Fallout by Ellen Hopkins
I’d just go ahead over there,
but she is somewhere else, and
after my shift, I’m supposed
to pick up Leigh and Kristina
from the airport. They’re flying
back together from Albuquerque.
I guess I should feel bad about
my grandfather being on his last
legs and all. But it’s hard to care
about someone (even if that
someone is your grandfather)
who never bothered to get to know
you in the first place. A couple
of visits when I was a baby,
a couple of birthday cards since.
His excuse? He couldn’t afford
to send real presents or make
the trip from New Mexico.
Well, how about a phone
call? Those don’t cost too
much. How about an e-mail?
Or even regular cards and
letters. I would have answered
them. We could have gotten
to know each other, even if
only virtually. Sorry, Grandpa.
Excuses are a dime a dozen.
And lame excuses are more
like a nickel. No, sir. Establishing
a relationship has nothing to do
with money. Listen to me. Like
I’m so good with relationships.
Although establishing them
doesn’t seem to be my problem.
Keeping them? Nurturing them?
Definitely not my best thing.
AIR SHIFT COMPLETE
As I get ready to leave, I notice
the new part-time on-air girl
coming toward me. Woot. Girl?
Babe! I can’t help but check out
her long, bronze-skinned legs,
most of which are showing. Skirt.
Is. Short. She smiles at the way
I’m obviously drooling. Hi, Hunter.
“Hey, um …” Name? I know
her name. It’s, uh … “Shayna.”
The hall is narrow and as we
pass, her body whispers along
mine. Excuse me, she says in
a deep-water voice. Sorry.
“No problem.” I watch her walk
away, invitation in the exaggerated
sway of her hips. I could follow.
Set something up for later.
I could. But I won’t. I’d rather
stay mired in unrequited love.
TWO THIRTY-FOUR
I’ve got a half hour until
the plane arrives. Hope it’s on
time, or it might not arrive at all.
Another big storm is speeding
toward us. The roads just got
cleared from the last one.
Mom insisted I take the Jeep.
Good thing. My truck is a four-
by, but the tires lack tread.
Anyway, the Jeep has more
room for women and their
luggage. The freeway is packed.
Last-minute Santas rushing
to buy those last-minute gifts.
I finished shopping weeks ago.
Mom is always easy. T-shirt with
some pithy author-type saying.
Ditto Dad and his Beatles.
Jake, ski gloves. Leigh, perfume.
Kristina, a self-help book, not that
I expect it to do much good.
For the boys, games. And all that
barely left enough for what I got
Nikki. Not lingerie. A promise ring.
I’M NOT A JEWELRY EXPERT
But the ring caught my eye.
Small rubies (her) and sapphires (me),
set to look like a chain—the two
of us linked together. Forever.
It’s beautiful (like her). Cleaned
out my bank account, but I don’t
care. I just want to see her wear
it. How can I make that happen?
I have to wait almost twenty
minutes in the cell phone parking
lot at the airport. What the hell.
I give Nikki one more try.
She answers on the second ring.
“Nik? Don’t hang up, okay?
I can’t believe you’re actually
there.” That she actually picked up.
What do you want, Hunter?
Clipped. Guess she hasn’t quite
forgiven me. Then, in the back-
ground, I hear another voice. Male.
And not on the television. The alien
vine bursts to life, snakes its way
through me. I start to blow. Think
better of it. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know
you had company. I just … uh …
wanted you to know how truly sorry
I am. Thanks for taking my call.”
I hang up, choking back a wad
of emotions. Hurt. Surprise.
Fury. Embarrassment. Now
there’s a weird one. Why am I
embarrassed? And not for her.
For me. How could she replace
me? Did she replace me? What
is she doing with that guy? Who
is he? Where did she hook up
with him? And for what reason?
Companionship? Sex? Love?
No. Not that. I can deal with
the other two, but no way could
I handle her falling in love
with someone else. My cell rings.
The ladies’ flight has arrived.
I put the Jeep into gear, and as
I pull forward into the loading
zone, it hits me suddenly that
Nikki must have asked herself
the very same questions about me.
SUBDUED
That’s the collective feeling
as I give Leigh and Kristina
tentative hugs, load their luggage
into the Jeep. We all pretty much
feel like shit. They, because
they’re very close to losing
their father. Me, because I’m
really afraid I’ve lost my Nikki.
