Mom and I reunited in the empty waiting room. How small she looked. Seemed as though the chemicals that streamed through her bloodstream had shrunk her to be the size of a sixteen year-old, only weaker, frailer. Her fawn-colored skin had paled, and blended with the beige scarf on her head.
She scrutinized me with eyes set deep in their sockets. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Ready?”
“You’ve been crying.” She smoothed my hair. “I’m sick but I’m not blind.”
“I’m fine.” I faked a smile. “Let’s get you home.”
She smirked. “So I can throw up in private, right?”
We laughed even though her sickness was far from funny. It took the length of our commute from Westwood to Long Beach—thirty-two miles—for her body to rebel against Taxol. As soon as we’d get home, Mom would hop out of the car, and nearly kick down the front door.
She’d race to the upstairs bathroom and sink to the tile floor. She’d grasp the sides of the toilet and drop her head over the bowl. Her body would convulse, then, as it tried to rid itself of the drugs that would make it better.
#
Downstairs, in the hospital’s lobby, patients, doctors, and staff rushed from exam room to pharmacy to lab. Someone tapped the keys of the baby grand near the front entrance. The well-worn linoleum was slick with puddles and mud.
“Neve!” A woman’s voice had cut through the noise. “Neve!”
Both Mom and I turned to see a small woman wearing a puffy Raiders parka rush over to where we stood. A cloud of wet-smelling cigarette smoke followed her. “I thought that was you!”
Mom squinted as she tried to remember the gap in the woman’s front teeth, her bloodshot hazel eyes, and the crucifix tattoo on her neck.
“Girl, it’s Aretha,” the woman said with a broad smile.
Mom squinted more.
The woman put her hand on her hip. “Aretha. Remember? Girl, I know you remember me.”
Mom’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Aretha from the Broadway?”
The short woman nodded. “Yeah!” Her golden hair weave rustled against the nylon jacket.
Mom turned to me. “Remember Aretha, Cat? She used to work in Girls.”
“This is Cat?” Aretha screeched. “Honey, I remember when you was nothing but a baby. Remember me?”
Guarded, I said, “Yes. How are you?” In truth, I barely remembered Aretha from Girls. And I barely remembered that Mom had worked as a department store salesclerk.
“So, what you here for?” Aretha asked my mother.
I tugged at Mom’s coat. “We should go. Traffic...”
“That sure is a beautiful head wrap.” Aretha turned to me and said, “Your mama always had taste. Just like Diana Ross. That’s what we called her at the store.”
Mom touched her head. “Actually, I’m losing my hair.”
“Already?” Aretha coughed—three packs a day, it sounded. “You what, forty-something? Cat giving you the blues?”
“No,” Mom said. “I have breast cancer.”
And it happened, like it always happened when Mom told someone that she had cancer. The Eye Dance:
Breasts?
Check.
Eyebrows?
Gone.
Sores!
Ugh.
“But you look so healthy,” Aretha said, unconvinced. “Remember this: the Lord will never give you more than you can handle.”
I cringed at these words. They were shaped like little burs that stuck to your socks.
“Well, looks can be deceiving.” Mom had never used that cliché before she had been diagnosed.
Aretha’s eyes now shifted between the exit and the floor. “So y’all still living in the Jungle?”
Mom shook her head. “No. My husband and I—”
“Husband? You ain’t talking about Paul, are you?” Aretha grinned, narrowed her eyes.
Mom tugged at her coat. Fidgeted with the strap to her purse.
“You really should get home and rest,” I said.
Mom nodded. “Aretha, it’s good seeing you again.”
Aretha said, “Yeah,” relieved that her brush with death and disease was almost over, but ticked off that she didn’t find out more about Mom’s private life.
My mother and I watched her shuffle to the elevator bank and wriggle into a full car. She didn’t look back. Looking back would change her into a pillar of salt, I guess.
