. I don’t hate her.

But I’m not really sure I love her,

at least not in the classic fashion.

And if she loves me, she hides it well.

Parenting should be a passion, not

a part-time pursuit. The wind kicks

stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe

skeletons. Bones of abandonment.

Ghosts of what will never be.

Kendra

Ghosts

Take shape under moonlight,

materialize in dreams.

Shadows. Silhouettes

of what is no more. But

ghosts don’t

bother me. The day brings

bigger things to worry about

than flimsy remains of

yesterday. No, spooks don’t

scare me.

Gauzy apparitions might

prank your psyche or

agitate your nightmares,

but lacking

flesh and blood

they are powerless

to hurt you—cannot hope

to inflict the kind of damage

that real, live

people do.

Miss Teen Spirit Of The West

Is not the biggest pageant I’ve ever done.

But as regional pageants go, the prize money

is good, especially compared to the entry fee.

And every pageant I compete in keeps me

tuned up for heavier-weight competitions.

This one is in Elko, a five-hour drive from

Reno. Five hours, listening to my mom remind

me about stuff I don’t need to be reminded

about.
Remember to keep your chin tilted

up and your shoulders back. Act like…

“The royalty you pretend to be. I know,

Mom. You’ve only told me that, like, eight

gazillion times. If I can’t remember it by

now, I never will.” The tone was testier

than I intended. Mom looks a little stung.

“Sorry. It’s just, I’ve got it, you know?”

Interstate 80 is mostly flat Great Basin desert.

Salt flats, sage, and carrion. Not much to excite

the eye or stimulate conversation. I guess

I should be grateful to Mom for trying.

After several very long silent minutes,

she tries again.
Do you still enjoy them?

Pageants, I mean. You used to love them,

at least I thought so. But now I’m not sure.

Does she want the truth? Do I want

to give it to her? I decide to compromise.

“I like winning them.” Like every eye on me,

and when those eyes find me fairest of all.

What I don’t like is what it sometimes

takes to win. Backstabbing. Manipulation.

Out-and-out bribery once in a while,

and not always the monetary kind.

Beautiful Bodies

Are ripe for the picking. It’s rare. But not

unheard of. Unless I am willing to go that far,

I’ll always be at a slight disadvantage.

I most definitely wouldn’t stoop so low

to win Miss Teen Spirit of the West.

Miss America, however, might be a whole

different tale. Not even sure Mom

would object. Pageants are a means

to an end, as she reminds me now.

Winning is good. Every crown puts

you one step closer to the runway.

You get there, you’ll never have to

depend on anyone else. A self-reliant

woman. That’s what you’ll be.