Tilt Page 11

  another, I’m really not sure. But

  suddenly, it wasn’t about my wanting

  a driver’s license. It was all about

  how my being gay is a sin, at least

  in Dad’s eyes. I asked him when my

  qualifying for heaven became a priority.

  And all he could say as he slurped

  Irish coffee was, I’ll pray for you.

  A Soft Whistle

  Escapes Alex. Wow. I knew your dad

  isn’t exactly accepting. But I had no

  idea it’s because he’s religious.

  “He’s not. I mean, when I was a little

  kid, we used to go to church all

  the time. But then he started to travel

  a lot. And then his mom, who was

  the religious one to start with, got run

  over crossing the street. After she died,

  he never went to church again. If he

  lost his faith, whatever. But that does

  not give him the right to turn into

  a no-good, nasty, loser drunk, or to try

  and make me believe God hates me

  because I’m some sort of an abomination. . . .”

  I’m out of breath and losing steam.

  But now Alex wants to know, So, you

  believe in God? I mean, considering . . .

  “Considering what? That I watch

  porn and smoke weed and have

  a boyfriend? Yes, as unlikely as it

  might seem, I do believe in God.

  See, I never felt exactly ‘mainstream’

  as a kid. The closest I ever got was

  when we went to church and the pastor

  would say stuff like we are all God’s

  children and He made us in His image.

  Christ was all about walking with sinners,

  Alex, and paving a path to heaven for

  whores and homos and such. I bet his disciples

  even strayed now and again, you know?

  I mean, after all, they were men walking

  the wilds with other men for weeks at a time.”

  I wink and he laughs, but then he gets

  all serious and says, And you believe

  in heaven? That there’s life after death?

  Death

  I can’t stand thinking about

  that word in relation to

  Alex, but he’s waiting for me

  to answer, and I think he needs

  to hear what I’ve got to say.

  “Yes, I believe that there is life

  after death. Any physicist will

  tell you that energy doesn’t die,

  it only changes forms. What

  makes you you, Alex? That

  hunk of gray matter inside

  your skull? No way. You—all

  of us—have a life force. Energy.

  Some people call it a soul.

  Whatever you call it, it makes

  you you. And when your body

  dies, your energy will remain.

  I can’t say for sure what heaven is.

  But I have faith that it’s a special place,

  and that you will be welcome there.”

  Alex

  Faith

  Belief in unproven theory, in

  what cannot be seen or heard

  or touched, is something

  I

  have never known. Such

  an amazing gift, to rise

  above the realm of

  wish-

  ful thinking, all the way

  to certainty of life beyond

  the curse of early death. If

  I

  had been immersed in it

  as a child, would I still carry

  it with me now, and

  could

  it mute the throbbing

  fear? If I reach for it now,

  is there a chance that I will

  find

  it, sure as day follows night

  follows day? If I hold Shane

  tightly enough, can I absorb

  faith?

  Harley

  If You Hold Someone

  Tightly enough, can you make them stay?

  Seems like everywhere I look, people

  get together, only to break up again.

  Especially people I care about, like Dad,

  who broke up with Mom, plus a string

  of girlfriends, before finding Cassie.

  I hope they stay together, but sometimes

  I hear them arguing. Can you argue and

  still stay together? Is it worth it if you do?

  Then there’s Mom, who broke up with Dad,

  and who just hooked up with a really cute

  guy a few weeks ago. Robin is from Australia,

  and has a hot Down Under accent. Mom

  has had dates before, but she never really

  talks about them. This time, she actually

  brought him home for dinner. Not only

  that, but she asked me to help her cook

  it, so I knew she wanted a heart-to-heart.

  I was peeling apples when she launched

  it, gushing about Robin and how wonderful

  he was. When I didn’t say anything,

  she insisted, What? Talk to me, Harl.

  Which made me confess, “I just never

  thought about you falling in love.”

  It was obvious that she had, and yet

  she swore, Whoa, now, wait a minute.

  I never said anything about love.

  Then she stood there, hands on hips.

  “I know. But since you met him,

  you’re . . . different. Happier, I guess.”

  Totally true, and when she asked why

  that bothered me, I said something totally

  stupid. “I want you to be happy because

  of me. Not him. Not anyone else.”

