Barks and howls bounce of each of the paint lacquered walls inside the local pound. Dogs jump in their cages as they catch sight or scent of our approach. A mixture of all types of animal excrement floats on the still air; I remind myself to breathe out of my mouth. A Siberian mix catches my attention with pale silver eyes. Longing stares at me through them, a desire to romp through the grasses chasing ground squirrels and quail.

I wrench my eyes away calling for Jake. He doesn’t seem to hear me above the racket. His hand is skimming over a twisted kennel gate, a soft tongue brushing against his fingertips. Cadence is in his arm, flailing an excited hand at the “puppy”. I call again; this time he hears me. I point toward the pale eyed mutt.

“I like this one.”

He takes a couple, short steps towards me, and peers in. Looking unimpressed, he shrugs. We move on, setting Cadence down between the rows of attention deprived pets. Wandering away from us, she waves her arms and peeks in the kennels.

“Puppy! Puppy!” As her fingers near the gate, I charge up behind her and pull them away. I don’t want to take the risk of a bite.

I’m not a dog lover, but when we approach an attractive, tan male with ribs protruding from his body, I want to take him home and empty my fridge into his tray. A fleshy nub of a tail confirms his neglectful past. He won’t be coming home with us, though. We’ll continue to visit the pound until I can’t bare to hold out any longer.

I twist my hands under the water next to the sink with the skillet stuck with soggy, day-old cheese. My fingernails scrape at my skin, trying to wash away today’s visit to my dad’s house. The washing is needed both physically and metaphorically; I’m done.

Jake, looking refreshed in a new close-cut ‘do, hands Cadence over to me. She reaches towards the bag of chips, hoping I’ll let her swish her hand around in the cholesterol infused junk. The smell of salt and vinegar hits me like a slap in the face, never failing to wet my mouth. I’m not sure why I like them so much, but they’ll have to wait. My mind is elsewhere.

I’m sick of talking, sick of trying to explain things I don’t understand. Somehow I’ve been placed in the middle: talking my belligerent brother into behaving, talking my father into having patience and leaving the police out of it, and talking my mother into talking to me. Next time, I’m leaving myself out of it.

I feel weary to the soul, like I’m experiencing that form of torture known as pressing. Stones are piled on my chest, suffocating my vital organs. Each extra stone will hurt a little more, and a little less. Maybe one day my heart will quit trying to function, quit trying to care, quit trying to fix things. It hurts too much to try.

I scrub Cadence’s head under a layer of tear-free soap. Innumerable kisses on her cheeks fall prey to the cleansing; each one gone is one less reason to remember today’s visit. I’m done.

The temporary dye has set into my sister’s hair with unexpected vibrancy. The outcome is a deep plum, a perfect contrast to her black shirt. My eyes shift over her hair nervously, as Dad pretends excitement over the phone at my mention of a makeover. He doesn’t realize how much I have changed her hair; he won’t know until tomorrow. The dye is temporary for his sake.

“Well, I’ve been talking to your mother,” ah, so this is why he called, “but whenever I try to talk to her she gets defensive. If you could just talk to her…”

I tune him out for a moment. Mom isn’t going to take anything from me. I can’t tell her with any conviction that she should or shouldn’t do anything, and yet he still asks. I mention that there’s not a whole lot I can offer.

“I don’t know if you realize this, but you are the heart of the family.” It’s been a long time since he’s used “family” to refer to his biological children, instead of the combined group he now calls family. “You’re the one that pulls everybody together.”

I don’t reply to this, but I ponder it. I am not the heart. If my family was a frontline soldier; I would be its nervous system, feeling the pain of every wound and spreading it to the rest of the body. My father has confused the bringer of bad news to the one who heals it. As for my healing abilities, I am like a band-aid on a broken bone. What this family really needs is a body cast.

The smile slips from Dad’s face as he finishes his greeting. I know what’s coming. He looks causal today, but somehow still maintains a professional air. His tailored Thai shirt looks excellent.

“Let’s sit down,” he says gesturing to my leather couch. “I want to talk with you.”

My sister has scooped Cadence into her arms. With hand signals I confine them to the baby’s room. With a petulant glare she leaves.

Dad’s mouth falls open, spouting disappointment. At least it isn’t about me. In a move that shocks no one, my youngest brother has moved out. For some reason Dad has turned to me, as he will undoubtedly also turn to my oldest sister, and perhaps to others. It is a strange feeling. I’m familiar with being left out of the loop, but this new development doesn’t comfort me either. My feelings in the matter, I think, have made me my father’s pawn.