Kristina commandeers shotgun.
Leigh doesn’t try to argue. We
drive along in silence for a while.
Finally I say, “Mom got you a hotel
room, Kristina. Do you want to
drop off your stuff before we go
on out to the house?” I do not
expect her answer. I’m not staying
at any hotel. I want to see my boys.
Mom can kiss my freaking ass.
Okay. This is going to be one
entertaining Christmas. “You might
want to rethink your attitude.”
Excuse me, but just who in the hell
do you think you are? You’re not
my father. You are my son.
The sky opens up. Wet snow splats
against the windshield. Very much
like how her words splatter me.
That vine again. And this time,
I let it go full bloom. “Fuck you.
I might have been your zygote.
Your fetus. Maybe even your off-
spring. But I have never been your
son. You have no idea what it means
to be a real mother. You think nine
months of discomfort and eight
hours of labor gives you the right
to call yourself ‘Mom’? Well, bitch,
you’re delusional.” I could go on,
but in the backseat, Leigh’s discomfort,
though silent, hangs heavily. “Here’s
the hotel. Why don’t you check in?
Someone will pick you up later.”
I PUT HER SUITCASE
On the sidewalk, come around
to open her door
a major argument. She climbs
out meekly, eyes on the ground,
and I almost think about saying
I’m sorry. Almost. Instead
I open the backseat door, invite
Leigh to move to the front seat.
“So we can talk,” is my reason.
It takes a few minutes before she
says, You may not believe it, but in
her own way, Kristina loves you.
The vine wraps itself around my
throat. Chokes. “Kristina doesn’t
love anyone, except ‘in her own
way.’ That isn’t good enough.
Love isn’t supposed to be …”
I hate revelations. “Selfish.”
A SUBJECT CHANGE
Seems in order. “So how’s …”
I don’t even know what to call him.
Leigh rescues me. Dad? Not good.
Linda Sue is beside herself. Scared.
“Of what?” Stupid question. I know
the answer before she says it.
Losing him. She really loves him.
I feel sorry for her, you know?
“But what about him? How do
you feel about him maybe dying?”
She’s already thought it through.
I hated him for so long. For the way
he left us. For the part he played in
Kristina’s drama. I don’t know, Hunter.
I guess what I feel is guilty because
I don’t have a need to mourn him.
Bam. “What about Kristina?
How does she feel about it?”
This answer takes longer. I’m not sure
Kristina can feel much anymore.
I’VE THOUGHT THE SAME THING
Seems like, no matter what goes
down in Kristina’s life, the only
thing she ever feels is paranoia.
Everyone hates her. (Not true.)
Everyone distrusts her. (True.)
Everyone is out to get her. (Uh … why?)
Whatever bad happens in her life,
it’s someone else’s fault. Wrong
turns? Forced to take them. Fall
flat on her face? She was pushed.
Personal responsibility for the choices
she has made? What the hell
is “personal responsibility”? And
what about other feelings? Love?
Happiness? Anticipation? Hate, even?
All those emotions seem unavailable
to her. Like no matter how deep
she drills for them, the well is dry.
Was she born that way? Were
those things taken from her?
What I want to know is, “Why?”
Leigh takes her time answering.
Kristina never really was the “warm
and fuzzy” type. But when we were
younger, she was so much more alive
inside. The meth stole that life force,
of course. You know how they say
it eats holes in your brain? Well,
it does. And it eats them in the part
of the brain that controls emotions.
But even beyond that. I think the more
she has failed at things like relationships
and parenting, the more she has cut
herself off from feeling bad about those
things. And if you don’t let yourself feel
bad, sooner or later you stop feeling
good, too. You insulate yourself. Build
up layers, like stacking paper, everything
growing heavier. And when the weight
becomes too much, those layers compress.
Become hard. Sad, really, to think that
Kristina has turned herself into cardboard.
Autumn
PRETTY MUCH MISERABLE
That’s how this trip has been,
not that I expected better.
Long, boring stretches of asphalt.
Landscape, mostly scrubbed of life,
at least until around thirty miles
ago. Then low desert gave way
to squat evergreens, hints of real
forest to the west, along the spine
of the Sierra Nevada. So far,
the weather has done nothing
more than loom, threatening.
But we keep heading north,
toward crazy-looking storm clouds.
