Triangles (42 page)

It looked like … Mom. But …

He stands suddenly, takes

hold of Shelby’s hand. She gifts

him with her loveliest smile,

draws one long, shallow breath.

On the exhale, she is gone.

“No.” But I don’t have to check

her pulse to know her heart

has finally given up. And yet

I repeat, “No.” Christian

gathers me in before I can fall.

Together, we weep for our

angel, freed to soar at last.

The noise of our tears brings

others—Mom. Andrea. Shane.

But only the one who holds me

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can claim an equal share of grief.

I AM SOON GRATEFUL

For the others, who handle

the many, varied details

of death. The big decisions

were made days ago. But until

the funeral director comes

to collect Shelby’s remains,

I won’t let go of her hand.

It’s warm, still. And as it cools,

I want to keep it nestled in

the warmth of my own.

I’m vaguely aware of people

talking. Maybe even to me.

What does it matter? No

amount of talk can bring her

back. Am I selfish? I must be.

Shelby can run now. She can

fly. And if Christian is right,

and his mother came to get

her, she is with those who

love her. I didn’t see anyone.

But in his certainty, a small

amount of comfort. Except

her hand has grown cool, despite

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the warmth of mine. How can

her summer departure be

so steeped in cold?

DEPARTURE

It is subtle—this leaning

away from what is central

to our being. We move

in circles, day after

day,

do not notice how inches,

miles, light-years have slipped

between us, eroded

the pinnacle of our seasons.

One day we awaken,

cold

between the sheets, shiver

off our dreams, stiffen

against the dark shell

of morning. Frozen

sighs

on window glass mottle

the pallid creep of light

within their intricate

patterning, deliver first

a warning,

and now we feel the tipping.

With a blond nod

of apples and a blush

of peppers, red on the vine,

summer

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departs

in the smoke

of autumn embers.

Andrea

EMBERS

Of childhood. That’s what remain

of Shelby’s short time on this earth.

Up from the cinders rises the phoenix of love, damaged beyond salvation.

Was her mission to help her parents find their way back to each other?

For what purpose? And whose hand

guided her way? Too soon to speak

of these things, as she lies, beautiful in white and peace, her casket open for viewing before she is lowered into the hollow dug in the clean high-desert sand. One day, my own child will be buried too. Please let me go first, Lord. How can Missy stand it? I would be freaking out.

But she’s cool, as if she absorbed the cold 837/881

she kept ranting about when they carried Shelby away. Internalized it. As if it froze her pain. Ice-dammed it up inside her.

Will it thaw the same way—a single drip, chipping away; become a steady drip, wearing away; become a rivulet, eroding away the walls she has constructed

to hold back the sorrow? I’ve seen no sign, except the single burst of grief when Shelby passed away five days ago.

Labor Day, the very day Dad helped torch the giant Burning Man out on the Black Rock playa. Appropriate, somehow. Especially with Missy going on about a bonfire to keep her Shelby warm. She even asked about cremation. But Chris wouldn’t hear of it.

He has been her rock. And he has made the difficult decisions. Today, while we remember Shelby through our eulogies, and witness the lowering, her bedroom 838/881

will be cleared of every stick of furniture.

Bedding and curtains will be discarded.

Her clothing will be folded and boxed, along with Barney and Dora, and placed on her closet shelves. Next week, walls will be painted, carpeting replaced.

EVERY TRACE

Of Shelby, removed or put away.

At first, Chris wanted all her clothes, toys, and CDs carted off. It was

Dad who talked him out of it.

Women grieve differently than

men. They need tactile reminders
to hold their memories. One day
she’ll want to touch a piece of Shelby.

Dad, the philosopher—a rare view.

If I picture him, I mostly see an aging longhair, tripping around the woods or sitting at the table, drinking strong coffee. I also remember him flirting with women not my mother. Feeling

them up, in fact, and arguing with Mom about what that meant. Yelling. Storming.

But just this summer, as if through whole new lenses, I have watched

him welcome his gay grandson’s

boyfriend into our usually closed fold; play with his dying granddaughter,

drawing her attempt at laughter;

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and when she finally left this world, cushion the blow for us who remain.

Right now he is greeting people

coming through the door. Missy

sits at the front of the church,

cardboard. Chris is beside her,

as he has been almost every minute

since we found them, plastered

together and weeping for their still-warm child. But is it love or death that keeps him there? Will time

gnaw away what seems to be total

devotion? Or is it, in fact, all for show? I don’t know, and it’s not

up to me to decide. I do know I’ve

changed my mind. I hope things

work out between them. I hope

forgiveness is achievable, and that it can help rebuild their marriage

and create a future together. On

the other side of Chris, Shane sits, holding hands with Alex. Not long

ago, that wouldn’t have happened.

