Sunland: A Novel

28

• • 187 • • “Listen. I’m only giving you another chance because you smell right,” she said. “But forgiving you will take years.” “Beautiful,” I said. The long hours stretched into morning. Outside I heard the clicking cicadas making music in the soapberry trees. I sat against the headboard, watching the sun rim the picture window in a yellow, ghostly glow, knowing the only thing left of any value, other than the casita, was my grandmother’s grave. I gently turned back the covers and Mona’s eyes opened. She batted her lashes against my shoulder and disappeared under the sheets, and I felt her warm breasts against my ribs. She nuzzled against me, half-awake, musky heat rising from her scalp. It was nice. As I was getting out of bed my foot came down awkwardly on her sandal and I slammed my toe into the bed frame. “Ow! Son of a bitch.” Mona lifted up as though springboarded. “We use the phrase son of a biscuit instead, remember?” “What?” “Son of a biscuit. That’s what we say.” Her bed hair was a messy nest. “Is this the part where you clean up my language with prude euphemisms?” I asked. “Correct.” I spent the morning tidying the casita, brooming dust balls from closets, crossing out repairs as I finished them. While cleaning the spare room I found a brick of old photos hidden behind an insulation panel in the closet. It was as if no one had wanted them found. Affixed around the stack were old frayed rubber bands. The top three photos were stuck together, but the others—I’d never seen the photos before. Were they Nana’s? It was a record of an unbroken family. My dad, my mom, me. Each photo surprised me. We were at Lake Tahoe. Out at Havasu. The coast of Oregon. Vacations. Back before Dad died and before Mom began looking at me with teary eyes. In one photo, I was standing with my mother next to the gray, pounding Oregon coastline. A bandage covered my ear. I thought about it, vaguely recalling a bicycle accident on the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure. Still, part of me wished I could remember my parents’ reaction, what they had done. They had both been there. This picture was proof. An even larger part of me wanted to believe that after I’d fallen, they’d run up to me and taken 28 • • 188 • • my head in their arms, that my mother had cried, kissed my eyelids, that my father had put his hand on my mother’s back as comfort, that there had been simple but profound acts of caring, that for at least one summer day on the Oregon coast a long time ago the connection between them had been undeniable and true. Mona showed me her nasty face when she came in to report that Warsaw was sleeping on the couch. “He’s here,” she said. “Again.” She put up her hands in exasperation and retreated to the shower. I was still in the bedroom going through the photos when Mona walked in with a towel on her head. “You’ve really fixed it up,” she said. “Warsaw wants to buy the place. Says he wants to be roommates.” Her hand fell from her hip. “Or,” she said, “you move in with me. You sell this house and your grandmother will be taken care of. Or we could relocate her to a nice home in Mexico. We can figure this out. Together.” “But Warsaw has money. He’s serious.” “So am I,” she said. Her naked toes curled against the cold hardwood. “Besides, you need to tell your friend that he needs to grow up.” my phone picked up two new voice mails on my way to the backyard shed. Both Juliet. I dug a weed from the yard with my heel and listened. “You’re terrifically bad at returning phone calls. Twelve messages so far by my count and nothing in return. I don’t know if you never want to speak to me again. I don’t know if you found someone else. I know nothing . I’m fielding calls from Mexico now, thank you very much. Please, quit your hurtful game. One phone call, that’s all I ask. And his name, since you always wanted to know, was Damon.” I closed my phone and considered this new information. Damon. Damon was a dog’s name. Damon was the...