Mom took my arm. We left the hospital that afternoon and braved the rain together.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Rules for Writing
In the New York Times, Colson Whitehead shares with us his rules for writing. My favorite is this one:
Rule No. 6: What isn’t said is as important as what is said. In many classic short stories, the real action occurs in the silences. Try to keep all the good stuff off the page. Some “real world” practice might help. The next time your partner comes home, ignore his or her existence for 30 minutes, and then blurt out “That’s it!” and drive the car onto the neighbor’s lawn...
Read the rest here.
Rule No. 6: What isn’t said is as important as what is said. In many classic short stories, the real action occurs in the silences. Try to keep all the good stuff off the page. Some “real world” practice might help. The next time your partner comes home, ignore his or her existence for 30 minutes, and then blurt out “That’s it!” and drive the car onto the neighbor’s lawn...
Read the rest here.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Chapter 5 - Red Sky in the Morning
After three hours of chemotherapy, Synthia unhooked my mother from the Taxol drip. The skin on Mom’s forearm had already bruised into a dirty yellow. It would be the color of seaweed by tomorrow morning. Synthia checked Mom’s blood pressure a final time, then said, “You did great today, Neve.”
Weak, Mom could only smile.
“You okay?” I asked my mother once the nurse left the room.
She nodded, then asked me to pray with her. “You don’t mind, do you?”
We held hands as she asked God for a successful recovery. I peeked: her face tilted up to the cork board ceiling, as though healing would shower down like rain. Mom thanked God for Synthia and Doctor Pearson, the pharmaceutical company, cancer researchers, me. The tremor in her voice betrayed the calm on her face. I squeezed her hands to remind her that I was still there.
After she finished praying, I whispered, “I’ll be outside,” then stumbled back through the corridors to the waiting room, now empty. I took a deep breath and leaned against the back of a chair. Even though we were finished, we weren’t finished.
My cell-phone chirped and interrupted any thoughts about the next several hours. I grabbed the phone from my bag. The caller I.D. display flashed Sam Chappelle’s phone number. We met five years ago. Ran into the back of him—literally—in my old Hyundai. He was a star reporter for the Times. I was a starting photographer on my first day. He had eyes the color of cognac, a strong chin covered in barely-there whiskers, and a lithe, tennis player’s body.
The phone continued to chirp. Didn’t know whether to smile or be annoyed. Wondered if I should answer or...
“Hey,” I said.
“Happy birthday.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At the hospital with my mother.”
A pause. “Oh.” More silence. “Is she okay?”
I wandered over to the smoked glass windows. Raindrops still slashed across the thick panes, and down below, people rushed from the hospital to the parking lot across the street. “Hard to tell.”
“So are you celebrating tonight?” Sam asked. “It’s the big 3-0.”
I could hear his fingers flying over the laptop keyboard. For the past week, he had been writing a story on toxic sludge discovered beneath a proposed school site.
“Really don’t feel like it,” I said. “With everything going on.”
He was probably sitting at his desk, surrounded by empty root beer cans and Doritos bags. He had muted the sound of Judge Judy or Oprah, listening instead to Tupac or Biggie Smalls on the stereo.
“I’d really like to spend more time with you,” he said. “You’ve been pretty busy lately.”
I sighed. Heard this all the time from any poor sucker I dated. This time, I could blame my mother for my distraction.
“Cat, you there?” Sam asked.
Outside, gusts of wind forced palm trees to lean back like long-legged limbo dancers. I closed my eyes and pictured the freeway: cars, rain, brilliant pink flares thrown on the asphalt, forcing three chaotic lanes into one. There would be Highway Patrol squad cars on the side of the road with officers calming frightened accident victims and concerned truckers.
“Cat?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
Sam stopped typing. “You have nothing to apologize for.” His voice sounded tight, cautious. “So when will I see you again?”
I closed my eyes. “Soon.”
“When?”
“Next week?” But next week was... was... I’m sure next week was something.
Sam said, “I’ll call for reservations at Dan Tana’s.”
I placed my hand against the window. “That sounds great.”
