Tilt (35 page)

she says,
How do you know her, anyway?

You’re too young to have been a
Baywatch
fan.

“What’s
Baywatch
? I saw her on

Dancing with the Stars.
How she lasted

that long is a total mystery.” I lead Pamela

into the living room. “Mom? Dad?

The caregiver is here.” The doorbell

rings again. This time, it
is
Alex,

and he’s holding a giant bouquet

of yellow roses. “For me? Sweetheart,

you shouldn’t have!” No one’s watching,

so I kiss his amazing smile. He looks

a little alarmed.
Um. Hi. Sorry, but

the flowers are for your mom.

“How come you never bring me

flowers?” I stick out my lower lip.

“Well, I guess you can come in anyway.”

He is dressed in khaki pants and a Levi’s

shirt, and he’s wearing some exotic

cologne that makes me want to eat him.

And at This Moment

I couldn’t care less about Dad’s motives.

Alex is here, and welcome, and when

he gives Mom her birthday roses, her

thank-you is a kiss on his cheek, which

turns the color of ripe cherries, matching

his other cheek and the tips of his ears.

Dinner is Gram’s made-from-scratch

pizza. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked

dough fills the house, and when Mom

rolls Shelby into the room, she sniffs

the air. Grins and says,
Pri-ee.
Pretty.

I guess it does smell pretty. I wish

she could taste it, but Shelby only

eats liquid sustenance, fed via tube.

She doesn’t seem to mind, but that’s

all she’s ever known, and thinking about

things she’s missed always makes me

more than a little sad. The heaviness

lifts quickly tonight, though. There

are no balloons, but there are yellow

roses and pizza and birthday cake.

It’s a party and everyone wears

a smile, especially when Gramps

goes to the piano and starts to play

old classic rock songs.
I once thought

I’d be the next David Crosby,
he says.

But Neil Young was jealous, so they

wouldn’t let me join the group.

Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Mom

used to sing their stuff when I was little.

She harmonizes with Gramps.
Teach

your parents well. Their children’s hell . . .

Is slowly going by. Shelby loves

the music, tries to hum along. And that

makes her cough. Mom starts toward

her, but Pamela reaches her first.

Pamela Is Efficient

Deliberate. Kind, as she instructs

Shelby to relax, not an intuitive thing

when you’re hacking up a lung.

Mom would jump in, but Dad keeps

a hand on her arm.
Let Pamela do

her job. That’s why she’s here.

She decides the best way to do it

is to use the lung assist machine in Shelby’s

room that’s there to vacuum scum

from her airways. Mom wants to

follow her down the hall, but Pamela

agrees with Dad.
I’ve got it. No worries.

Mom has done nothing but worry

for years. This will be a learning

curve. Her nervousness grips all

of us, though we try to get back

into a party mood. Dad tells Gramps,

Can you play something slow? I want

to dance with my wife.
Mom stiffens,

and I think she’s going to refuse. But

Dad persuades her to sway with some

old song I know I’ve heard, but

couldn’t name for money. If I wasn’t

privy to what’s going on between

them, I’d probably find it touching.

As it is, it’s pretty much creeping me

out. And, judging by Mom’s zombie-ish

motion, she feels the same way. She’s putting

on a show. But what’s the point? It’s not

like everyone here doesn’t know. Well,

except for Alex. I haven’t told him yet.

I kind of wanted him to believe Dad found

a soul. God, how I wish that was true.

Pamela returns solo.
Shelby’s resting

comfortably, watching a DVD. I’ll be

back first thing tomorrow morning.

Mom Pulls Away

From Dad. Walks Pamela to the door,

asking questions. Giving directions.

Gram follows, listening in, because

she will be here for Shelby this weekend

when Pamela isn’t. Dad goes into

the kitchen. Probably looking for booze,

although he hasn’t been drinking nearly

as much as he used to. Don’t know if

that’s voluntary or part of whatever

deal he has forged with Mom. Either

way, he’s a hell of a lot easier to deal

with when he isn’t blotto. Gramps

launches a Green Day song—one Alex

knows the words to. Who knew he could

sing? Who knows what else I don’t know

about him yet? How long does it take

to get to know someone totally? Does

that ever happen? How long before you

can tell when someone’s keeping secrets?

Is it ever better simply not to know?

Alex

Is It Better

Not to know what’s causing

a massive tide—one you happen

to be swimming in, charcoal

carbonation frothing the horizon,

panic

likely, when limp resignation

might serve better?

You can’t outswim a rip current

and an anxious sea

swallows

what can’t remember that.

Is it wiser to avoid looking over

your shoulder, intuiting a predator

is sneaking up behind

you,

ascertaining distance? A backward

glance might cost a limb or liver,

food chain hierarchy faster

than you. A sudden shift of energy

smothers

certainty. Disregarding it might

be preferable to overanalyzing,

if rooting out the source

of your discomfort only brings

you

face-to-face with a monster.

Harley

A Monster

That’s what Chad’s dad is. No

wonder he never talks about him.

My dad is kind of weird and all,

and I remember how he and Mom

argued all the time before

they split up. But he never beat

on Mom or me. How could a guy

do something like that to his kid?

I haven’t said a word about

seeing that Damian ogre. Not

to Chad. Not to Dad. Not even

to Mom. But I’m totally dying to.

I did break down and tell Mom

about Mikayla being pregnant,

even though Bri asked me not to.

That kind of secret is hard to keep.

Mom told, and everything blew

sky-high and now Bri is pissed

at me. I’m sorry, but I think