The Music of What Happens(83)

“Thanks,” I say. “For being you. For loving me. I know I’m a pain in the ass, but you’re always there for me, Mom.”

This reddens her eyes.

“Do you know that I basically told Dad I was raped? Before you. He made jokes. I mean, he confirmed that what happened was rape, but he, like, didn’t say anything more. Or help me.”

She sits up. “What?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What are you talking about? You told him and he didn’t do anything?”

“Well, I basically called at like four in the morning after a bad dream. Because the dream made me wonder if I should say something to someone or if I was making shit up. I told him not me, but hypothetically. Like a friend. But who calls their dad at four in the morning and asks something like that without it being about them?”

She shakes her head, hard. Her face is creased and rigid.

“He didn’t get it, I guess. It’s not his fault —”

“The hell it isn’t,” she says, just about exploding, and I worry she’ll wake up Jordan. “He’s your father. It’s not okay for him to hear that and not follow up. With me. Has he followed up with you?”

I shake my head.

“Damn it,” she says. “He tries my patience, mijo. I hate to talk bad about your father, but the man needs to grow up.”

“Well there ya go,” I say, my insides tightening.

She nuzzles the side of my leg with her foot. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t like to do that. That’s your business between you and your father. But can I say one more thing?”

I shrug.

“You can call him out on it. If you want, I mean. It’s up to you, and what kind of relationship you want with the man. But you’re seventeen, and he let you down. You can let it go, or you can say something. That’s up to you, mijo.”

“Can I go back to my show now?” I ask.

She shoots me a look but then relaxes her face. “I know,” she says. “It’s a lot. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Love you, Mom,” I say again.

“Love you too.”





A monsoon rolls in overnight.

First comes the alarm buzzing all our phones. They sound five times and the warning from the national weather service appears. Dust storm warning for all of Maricopa County until 3:00 a.m. tomorrow with reports of blowing dust along I-101 in Scottsdale. Blowing dust can reduce visibility to near zero in a matter of seconds, making driving hazardous. If you’re driving, pull aside, stay alive.

I’m in the guest room, pretending to be asleep on top of a beautiful, flowery bedspread, when it comes in. It’s not unusual to get a few of these a week during monsoon season, but overnight ones don’t come too often. I’m staring at the ceiling fan on the white ceiling above me, my arms above my head, my head cradling my hands, thinking about everything, and I get the urge to go outside and watch the storm.

The hot air smells of creosote and dust as I roll open the sliding door from the living room to the back patio. The one at our house creaks when you open it, but this one, not surprisingly, is smooth. Dorcas follows me out.

Our house isn’t ours anymore, and there isn’t an us anymore. I live here now, and I have a headache that could split my whole fucking face apart.

You don’t see a dust storm come in at night. You hear it though. You hear the winds pick up and whip through the palm trees, the fronds slapping in the breeze, and you see the lightning flashes, and seconds later the thunder rumble, and then the neighborhood dogs barking. Not Dorcas. She stands by my side as I look up into the invisible night sky that may or may not be blowing a film of desert dust into the pool I can barely see in front of me.

You’re not supposed to go into a pool when there’s lightning out. Everyone knows that. But not everyone’s as totally over it as I am right now. I sit on the edge and dangle my legs, feel the bath-temperature water soothe my already hot skin. I kick my legs back and forth, making ripples.

“What are you doing out here?”

I hadn’t heard Max slide open the door and join me. His legs are next to me, and part of me wants to lean my head against his knee, and part of me wants — I don’t know. To destroy something beautiful.

I grunt. “Trying to get hit by lightning,” I say.

“Awesome,” is his answer. “Can I join?”

“Sure.”

He sits down next to me and for a bit we just sit there and listen to the winds pick up and the sizzling sound of sand and dust we can’t see zipping by our ears. Then he puts his hand calmly over mine and wraps his left thumb under my right pinky. I squeeze back to show I’m there, but I’m only half, or a quarter.

“I want to hit something,” I say.

He doesn’t respond, which is perfect. He doesn’t grab after my hand when I pull mine away either. Also a good choice. My forehead is pulsing, thinking about everything. I’m so tired of thinking about it. This is why people do drugs. So they don’t have to think. Or gamble, I guess. And you know what? As much as I don’t want to think, or feel, I’ll never fucking drink or gamble or anything, because if I ever made anyone feel the way my mom has made me feel, I would not be able to live with myself either. And thinking about that makes my insides hurt, because I love her still, even though she fucked up my life. Our lives. I can’t even imagine the pain she is feeling because deep down I know she loves me, and yet she did this still. And I know that it’s a disease and not a choice but right now that feels like blah blah blah. She cared more about spinning video slot wheels than she did about me.