Sam said, “If you don’t want us to go out anymore, you can say that. I’m 34 years old. I can handle it.”
I didn’t speak. Just watched the rain hit the pane. Just listened to my heart thump in my chest.
“Am I talking to myself?” he said.
“I like you, Sam,” I said, “but I have to think of my mother first. Know what I mean?”
He said, “Yes. I didn’t mean to push.”
I gripped the phone tight.
“I’ll still make reservations,” he said, “and if you can’t make it, you can’t make it. How’s that?”
Relieved, I nodded. Whispered, “Okay.”
I knew that I would cancel last minute. And I knew that Sam knew, too. I also knew that he wouldn’t tolerate me much longer. He’d leave. That’s what men do. They fall in love. Fall out of love. Then, they leave.
Weak, Mom could only smile.
“You okay?” I asked my mother once the nurse left the room.
She nodded, then asked me to pray with her. “You don’t mind, do you?”
We held hands as she asked God for a successful recovery. I peeked: her face tilted up to the cork board ceiling, as though healing would shower down like rain. Mom thanked God for Synthia and Doctor Pearson, the pharmaceutical company, cancer researchers, me. The tremor in her voice betrayed the calm on her face. I squeezed her hands to remind her that I was still there.
After she finished praying, I whispered, “I’ll be outside,” then stumbled back through the corridors to the waiting room, now empty. I took a deep breath and leaned against the back of a chair. Even though we were finished, we weren’t finished.
My cell-phone chirped and interrupted any thoughts about the next several hours. I grabbed the phone from my bag. The caller I.D. display flashed Sam Chappelle’s phone number. We met five years ago. Ran into the back of him—literally—in my old Hyundai. He was a star reporter for the Times. I was a starting photographer on my first day. He had eyes the color of cognac, a strong chin covered in barely-there whiskers, and a lithe, tennis player’s body.
The phone continued to chirp. Didn’t know whether to smile or be annoyed. Wondered if I should answer or...
“Hey,” I said.
“Happy birthday.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At the hospital with my mother.”
A pause. “Oh.” More silence. “Is she okay?”
I wandered over to the smoked glass windows. Raindrops still slashed across the thick panes, and down below, people rushed from the hospital to the parking lot across the street. “Hard to tell.”
“So are you celebrating tonight?” Sam asked. “It’s the big 3-0.”
I could hear his fingers flying over the laptop keyboard. For the past week, he had been writing a story on toxic sludge discovered beneath a proposed school site.
“Really don’t feel like it,” I said. “With everything going on.”
He was probably sitting at his desk, surrounded by empty root beer cans and Doritos bags. He had muted the sound of Judge Judy or Oprah, listening instead to Tupac or Biggie Smalls on the stereo.
“I’d really like to spend more time with you,” he said. “You’ve been pretty busy lately.”
I sighed. Heard this all the time from any poor sucker I dated. This time, I could blame my mother for my distraction.
“Cat, you there?” Sam asked.
Outside, gusts of wind forced palm trees to lean back like long-legged limbo dancers. I closed my eyes and pictured the freeway: cars, rain, brilliant pink flares thrown on the asphalt, forcing three chaotic lanes into one. There would be Highway Patrol squad cars on the side of the road with officers calming frightened accident victims and concerned truckers.
“Cat?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
Sam stopped typing. “You have nothing to apologize for.” His voice sounded tight, cautious. “So when will I see you again?”
I closed my eyes. “Soon.”
“When?”
“Next week?” But next week was... was... I’m sure next week was something.
Sam said, “I’ll call for reservations at Dan Tana’s.”
I placed my hand against the window. “That sounds great.”
Sam said, “If you don’t want us to go out anymore, you can say that. I’m 34 years old. I can handle it.”
I didn’t speak. Just watched the rain hit the pane. Just listened to my heart thump in my chest.
“Am I talking to myself?” he said.
“I like you, Sam,” I said, “but I have to think of my mother first. Know what I mean?”
He said, “Yes. I didn’t mean to push.”
