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couch, throw myself on it, and demand to stay. Instead, I lean in to give her a hug. She moves forward, arms out wide, embracing more a force field than my body. I stare at my truck over her shoulder, willing it to pull me away from her.
    â€œOkay, so.” I step out of her loose grasp. “See you then.”
    â€œBye. And bring my veil,” Suzanne says, and turning around, shuts her door.
    The walk down the sidewalk is the exact opposite of the wedding processional in a church aisle: no family all around, no celebration, and no one waiting for me at the end.

4
    â€œJesus God,” I say inside the refuge of my truck as I reach for my cell phone to dial Reggie to tell him about my sister encounter. I can’t sit with this until our call tomorrow morning. But his phone rings the dreaded four times that means he’s already left for the editing room. I leave a brief message though I doubt I’ll hear back from him soon enough, as in now. Any other time feels too far off.
    Driving down Suzanne’s street, I resist the urge to floor the accelerator. All I want to do is rush and speed through this uneasiness since being with her. Talking to Reggie would have gotten rid of it. God, I wish he were home. Maybe I’ll try him at the editing room. No, I’m not going to bother him at work. Okay, I’ll take the more scenic route from Suzanne’s—perhaps literally slowing down when I want to speed up will soothe my jangled nerves. I hope.
    I turn right onto a street that will reach the PCH, then take a left onto the highway, driving past the bright, shining beach to get back tothe 10 freeway. The ocean is completely flat, as if at rest, exhausted from its morning exercise of tides. Sometimes when I’ve been on my side of town for long stretches of time, I almost forget that L.A. is at the very edge of the country and has a beach. The ocean seems so regulated here, like a giant set they pull out when you drive by, to give the promised view with an endless supply of joggers and surfers and cyclists clamoring through as unwitting extras in the picture for you.
    But the beach does extend its influence across town on clothing—very little of it is required in L.A. Unlike Pass C., which is also on the beach. In the stifling heat of that Gulf Coast town where I grew up, I was expected to wear panty hose and slips under all dresses and skirts to mass once I hit thirteen. Momma wanted me upholstered like a Baptist matron.
    The first time she pulled this was on a warm spring Sunday morning when I was thirteen. I immediately decided to get Daddy’s support against her absurd and unjust injunction. Usually I left him alone about stuff like that, but when one of Momma’s dictums really crossed the line beyond all reason, he was my big gun. I ran to find him, dashing through the house, crossing soft rugs, sliding on polished hardwood floors, taking the sweeping staircase two steps at a time, until finally I found him in his study sitting in his large leather chair listening to an old, scratchy jazz LP.
    I paused in the open doorway for a moment to collect myself. My father’s head was leaning back, his brown eyes closed, his tall elegant frame looking completely at rest except for his fingers, which were tapping out the sax player’s notes on the taut leather armrest. I wanted to jump on his lap and surprise him; then sit there curled up, both of us silent, him with his thoughts, me letting the music become colors and shapes in the air, as we listened to the jazz together the way we had so many times before.
    But lately it had begun to feel weird. My body was changing, the dimensions of what was where were all wrong, and in the past few months an awkwardness had developed between us that I kept waiting to outgrow, the same way I had suddenly outgrown the easy affection we’d had. And I think he felt it, too. He looked so removed a lot of the time,like a verse in search of its