Glass - 02 Read Free Page A

diaper,
    marveling for about
    the millionth time at
    his perfect little body.
    The body I created.
    All clean and dry,
    I carry him back
    to my bed, cradle
    him in one pillowed
    arm, unbutton my top.
    And as the milk begins
    to flow, so do my tears.
    “Mommy loves you,
    Hunter Seth. No matter
    what, Mommy loves you.”
    He looks up at me
    with spectacular green
    eyes and, around my
    very sore nipple, smiles
    a toothless baby smile.

N ow You Might Think
    That tender scene might make
    me change my mind, and truthfully,
    I have thought twice.
    But I don’t want to think again.
    I MapBlast directions to Robyn’s
    apartment, load a small ice chest
    with soda, to fight the wah-wahs
    sure to strike on my way home.
    If it gets too late, promise me
    you’ll stop and spend the night,
    Mom insists. Here’s some money.
    She hands me a crisp $100 bill.
    Suddenly it strikes me that I
    haven’t even thought about the money
    end of the transaction to come.
    Lucky me. A hundred will just
    about cover it. Still, if prices
    haven’t risen with inflation,
    another hundred will score
    an eight ball instead of a gram.
    Yeah, yeah, my thought processes
    have already graduated from casual
    to daily use. But I don’t want
    to have to drive to Stockton
    too often. Hell, an eight ball
    will last me just about
    forever. Won’t it?

S o Where to Find
    Another hundred dollars?
    In lieu of an allowance,
    Mom and Scott buy
    diapers and baby formula.
    My savings account is
    still closed to me, and will be
    until my eighteenth birthday.
    That impressive turning point
    is only a couple of weeks away,
    but not soon enough to score
    the monetary birthday rewards
    I hope for from relatives, far
    and near. No, only one place
    comes to mind, an easy
    place, all things considered—
    Hunter’s rainy-day piggy bank.
    All those very same relatives
    sent him a little cash, right
    after he was born. I was going
    to open a college savings
    account, but haven’t gotten
    around to it yet. No problem.
    I’ll replace it as soon as I get
    my birthday stash. Meanwhile,
    Hunter won’t miss it. And
    neither, I hope, will Mom.
    Pack an overnight bag, just
    in case, she says, interrupting
    my thoughts. Always a good
    idea to plan for that rainy day.

S he Makes It So Easy
    Handing me her keys,
    helping me pack, giving
    me money. I’d like to
    blame
    her for what may come,
    take dead aim and whack
    this big ball of
    guilt
    across the net,
    into her court, wait
    for her well-deserved
    volley.
    But that wouldn’t
    be accurate,
    wouldn’t be
    right.
    I know as I climb
    into the SUV, crank
    the engine, that what’s
    left
    of Kristina will have to
    battle the reemergent Bree,
    that despite my plan to come
    back
    and pick up where I left
    off, only more positive
    and energized to go
    forth,
    get my GED and a great
    job, find a nice little
    place, make my own way,
    the odds
    of things ever being
    quite right again are
    clearly, completely,
    not in my favor.

B ut Playing the Odds
    Is not my best thing, so
    I stow every single nagging
    doubt and head off to Stockton.
    It’s a gorgeous blue September
    day, and I take my time.
    South on a straight stretch
    of Highway 395, turn west
    on Highway 88, leaving Nevada
    behind, just out of Minden.
    The winding highway
    carries me past Kirkwood,
    my family’s favorite ski resort.
    Even without snow, the steep
    angular mountain brings back
    memories of stepping off cornices
    and hanging, midair, for a scant
    second before dropping down
    long, deep black-diamond runs.
    I can almost feel the sizzle
    of adrenaline, pumping
    from the back of my skull, zooming
    down my spine and into my legs,
    making them reach
    for even more speed.
    Turn. Turn. Don’t fight gravity.
    Suck into its jet stream.
    Once in a while I’d make a mistake,
    catch an edge. Or a mogul.
    Most times, I corrected
    before taking a tumble.
    Once or twice, I wasn’t so lucky,
    dumping headlong down the hill,
    sliding out of control
    until the landscape leveled.
    And