Clouds like I’ve never seen before.
In Texas, stormers are huge, black
beasts. These are big, all right.
But they’re white, with giant silver
underbellies. Bellies, I hear,
that will open and bleed snow.
The threat of an approaching blizzard
is frightening. Exhilarating.
FRIGHTENING AND EXHILARATING
The words sum up a lot of what
I’m thinking about right now. A
blizzard
seems the least of my worries.
Let’s see. Closer and closer
to Reno, the thought of home-
coming
looms like a monster, spreading
its arms in some kind of welcome.
The idea of meeting long-lost
family seemed a whole lot
better
in Texas. Especially waltzing
in on Christmas Eve. I can hear
it now. “Would y’all just
look
what Santa brought this year!”
Except they don’t say “y’all”
in Nevada, do they? OMG.
I so don’t belong here. But,
for
what it’s worth, I so want to belong
here. So want connection with
something severed. So want to find
shelter
in the hearts
of a family of strangers.
THAT SEEMS EVEN MORE UNLIKELY
Knowing I’m probably pregnant.
Oh yeah, even better. “Here
I am. You don’t know me. But
accept me, anyway. And just
in case you’re wondering, I think
I’m going to have a baby.”
Husband? No. No husband.
(Not yet?)
Boyfriend? I think so.
(What will he say?)
Birth control? Well, yes,
they have it in Texas. I just sort
of decided not to use it.
(How do I tell him?)
Of course, I don’t have to tell
them. At least not right now.
Bryce should probably be
the first to know. God, he’s
going to be so mad at me.
But he’ll stand by my side.
(Won’t he?)
TREY TOTALLY SUSPECTS
The truth. But so far he has respected
my wish not to discuss the possibility.
He has, in fact, been pretty darn quiet
for most of this very long ride. When
the radio dissolves into a static dead
sea, though, there isn’t much to do but talk.
And since he isn’t about to initiate
conversation, I ask, “What’s prison like?”
He thinks a minute, says, Pretty much like
you see on TV, I guess. Except until you
experience it, you can’t really understand
what it’s like to live in an oversize crypt.
For ten years? I’d die of claustrophobia
poisoning. “What’s the worst thing?”
He thinks again. Toss-up. The smell—people
stink, let me tell you. That, or the boredom.
Wow. I thought he’d have some racy
stories to tell me. But yeah, I get boredom.
BOREDOM IS AN OVERSIZE CRYPT
Or twenty
in a car (sort of a crypt on
wheels, if you think about it)
with someone you don’t know.
Even if that someone might
be your father. I still can’t
think of him that way. (So why
are you here? Stupid?)
I really must stop thinking
parenthetically. Carrying on
a silent conversation with
myself. Splitting the whole
of me into halves. Pushing
myself beyond OCD and panic
attacks, all the way to the realm
of probable schizophrenia.
I’m not two people. Only one,
uncertain. One, scared of the gray
space of tomorrow. But a lot more
scared of being stuck in yesterday.
WE ROLL INTO BISHOP
A small California town also reaching
desperately for the future. Maybe
this is where I should move.
Trey decides to stop at Schat’s
Bakkerÿ. This place is famous. Can’t go
through Bishop and not stop here.
Famous? Never heard of it. But,
“I guess I could eat.” And I could
definitely pee. Not a lot of places
to stop along 395. If nothing else,
almost six hours since leaving our
overnight layover in Indio, it feels
great to stretch my legs. We go inside,
order sandwiches, and by the time
I get back from the bathroom,
Trey has collected them and stands
talking to a couple of locals. He sees
me, excuses himself to join me.
Those guys just got in from Reno.
Guess it’s snowing pretty good up
there. We’d better buy some chains.
ALL GASSED UP
Horribly overpriced chains
purchased and “how to install ’em”
tutorial complete, we hit the highway.
Normally, the yeasty scent
of the Schat’s Bakkerÿ bread
on my sandwich would strike me
as pretty much heavenly.
Today it’s making me slightly
nauseous, a fact that Trey, who
is inhaling his own sandwich,
can’t help but notice. Have you
decided what to do about that?
I want to sound defiant, but
the best I can accomplish
is a miserable, “Do about what?”
Trey shrugs. I can’t pretend to
be your friend, let alone your
dad. We barely know each other.