I gripped the phone tight.
“I’ll still make reservations,” he said, “and if you can’t make it, you can’t make it. How’s that?”
Relieved, I nodded. Whispered, “Okay.”
I knew that I would cancel last minute. And I knew that Sam knew, too. I also knew that he wouldn’t tolerate me much longer. He’d leave. That’s what men do. They fall in love. Fall out of love. Then, they leave.
Monday, July 23, 2012
A Sign to Share
Runaway Bay, Jamaica
July 2012
Funny.
And 'Speedkills'? Is that a classification of food hit by cars? Like the Jamaican version of 'roadkill'?
And dude, they really do drive fast over there. Like, for real. We were there for a week and many times, manymany times, I silently called on the Lord.
July 2012
Funny.
And 'Speedkills'? Is that a classification of food hit by cars? Like the Jamaican version of 'roadkill'?
And dude, they really do drive fast over there. Like, for real. We were there for a week and many times, manymany times, I silently called on the Lord.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Chapter 4 - Red Sky in the Morning
Mom and I remained in that windowless room with its bad art and cheap furniture. As Taxol seeped into her blood stream, I etched each drop into my memory. One of them would lead the fight against the cancer now holding her body hostage.
At her first treatment, I had thought, How easy this is. Mom just sits here and waits until the bag empties so that she can go home. But half an hour in, goose bumps had swarmed across her arms. She began to shiver, then shake. Before I could even call, Synthia had rushed in the room with an extra blanket, socks, and a sweater from the lost-and-found.
“It was like brain freeze,” Mom told me later. “But with my entire body.”
It was a paralyzing cold, she said. Achy and warm at the edges.
I didn’t like seeing her tortured. I didn’t like seeing her cry. I was helpless, though, and couldn’t prevent either. So, I sat next to her, alert, in my chair, waiting for her to get better, waiting to witness the exact moment of her recovery.
I reached for Mom’s purse in search of a stick of gum. She chewed several sticks of Double-Mint to combat nausea and dry mouth. The pack of gum hid among lipsticks, medicine vials, and makeup. An old, crumpled photograph—the kind with the white frame and time-stamp—hid in a smaller pocket.
I gasped. Muttered, “Wow...” A five-year old girl was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the hood of a black Thunderbird. She wore green and orange plaid pants and an orange T-shirt. Her two ponytails had been tied with orange cotton yarn. A grinning black man stood next to her. His conk shone in the sunshine.
My heart pounded so fast and hard, I grasped the chair’s arm to steady myself from fainting. “Wow...” I glanced over at Mom. She was still asleep. A good thing.
This picture was twenty-five years old. I had never seen it, even though the images were familiar: my father, his T-Bird, and me.
#
On the Sunday that picture had been taken, Mom had been watching Wild, Wild West in the living room. She never missed an episode: Robert Conrad made her swoon. I had settled next to her with a Ramona book and read as she muttered, “Get him, Jim.”
Ten minutes into the show, I placed my head to her lap and stared at the pictures on the walls. A black and white of my naked mother holding a naked, newborn me. A picture of me (three years old, maybe) in a bathing suit, reclining on a lawn chair. A magnolia is tucked behind my left ear. A coloring book sits on my lap. Another picture of Mom, Dad, and me. We wore white dress-up clothes as we stood on the beach.
These pictures proved that we—the Paul Smith family—had existed. Can’t capture myth on film, no matter what I think at times. No matter what Mom thinks now.
I had fallen asleep.
The smell of English Leather made my nose twitch and I opened my eyes. Dad sat next to Mom on the couch. His hands were lost in her hair. He nibbled at her earlobe. Mom held the side of his face with her eyes closed. She was smiling—a different smile from the one she gave me.
I narrowed my eyes and stared at Dad, unsure if he was real or if he was a dream. I didn’t speak in fear of waking myself up, even after he separated from Mom and said, “Hey, Shorty.”
“Daddy?” I sat up and rubbed my cheek. “Are you back?”
