Free Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez

preparing herself to watch another one of her children crash and burn. Did I look that bad? “I'm not going to fall apart, Ma.”
    She smiled at the way I called her Ma. We only used that term when we were being silly, prodding her. She got in with me, wrinkling her nose at thesmell, and laughing as she did this. I had never felt so close to my mother as I did then.
    I remade the bed the next morning, leaving the dirty sheets. I wasn't planning on sleeping there again but wasn't able to change anything either. I wanted the next time that I came down here to look as it would if he were still alive. Before I left, I messed up the bed again.
    I spent a month on the island with my mother. I quit my job at the coffee shop. Once I went home, I would be able to finally write full-time—Tristan left his trust fund, including the income from half of my father's royalties, to me. I felt a smug satisfaction at that. My father thought Tristan was the strong one, the competent one. Just because he was a boy.
    My mother and I grew close again, like when I was a girl. We drove around the island, attending farmer's markets, festivals, and having lunch in familiar restaurants. I spent hours with her working in the yard. Sometimes we stayed up too late drinking, and then slept late the next day. It was different to know my mother in this way. We leaned on each other. I slept in her bed with her as I'd done right after Dad left. She needed me then; this time I knew how much I needed her.
    “Did you ever think about letting Dad take Tristan?”
    She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Why would he do that? Your father had no time for him or anyone else. Can you imagine what Tristan would have been like if he'd gone with your father?”
    I could imagine it well. I remembered one Christmas he came back early from a visit. He never told me what happened.
    “There would have been no way I would have let him take Tristan. Ever since he arrived in my life, at six years old, so full of curiosity and life, I knew I would always be there for him.”
    “I don't think I could take care of someone else's child like that.”
    “Tristan was my son when your father left as much as he was your father's.” She paused and watched me. “I can't lose you too, baby,” she said stroking my head.
    “You won't,” I said, reassuring her. “Remember when Tristan tried to build that tree house in the back of the yard and that homeless guy kept camping out there?”
    She laughed softly. “I was terrified. I thought he was going to get violent.”
    “You didn't know Tristan was bringing him food from the house.”
    We both laughed. “He had no idea what he was getting into,” Mother said.
    “Remember when he was only reading German, and announced he was going to go to Germany, until he met that French girl,” I said, then Mom interrupted.
    “Renee, wasn't it?” she said. The sour smell of the wine on her breath also reminded me of the time after my father left. My head swam, my body felt heavy, and I only wanted to think about the good things.
    “He met her down at the beach, and then came home and announced he was going to read everything by Proust.”
    We discussed his brief athletic periods, swimming, basketball. Mom told me about having to talk to the principal about the articles he was publishing in the school paper. “Condom dispensers in every restroom! Cigarette machines for those who'd turned eighteen. Legalize drugs. My word,” she said.
    “Always took things to such extremes,” I said, then regretted it.
    “He did.”

Chapter 4
    When I finally went home to my apartment, the rooms were too bright and cold compared to the warmth and emotion that hung over everything at the house on the island. Coming back to my apartment was like stepping into another person's life. In my bedroom stood the neatly made bed, red comforter, and shimmery gold pillowcases that matched the drapes. Then there was the fuzzy white rug on the floor. Tristan