At last the conversation comes to a familiar topic. “I know you don’t like the wilderness camp idea,” he says, “but I really think it could help him. I want you to think about it.”

Does it really matter what I think? When it all comes down to whose opinion does matter, I play no part. It’s all up to my mom, and judging from Dad’s last wilderness camp attempt, she won’t agree to that any time soon.

I pause before answering, my sister sneaking back in to catch a word or two. “Sure, I’ll do that.”

There I go again, always everyone’s friend, always everyone’s fool.

I let up on the accelerator, my car diving down a hill. A stretch of the city coils around my field of vision. The sun has recently fallen below the horizon, throwing the valley into shadow, but I can still see the inversion. It clings to the buildings like a soiled layer of cotton, obscuring the mountains and the full reach of civilization. The only stars out tonight are the manufactured city lights, twinkling with electrical currents. Their light sinks into the inversion and extinguishes, making it seem that much closer to my head. A claustrophobic queasiness overcomes me.

Noticing that I’ve stopped paying attention to her, Cadence throws her box of Goldfish out of reach. I glance at over my shoulder. Her hand is motioning towards the box in the classic ‘gimme’ gesture. I twist my right hand on the steering wheel as she starts crying. Deciding not to retrieve the box so she can throw it again, I stare resolutely at the red light of the intersection ahead of me.

Amid her cries, the heater pumps out a rush of circulated air. The scent of teriyaki chicken sails around the cabin. It smells delicious.

Last night the local news anchors advised us to stay inside, showing examples of avid runners that were refusing to run in the haze. I’ve always thought of the haze as a slow poison absorbed through the lungs, but if the runners are to be believed, it can be quick. Staying in, won’t be a problem.

Squatting down by Cadence, I assure her I will be coming back in a few minutes. Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes regard me with accusation. She looks over my winter coat, knowing what it represents: mommy is leaving. Her arms cling to me in desperation when I try to set her down. So much for the doctor’s advice. I pass her to Jake, darting for the door as she arches her back and howls.

I crunch over the salty walk, Cadence’s screams audible through the brick walls. Comforted by the thought that she’ll have forgotten me before I return, I plop into the driver’s seat.

I pull into the Maverick parking lot, throwing the gas station door open to a checkout line full of stares. Among them is an ancient man, his face puckered like a dimpled cloth doll.  A sagging scowl hides his toothless mouth. A couple of ratty baseball caps paired with stained tee-shirts peek out from behind him. Once again the Maverick consumers have not let me down.

I load my arms full of dill pickle sunflower seeds, diet Pepsi, and devils food Zingers. The line has shortened. I step in behind a short woman, staring at the swirling, black bun sitting sloppy and high on her head. I can’t get home soon enough.  Wiggling my toes inside my Vans, I wait, wanting nothing more than to curl up next to my family and laugh over the American Idol auditions.

After folding Cadence onto the changing table, I yank off her size 18 month jeans.  They halt snuggly on her thighs, and I yank the last bit over her toes.  At least she’s started filling out again; I can scratch that off my list of worries.

“Looks like you have a lot of cleaning up to do,” Jake chides, entering in behind me.

Baby blankets are strewn across the floor.  Stuffed animals have wandered from their designated corner, forming random fluffy heaps.  The biggest blight of the mess is a pile of unused diapers that Cadence has ripped from the neat rows that I’d arranged earlier in her dresser drawer.

“You go to Taco Time, I’ll clean this up,” he offers, continuing our negotiations over who’s getting dinner.

I look up from rolling Cadence’s soggy diaper to examine him.  It is a rare offer, so rare that after ascertaining his sincerity I snatch it up.

“It’s a deal.”

I spout directions for where each type of item belongs.  Jake leans over the pile of diapers as I begin a search for Cadence’s vanishing shoes.  I glance over my shoulder to see her pulling out the diapers Jake has just placed in the drawer.

After devouring a soft taco, I venture into the twilight zone, the room Jake has cleaned up.  I flip the light on.  Baby blankets and stuffed animals are still scattered across the floor.  The one difference is the missing pile of diapers.  Prying the drawer open with my toe, I peek inside.  The diapers are stacked with no eye for order; I try to remember to be grateful that they aren’t on the floor.

I squint at the drawer before shoving it closed.  Tomorrow the diapers will be in neat rows again.  Maybe there’s a reason why Jake doesn’t usually do this.