“Yep.” He had grabbed me, hugged me tight. Beneath his cologne, he smelled of Ivory soap. He had taken a shower before returning home. The peppermint Certs he sucked couldn’t hide the Scotch on his breath. Never did. He always smelled of Scotch and soap on the days he returned from photo assignments.
He pinched my arm. “How you doin’, Shorty?”
“Fine.” I stared at his shoes. I could see my face in the black patent leather. He hadn’t had those shoes before. “Did you bring me something?”
“Yep.” He nodded to the coffee table.
A wooden Russian doll sat on top of T.V. Guide.
“If you open her up,” he said, “you’ll find another doll. And then, if you open that doll, there’s another doll.”
I looked at him, my mouth open in awe. “Dy-no-mite!” I snatched the doll from its place and pulled it apart. Sure enough, another doll hid there. “Dy-no-mite!” My father always brought back cool souvenirs from each place he visited.
Dad smiled. His teeth were large and white, like slats on a fence. “I got another surprise.” He stood and his leather jacket creaked. His beginner’s beer belly bulged against his slacks’ waistband. He ate and drank well on these trips around the globe, those trips without Mom and me. “Come on Neve. Shorty.”
Mom pulled me from his arms. “Where are we going?”
He said, “Outside. And bring the camera.”
“Paul.” She looked at him with suspicion, as though she had never slept with him or borne him a child. “Where’s your camera? Where’s your equipment?”
“Why you bein’ like this?” He frowned. “Stop being silly and come on, now. See what I got us.”
I said, “Yeah. Stop being a worrywart. Let’s go see.”
Mom sighed. She shuffled across the living room to the kitchen drawer that housed extension cords, a broken hammer, and a Kodak camera. “We’re out of flashbulbs.” She tossed a blue flashcube stained with black powder into the wastebasket.
Dad called from the porch, “You don’t need no flash. It’s still light out.”
Mom slipped her feet into a pair of clogs. I reached under the couch and found my princess shoes, the ones with fake rubies and emeralds, and a barely-there heel, then followed my parents outside.
A black 1967 Thunderbird was parked in our driveway. Its belly hung so low to the ground, you couldn’t roll a marble under it. The car glistened like onyx even in the late moments of full sunlight.
Mom gasped, then muttered, “Jinkies.”
“Ain’t it bad?” Dad rushed over and ran his hand across the car’s top. “This son-of-a-gun is solid, ain’t it? Come on. Get closer.”
I clomped over and peered inside the car. Its leather seats and dashboard were as black and shiny as the outside. Like the interior had been greased down with Crisco. A green pine tree cutout hung from the rearview mirror.
Mom held her stomach, as though she had been sucker-punched. “How... where... where did you get the money?”
“Relax, Neve. Shoot. It’s what I work for.” Dad smiled at me. His face reminded me of the dark man’s face on the Cream of Wheat box. “Like it, Cat?”
“It’s dy-no-mite!” I said, avoiding Mom’s eyes. Yes, I betrayed her, but it was a bad-azz car.
Dad reached beneath my arms and picked me up. He swung me high into the air, then sat me on the hood. He pulled out a packet of Bottle Caps from his coat pocket and offered it to me. “Sweets for my sweets.” He smiled, so I smiled.
That day, the clear sky was the color of Windex. The Santa Anas had blown the smog and the cumulus clouds to the Pacific Ocean and all the way to China. I tore open the bag of candy and ate a cap in my favorite flavor: pink. The sugar slowly melted in my mouth, between the spaces of my teeth, until it became syrup. It was a perfect day.
Dad turned to his wife. “Take a picture of me and my two babies.”
And Mom obeyed, though not pleased.
Dad took the camera and snapped a few more pictures of the car, fascinated and still reeling from the fact that this steely mass of American badazzness was his, all his. And with nothing to hold (except a grudge), Mom stuck her hands in her jean pockets.