  Totally Stupid

  Because I do want her to be

  happy, and she never really

  seems that way. I get that

  she’s lonely. Feel bad that I

  am not enough to change

  that. But when she started

  talking about Chad and how

  I feel when he smiles at me

  and how every woman wants

  that solid rush of pleasure, even

  a mom (and a single mom at that!),

  I completely understood. But then

  she had to use the M word. Anyway,

  I’m just having fun with Robin.

  We’re not getting married or

  anything like that. You know?

  Married? She’d never do that

  again, would she? “Not now,

  you’re not. But that might change.”

  I still don’t get why that bothers

  me, and neither did she. Her eyes

  kind of glittered, angry. Harley,

  how come it doesn’t piss you off

  that your dad found someone new?

  I’d already thought about that, so

  the answer came easily. “I never

  expected anything different from

  Dad. He’s got personality flaws.”

  And it was just so accurate that

  she snorted, Ha! Ain’t it the truth?

  Ain’t it the truth? And that stupid

  saying made me laugh and some

  sort of barrier fell. Then she said,

  Honey, don’t worry, okay? Robin

  and I have only gone out a few times.

  He’s leaving for Vegas tomorrow.

  It’s a friendship, not a commitment.

  I just wanted him to meet the girl

  who will always be my top priority.

  Let him see why I love you, okay?

  How Could I Say No?

  Still, as I sliced the apples into

  a saucepan and added a little water

  (per Gram�
�s yummy applesauce recipe),

  something kept eating at me—

  the commitment thing again.

  Does love have to be temporary?

  Or is that only lust? “Did you ever love

  Dad? I mean, were the two of you really

  in love?” I was little when they split

  up, and I can’t really picture them

  together, walking hand in hand along

  the beach at sunset, or whatever.

  She considered the question for

  a few. I definitely thought so once.

  But young love doesn’t always last.

  But it does sometimes, like with

  Bri’s mom and dad, who have

  been together for, like, forever.

  When I argued that, she agreed.

  And then I really needed to know

  something else. “Have you ever

  been in love with anyone besides

  Dad?” When she said no, I asked,

  “Then why did you get divorced?”

  I said it kind of mean, and I meant

  it that way, and it stung her. First

  she looked mad, then she looked

  hurt and I felt bad when she said,

  all soft and almost whispery,

  Sometimes love isn’t enough.

  Right about then the doorbell

  rang, and the way Mom smiled

  made me know she’s in love with

  Robin, for whatever it’s worth.

  I can’t really blame her. He’s

  pretty much all that, and more.

  I Didn’t Want to Like Him

  But I couldn’t help it. From

  the minute he walked through

  the door, he made everything

  be about me. He even asked my

  opinion about stuff—like what

  I think about politics and war

  and immigration. When I didn’t

  have a good answer, I made stuff

  up and he pretended every word

  was valid. Then, when we sat

  down to Mom’s amazing sage-

  and-garlic-rubbed pork roast and

  she told him I made the applesauce,

  it was me he complimented. Beauty,

  brains, and a fabulous chef too?

  Where have you been all my life?

  And even though I knew it was

  just a line, it made me feel great

  that he cared enough to waste

  it on me. Oh, yeah, I liked him.

  So I’m Sorry

  I’m Afraid Her Heart Will, Too

  Especially as I happen to overhear

  her talking on the phone to Bri’s mom.

  I called Robin, just to say hi.

  Some woman answered.

  She told me he was asleep,

  and it was obvious she had

  been sleeping, too. God! I can’t

  believe I was nothing more

  than a three-night stand. . . .

  Now Bri’s mom is saying something.

  When Mom starts again, her voice is tired.

  His sister? Yeah, right. Oh,

  I suppose it’s possible. But

  likely? Don’t think so. He

  said he isn’t married, but

  never said he isn’t attached.

  Anyway, if he really cared,

  he would have called me by now.

  I can’t listen anymore. What’s wrong

  with Mom? Why can’t she fall for

  someone who will love us both?

  Trace

  Listening In

  On adult conversations

  is one of my favorite pastimes.

  With much practice, I have

  become a regular master of

  eavesdropping

  from the top of the stairs.

  Somehow, the people below

  never seem to know I’m here.

  Amazing, how nonchalant they

  can be

  about secrets. Or maybe Mom

  doesn’t care that I know about

  her friend’s latest hookup, come

  unhooked. I guess I do feel

  bad

  for Andrea. She has always

  been nice to me, and a second

  mom to Bri. She’s close to over

  the hill. Probably not easy

  for

  a lady her age to connect

  with someone who’s not

  a creepster. Middle-aged

  dating has got to be hard on

  a person.

