New Running Shoes Are the best thing in the world, at least once you get them broken in. The Nikes are good to go, if only we could get a few days of decent weather. I can run in the gym, but inhaling sweat fumes is so not my thing.
I can swim indoors-don"t mind that a bit. But I"m craving a long run outside in the diamond air, in a downpour of brittle morning sun. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Feet drumming pavement. Leg muscles flex, long then short.
Slip into the zone where time disappears and no one expects pace or performance. No one can catch me. No one to stop me. No score to keep. No measure but my own.
When I run, I am almost free.
But Today The Roads Are Icy So I won"t run, and I"ll try not to think about freedom. It only frustrates me because I sincerely doubt I"ll ever know what it means to live autonomously. I will forever walk beneath an umbrella of expectation. Mom and Dad have a plan for me and won"t talk about alternatives. My teachers have faith in me and know I"ll go far.
My so-called friends mostly hang out to see if my status will rub off on them. Only Sean doesn"t really ask anything special of me, except to decorate his arm like a favorite piece of jewelry. Oh, he claims that he"s in love with me. If I knew what love was, I might be able to judge the depth of his feelings. But for now, it"s enough to have a stable relationship with one of the most popular guys at school. No matter that he doesn"t make my heart pitter- patter faster. Maybe I"m a ventricle short. Despite that, he"s the closest thing to a best friend I have.
Marriages have survived long term on less. Not that I"m planning to get married any time soon. Who needs that kind of misery? All I have to do is look around to know it"s not for me. Still, it"s nice having a steady someone to hang out with. Sean is adventurous. Fun. Good-looking in a jock kind of way. And you know, everyone expects the perfect girl to go out with the perfect guy.
If there"s one thing I"ve learned from Mom, it"s that appearances are everything. Sean and I look great together.
You Might Even Say We look normal. Looks can deceive.
We"ve both had our share of emotional trauma, though mine stems from parents who really don"t care about me, while Sean doesn"t have parents at all. His mom died giving birth to his little brother, Wade. His dad followed 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 pa.s.senger 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 a.s.sessment. 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. Fl.u.s.tered. 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 gra.s.s, 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 b.i.t.c.h. 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 cla.s.sic fashion.
And if she loves me, she hides it well.
Parenting should be a pa.s.sion, 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 compet.i.tions.
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.
I"ve heard it before. She"s drummed it into me. My looks are the key to the kingdom.
Still Two Hours West Of Elko, the silence becomes stifling.
At least for Mom, who digs too hard to come up with something. Do you want to talk about Conner? She waits, patient as one of the vultures I watch, circling above some vile desert-claimed corpse. "What about Conner?" The buzzard wheel widens as more black wings link to the cog. Well, um... Do you think it had anything to do with you breaking up?
What is she talking about? "Do I think what had to do with us breaking up?"
She huffs a little, like she thinks I"m dense. You know. The gun. The hospital...
Okay, she"s the one who"s dense. "Why would Conner shooting himself have anything to do with "us"? Accidents hap- Wait. Are you saying it wasn"t an accident?"
Heat flowers at the back of my neck, radiates toward my skull. "Well? Mom?"
She slows the car. It was not an accident, Kendra. Conner tried to kill himself.
Suicide? Conner? "No! He"d never!" Would he? But even if he did, "How do you know?"
I was dealing with another Jenna issue and was in the guidance counselor"s office.
I overheard him talking about where to send Conner"s schoolwork-Aspen Springs.
Aspen Springs. Psych hospital. Residential treatment center. Lockdown for druggies and...
I have to know for sure. I jerk my cell from my bag, check for a signal. Two bars. Still, a text might work. IS CONNER IN ASPEN SPRINGS? Hit the send. Wait for Cara to answer. Mom watches me sideways, out of the corner of her eye. You all right?
"No. Yes. Wait..." What was she saying about Conner and me breaking up? No! No way!
"Even if Conner did try to kill himself, it wasn"t my fault! How can you think that?"
I cut off her denial. "Just drive, okay?"
I think about the last few times I saw him.
I could barely look at him through the smog of my pain. And Conner was never easy to read, anyway. But I only remember him smiling. Laughing. Easygoing. All Conner.
My phone chimes suddenly. Incoming.
WHO TOLD YOU? No denial, so it must be true. DOESN"T MATTER. DID HE TRY TO KILL HIMSELF? I don"t expect a quick answer, but it comes back right away.