#
I stuck the picture back in Mom’s purse. Why she hadn’t shared it with me, I don’t know. It wasn’t like I didn’t know about my father. Maybe she thought I knew enough, and so we didn’t have to talk about him ever again.
At her first treatment, I had thought, How easy this is. Mom just sits here and waits until the bag empties so that she can go home. But half an hour in, goose bumps had swarmed across her arms. She began to shiver, then shake. Before I could even call, Synthia had rushed in the room with an extra blanket, socks, and a sweater from the lost-and-found.
“It was like brain freeze,” Mom told me later. “But with my entire body.”
It was a paralyzing cold, she said. Achy and warm at the edges.
I didn’t like seeing her tortured. I didn’t like seeing her cry. I was helpless, though, and couldn’t prevent either. So, I sat next to her, alert, in my chair, waiting for her to get better, waiting to witness the exact moment of her recovery.
I reached for Mom’s purse in search of a stick of gum. She chewed several sticks of Double-Mint to combat nausea and dry mouth. The pack of gum hid among lipsticks, medicine vials, and makeup. An old, crumpled photograph—the kind with the white frame and time-stamp—hid in a smaller pocket.
I gasped. Muttered, “Wow...” A five-year old girl was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the hood of a black Thunderbird. She wore green and orange plaid pants and an orange T-shirt. Her two ponytails had been tied with orange cotton yarn. A grinning black man stood next to her. His conk shone in the sunshine.
My heart pounded so fast and hard, I grasped the chair’s arm to steady myself from fainting. “Wow...” I glanced over at Mom. She was still asleep. A good thing.
This picture was twenty-five years old. I had never seen it, even though the images were familiar: my father, his T-Bird, and me.
#
On the Sunday that picture had been taken, Mom had been watching Wild, Wild West in the living room. She never missed an episode: Robert Conrad made her swoon. I had settled next to her with a Ramona book and read as she muttered, “Get him, Jim.”
Ten minutes into the show, I placed my head to her lap and stared at the pictures on the walls. A black and white of my naked mother holding a naked, newborn me. A picture of me (three years old, maybe) in a bathing suit, reclining on a lawn chair. A magnolia is tucked behind my left ear. A coloring book sits on my lap. Another picture of Mom, Dad, and me. We wore white dress-up clothes as we stood on the beach.
These pictures proved that we—the Paul Smith family—had existed. Can’t capture myth on film, no matter what I think at times. No matter what Mom thinks now.
I had fallen asleep.
The smell of English Leather made my nose twitch and I opened my eyes. Dad sat next to Mom on the couch. His hands were lost in her hair. He nibbled at her earlobe. Mom held the side of his face with her eyes closed. She was smiling—a different smile from the one she gave me.
I narrowed my eyes and stared at Dad, unsure if he was real or if he was a dream. I didn’t speak in fear of waking myself up, even after he separated from Mom and said, “Hey, Shorty.”
“Daddy?” I sat up and rubbed my cheek. “Are you back?”
“Yep.” He had grabbed me, hugged me tight. Beneath his cologne, he smelled of Ivory soap. He had taken a shower before returning home. The peppermint Certs he sucked couldn’t hide the Scotch on his breath. Never did. He always smelled of Scotch and soap on the days he returned from photo assignments.
He pinched my arm. “How you doin’, Shorty?”
“Fine.” I stared at his shoes. I could see my face in the black patent leather. He hadn’t had those shoes before. “Did you bring me something?”
“Yep.” He nodded to the coffee table.
A wooden Russian doll sat on top of T.V. Guide.
“If you open her up,” he said, “you’ll find another doll. And then, if you open that doll, there’s another doll.”
I looked at him, my mouth open in awe. “Dy-no-mite!” I snatched the doll from its place and pulled it apart. Sure enough, another doll hid there. “Dy-no-mite!” My father always brought back cool souvenirs from each place he visited.
Dad smiled. His teeth were large and white, like slats on a fence. “I got another surprise.” He stood and his leather jacket creaked. His beginner’s beer belly bulged against his slacks’ waistband. He ate and drank well on these trips around the globe, those trips without Mom and me. “Come on Neve. Shorty.”
