The Summer of No Regrets by Katherine Grace Bond Read Free Book Online Page A

you hit it wrong.
    “The least our father can do is to pay attention to his primary relationships,” Malory said. “Mom’s down there by herself taking care of a dozen people. This is realy dysfunctional, Brigitta.” She threw the chunk into the trash. She could mix more adobe.
    “Mom and Dad are fine.” My head hurt.
    She puled off her T-shirt and chucked it into the hamper.
    Light filtered through the glass bottles embedded in the wal, turning her skin pink and green. She wore a shiny silver bra over her perfect size B breasts. (I’m a double D, and all my underwear is boring.) She peered at my screen. “What are you doing, anyway?”
    “Paper for Mom.”
    “A paper? It’s summer, little sister. What are you doing a paper on?”
    “Donne.”
    “Wel, I’m glad it’s done.” She leaned into the mirror and examined something on her chin. “Good God, Gita, relax a little.” examined something on her chin. “Good God, Gita, relax a little.”
    “Not ‘done,’ Donne. The poet. Sixteenth century.” I couldn’t help feeling a little smug.
    “Oh. Him. Troubled, troubled man. Probably bipolar.” She yanked a blue silk tank top over her head. An answer for everything. It must be comforting.

    •••
Dad finaly appeared at dinner, tired and mossy. The feathers in his hair had wilted.
    Malory pressed her lips together when she saw him. She yanked the vegetables and goat cheese out of the oven while I cut greens from the indoor garden. (We grow most of our food.
    It’s an Earthship thing.)
    Mom ran her hands up Dad’s arms, and he half smiled, hugging her close. Mom likes this new spiritual version of Dad better than the skeptical one we grew up with.
    “You smell like cedar,” she said.
    Malory cleared her throat. “If we’re done sniffing each other, we can eat.”
    Dad tied his hair back and washed his hands. He hung his drum in the window distractedly before sitting down.
    Mom stroked his arm. “How was it?”
    “Disturbed.” He salted his potatoes. “Bear spoke to me yesterday, but now…a lot of confusion. Kiling cougar like that…” Dad shook his head. “The energy field is contaminated.” He didn’t look at me. Did he think this “contamination” was my fault?
    Malory got one of her “indulgent” looks. She used to save them for me, but now Dad was fair game.
    Mom divided a piece of bread. “Could you do a mourning ritual?”
    Dad gazed out at the bench by Mom’s garden. “I could.” He nodded slowly. “Near the western edge…”

    nodded slowly. “Near the western edge…”
    Mom dipped her bread in olive oil. “What’s there?”
    “I don’t know. Something forceful. Strong, strong magic.” Dad swirled the wine in his glass as if he was reading tea leaves.
    My mouth went dry. A pair of golden eyes flashed into my thoughts. An open maw. Teeth like knives. The cougar’s ghost?
    Was she angry?
    Malory propped her elbows on the table. “I find this fascinating,” she said.
    Mom sighed. “I’ll bet you do.”
    Malory straightened. “Wel, no offense, Dad, but animal spirits? This isn’t reality.”
    Dad used to talk a lot about “reality.” Especialy to explain how far out of it Nonni and Opa were—they’d gone to one of those churches where people spoke in tongues and fell on the floor. I used to go with them, and it wasn’t so bad. No stranger than the people who channeled Mamda, Warrior Spirit.
    Dad sipped his wine and didn’t reply, but Malory was just warming up.
    “This is what we call magical thinking,” she pronounced.
    Mom pressed her lips together. “Your father, also, has taken Psychology 101.”
    “Actualy,” said Malory, “we discussed this in abnormal psych. I wrote an entire paper on why primitive thought appeals to certain personalities. It’s a kind of escape, a stress reducer.
    The problem is it can be debilitating.” She looked at Dad significantly.
    Primitive thought. Certain personalities. Exactly what Dad used to say. It was as if