  Mikayla

  Dating

  Is such a weak word.

  “Going out” is an awkward

  phrase, too. Neither defines

  my relationship with Dylan.

  We aren’t exactly engaged,

  but we are something like

  promised to each other. That’s

  what the ring I’m wearing says.

  “Promised.” He gave it to me

  after the biggest fight we’ve

  ever had, that day at Washoe

  Lake. When Dylan pulled up

  and saw me with Ty, he flipped.

  Not that I had done one single

  thing wrong. He just assumed

  the worst. And how dare he?

  Dylan was the one who had been

  sneaking around. Not me.

  We kissed and made up days

  ago. But it still makes me mad.

  I would not party without him,

  especially not at an old boyfriend’s

  house. He swears nothing happened

  with Kristy, and I mostly believe

  him. But there was something

  like guilt in his eyes. I would ask

  Ty if he knows anything more,

  but Dylan would be pissed

  and I love him too much to risk

  another blowup. Anyway, I’m not

  grounded at the moment. Tonight,

  Dylan and I will make up for lost

  evenings like last night, waylaid

  by Mom’s fortieth birthday party.

  She said I could invite Dylan,

  but he’s scared of my parents.

  Don’t really blame him—he’s not

  their favorite person. But even if

  he was, I’m kind of glad he didn’t

  come. It was a strange evening.

  For One Thing

  It was supposed to be a surprise

  party. Obviously, since Mom said

  Dylan could come, she knew about it.

  Brianna and Harley planned it.

  So I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise

  that it wasn’t a surprise. Relentless

  giggling is a surefire sign. Mom

  faked it pretty well. But I think

  the biggest shock was that Grandma

  and Grandpa Carlisle came over.

  They sort of put up with Mom,

  but it’s clear that they don’t really

  consider her family. When my

  grandmother bothers to talk

  to Mom at all, the condescension

  reeks. No one thinks I’ve noticed

  it, but how could I not? So I was

  as startled as everyone else when

  the doorbell rang, and there

  stood the elder Carlisles, birthday

  orchid in hand. Grandma knows

  Mom is death to houseplants.

  But Grandma was nice enough last

  night. She even tried karaoke—

  the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Who

  knew she could sing? Who

  knew she knew the Beatles?

  Mom sang, too. “Material Girl,”

  by Madonna. Not bad. But she

  seemed distant. Barely there

  at all, like she so wanted to be

  somewhere else. And not just

  because of my grandparents.

  She doesn’t think I’ve not
iced

  that, either. But something is up

  with Mom. Something disquieting.

  Case in Point

  Her almost non-reaction to

  Paul Driscoll totally denying

  the sperm donation that resulted

  in a little baby Mom. I showed

  her Leon Driscoll’s email and,

  though I could see she was, like,

  punched in the gut, all she said

  was, I never expected anything

  else. But thanks for trying, Mik.

  And when I told her I wasn’t

  done trying, that there is some-

  one out there named Sarah Hill,

  all she said was, Don’t worry

  about it. You and Trace and Bri

  are all the family I need. Which

  pretty much mimicked Dad’s

  take on the whole birth parent

  search thing. And then, rather

  than think things over, she made

  a phone call and took off for

  the evening, stumbling back home

  very, very late. Yet another thing

  she doesn’t think I notice—later

  and later evenings. More and more

  often. Drunker and drunker when

  she finally wanders in. Yet, somehow,

  she is up early to run the next day.

  I think she deserves a nod from

  the Guinness Book of World Records

  for “Distance Run on a Hangover.”

  Do I worry about her? Definitely.

  Will I discuss it with her? No freaking

  way. Because she’s my mother, forty

  years old and able to make decisions

  for herself. But I really have to wonder.

  Why hasn’t my father noticed?

  I Think About These Things

  Lounging in bed late this morning.

  Karaoke and cake kept us up late.

  I don’t hear a lot of movement in

  the house. And it’s weird, but I’m

  still tired, despite eight hours of

  sleep. Tired, and a little nauseous.

  Hey, Bri and Harley made the cake.

  Who knows if the eggs were good?

  Eggs. Yuck. The very thought makes

  my stomach turn. In fact, I think . . .

  I throw back the covers, sprint

  for the bathroom. Barely make it

  to the toilet before I have to let fly.

  Stomach cramping, I heave. Heave.

  Heave until there’s nothing left

  to do but lay my head against

  the chill porcelain, half hoping