Mom pulled me from his arms. “Where are we going?”
He said, “Outside. And bring the camera.”
“Paul.” She looked at him with suspicion, as though she had never slept with him or borne him a child. “Where’s your camera? Where’s your equipment?”
“Why you bein’ like this?” He frowned. “Stop being silly and come on, now. See what I got us.”
I said, “Yeah. Stop being a worrywart. Let’s go see.”
Mom sighed. She shuffled across the living room to the kitchen drawer that housed extension cords, a broken hammer, and a Kodak camera. “We’re out of flashbulbs.” She tossed a blue flashcube stained with black powder into the wastebasket.
Dad called from the porch, “You don’t need no flash. It’s still light out.”
Mom slipped her feet into a pair of clogs. I reached under the couch and found my princess shoes, the ones with fake rubies and emeralds, and a barely-there heel, then followed my parents outside.
A black 1967 Thunderbird was parked in our driveway. Its belly hung so low to the ground, you couldn’t roll a marble under it. The car glistened like onyx even in the late moments of full sunlight.
Mom gasped, then muttered, “Jinkies.”
“Ain’t it bad?” Dad rushed over and ran his hand across the car’s top. “This son-of-a-gun is solid, ain’t it? Come on. Get closer.”
I clomped over and peered inside the car. Its leather seats and dashboard were as black and shiny as the outside. Like the interior had been greased down with Crisco. A green pine tree cutout hung from the rearview mirror.
Mom held her stomach, as though she had been sucker-punched. “How... where... where did you get the money?”
“Relax, Neve. Shoot. It’s what I work for.” Dad smiled at me. His face reminded me of the dark man’s face on the Cream of Wheat box. “Like it, Cat?”
“It’s dy-no-mite!” I said, avoiding Mom’s eyes. Yes, I betrayed her, but it was a bad-azz car.
Dad reached beneath my arms and picked me up. He swung me high into the air, then sat me on the hood. He pulled out a packet of Bottle Caps from his coat pocket and offered it to me. “Sweets for my sweets.” He smiled, so I smiled.
That day, the clear sky was the color of Windex. The Santa Anas had blown the smog and the cumulus clouds to the Pacific Ocean and all the way to China. I tore open the bag of candy and ate a cap in my favorite flavor: pink. The sugar slowly melted in my mouth, between the spaces of my teeth, until it became syrup. It was a perfect day.
Dad turned to his wife. “Take a picture of me and my two babies.”
And Mom obeyed, though not pleased.
Dad took the camera and snapped a few more pictures of the car, fascinated and still reeling from the fact that this steely mass of American badazzness was his, all his. And with nothing to hold (except a grudge), Mom stuck her hands in her jean pockets.
#
I stuck the picture back in Mom’s purse. Why she hadn’t shared it with me, I don’t know. It wasn’t like I didn’t know about my father. Maybe she thought I knew enough, and so we didn’t have to talk about him ever again.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
A Little Good News...
I can now announce my very-good, very-exciting news!
From Publishers Marketplace:
July 18, 2012
Fiction:
Mystery/Crime
Rachel Howzell Hall's A GIRL IS LIKE A SHADOW, in which a LAPD homicide detective must learn the truth about the apparent suicide of a teenage girl which may be related to her own sister's disappearance more than twenty years ago, to Kristin Sevick at Forge, in a two-book deal, by Jill Marsal at the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
I'm THRILLED and can't wait to share GIRL with you soon!
From Publishers Marketplace:
July 18, 2012
Fiction:
Mystery/Crime
Rachel Howzell Hall's A GIRL IS LIKE A SHADOW, in which a LAPD homicide detective must learn the truth about the apparent suicide of a teenage girl which may be related to her own sister's disappearance more than twenty years ago, to Kristin Sevick at Forge, in a two-book deal, by Jill Marsal at the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
I'm THRILLED and can't wait to share GIRL with you soon!
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