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Chris has experienced some

fundamental change, one I never

believed possible. I was wrong.

A HUGE ADMISSION

Because if I was wrong about

that, I have to ask myself what

else I might be mistaken about.

My daughter is at my right. Shelby

was gone before I said a word,

and Harley reacted with unexpected

anger.
Why didn’t you tell me?

I had the right to know. I had

the right to say goodbye. God, Mom.

I’m not a baby. I understand

that people die. Why do adults

try to hide the ugly stuff from
their kids? People die. People

fall out of love and get divorced.

Or they fall out of love and stay
together when it’s obvious they
shouldn’t, like Bri’s mom and dad.

All they do is fight. It’s stupid.

I’m sure my mouth fell open,

and I’m positive Harley noticed.

“How do you know they fight?”

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I’ve got ears, Mom, and so does
Bri. Her dad thinks her mom is

sleeping around. And guess what
else. He still doesn’t know

Mikayla is pregnant. Don’t you

think someone should tell him

before baggy shirts can’t hide

it anymore? Especially since

she’s going to keep the baby.

It was all news to me. Of course,

I’ve been swallowed up by funeral

planning, not to mention wake

preparations. It will be at my house, which does not wear death like

a shroud. As the music begins to play—

Let the Sun Shine In
, sung by Shelby’s favorite Imagination Movers—Harley

turns, gives a small wave to Brianna, who leads the Carlisle family to seats near the back. Holly and Jace aren’t fighting at this particular moment, but the distance between them

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is noticeable, and for an instant,

that makes me sad. Sadder.

And for the rest of the service,

through a swirl of prayers, homilies, and eulogies, I consider why.

UP UNTIL NOW

I have managed to stash guilt

somewhere behind the notion

that Holly asked for whatever

she got and Jace deserved better.

While that is probably still true,

I need to ask myself a few hard

questions, like what happened

to my personal sense of morality?

Do I consider Holly my friend?

Do I want to play even a small

role in the corrosion of her

marriage? What would my child

think of me, if she ever found

out? Would Jace reconcile

with Holly if it was possible?

Is
it possible? Even if it isn’t, how long do I want to keep

sneaking around? Isn’t part

of loving someone wanting

the entire universe to know?

I feel a little sick, like I’ve been spinning in circles and come

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to a sudden stop, everything

shifting from dizzy into focus.

I AM STILL WOOZY

When the service ends. After brief

condolences, we form a procession

to follow the hearse to the cemetery.

I send Harley with Mom, Marissa,

and Chris, ask Dad if I can ride with him. I suppose it is rather an odd

request, because as soon as we’re

under way, he asks,
What is it?

“Do you love Mom? I mean, really

love her, after all this time and all you’ve been through? Don’t say yes

unless you mean it.” I kind of expect an immediate yes, but that’s not

what I get.
To answer that question
correctly, I need it in context. So
where exactly is it coming from?

How to approach this, without

just coming clean? “First, were you ever completely, totally, had-to-have-her, insanely in love with Mom?”

When he says yes, absolutely, I ask,

“Then why the other women?

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And if you were in love with any

of them, why did you stay with Mom?”
THAT STOPS HIM

He considers how to answer, and

just about the time we reach the gates of the cemetery, he says,
I was young
and selfish when I went running around
on your mother. I told her she was
welcome to run too. She did, but it
was contrary to her nature. And yes,
I fell in love with a couple of women
along the way, but that kind of love—

the kind rooted in sex—burns out
fairly quickly. I stayed with Leah mostly
because of you and your sister, but
what I discovered by staying was love
born of friendship. She may not feel
the same way, and if that is so, I’m truly
sorry. Yes, Andrea, I love your mom.

Relationships are complicated. As I follow several to Shelby’s grave, I realize there’s one huge question I’ve avoided 850/881

asking Jace: “Do you
still
love her?”
HUGE QUESTIONS

Are most easily avoided

by detouring widely

into vast fields of

minutiae.

When someone looks

at you, silent in demand

for answers, diversion

may best be found in

trivia.

Should that person give

voice to pesky queries,

try to slow the advance

with a barrage of

details.

When all else fails

and the ax initiates

sure descent, baffle

the interrogator with

bullshit

and run like hell.