A string of excited giggles precedes me into the living room, my feet skiing across the carpet behind Cadence’s stubby run.  The swish swish of my feet comes in longer intervals as I slow down.  She stops, and glances up at me, her eyes curving with a smile.

“Rraaaa!” I growl.

She takes off again, the giggles as hurried as her pace.  The chase continues two rotations around Jake’s exercise bike, and then I plop onto the couch.  It’s a dangerous thing to do; it’s a low couch, and the tattered leather clings to my butt when I try to get out.  Someday, I’ll sink into the mysterious bottom, where so many lost items are hiding; no amount of assistance will free me then.  I throw my legs over the opposite armrest.  That day is hopefully not today.

Over my shoulder, Cadence is squirming in a tangle of pink polar fleece.  I watch her wiggle a way to freedom and catch me watching her.  She raises a finger to her nose.  She’s learning facial features now, finding inopportune moments to jab her fingers into our lids and say “eye”.  She says it now, and I shake my head and point to my eye to correct her.  She gets a sneaky grin on her face and shoves the finger into her nostril.

“No!” I howl, suppressing disgusted chuckles.

She grins wider, and shoves it further inside.  Her nostril bunches up by the first knuckle of her finger, the pressure turning it white; there can’t be any room left to stick it.  I’m building a rocking momentum to free myself from the couch, when she pulls her finger out and rolls back into her pink blanket.  Fun’s over.

In a moment of temporary insanity I’d bought the eye shadow perfectly coordinated to bring out the brown in my eyes. My accentuated brown eyes level at my younger brother. He’s curled in a cubby hole in my Dad’s weight room, watching Season 1 of “24” on an ancient dial knob television, and refusing to eat.

“Dad’s making me pay rent, thanks to you.” His eyes narrow at me before he turns back to the TV.

I grind my teeth and squint at the carpet, trying not to show my surprise. Why would Dad have told him that I’d suggested it?

“You deserve it,” I answer, clenching my jaw. If he glances back now, he will know how serious I am, but he doesn’t.

Dad joins us and together we drag my brother out of the cubby hole. Going limp to amuse himself, he laughs as I lift his noodle limbs high enough to drape over Dad’s shoulder. His arms dangle at the back of Dad’s knees as he’s carried to the table.

He rants over a plateful of Cornish game hen about how Dad is stealing his money. My ears turn deaf to him, tired of challenging his exaggerations. I know better than to believe him. He finishes a petite meal and runs back to his precious “24”. The squint returns to my very brown eyes as he disappears. A chant repeats through my head. I know your secrets, it says. It’s part of what spurs me on.

Something he’ll never comprehend is why I’ve rallied with Dad for the first time, why I’ve turned against him. If he’ll listen, I’ll try to explain that it’s all for him.  I turn back to my plate. Pees are spilling from it into Cadence’s hand. I pick at what’s left; my appetite has left.

The water smooths the suds from my hands while my little sis goes on about something. I glance at my reflection, then I do a double-take. My eyelids are fluorescing purple makeup, upstaging my brown irises with absurdity. It dawns on me that I hate brown eyes; I’ve always hated them.

The mechanic drones on about antifreeze and engine flushes as I balance my weight against the oil streaked counter between us. With every extra product he suggests I tick off the price in my head: $35, $95, $145. Hm, not today. I’ll barely be able to register this thing after the tires and windshield are replaced.

Products alternate on his monitor as he murmurs through their descriptions. He glances at me with a callused expectation. He must know my type. Fingers permanently stained with oil boast a lifetime of experience. Feathery twigs are falling out of the cabin air filter he is displaying. It needs replacing, he says; I believe him, but at $60 it’ll have to wait. He nods, not surprised by my answer.

I survive the brief interview, sticking with what I came here for and only that. We sit back down, Cadence and I. She waves across from us at a man built like a professional wrestler. A bandanna is tied around his head, biker style, probably to hide a vanishing hairline. He gazes over at her, and she greets him with a “hi”. I wait for the customary, half-hearted smile and brief moment of feigned interest, but he grins warmly back at her, waving and talking in baby lingo.

The mechanic returns a few short minutes later. “You’re ready to go.”

I zip my credit card through the machine and sign my name by the X. Time to go. I smile at each mechanic before I jump into the driver’s seat, silently thanking them that this time they did not succeed in selling me more. One of them punches a button to raise the garage door that will let me out. He waves me through. I tap the gas pedal, but something weird is happening; the car isn’t moving. I squint at the dashboard. It says it’s in Drive. I tap the gas again, still no movement.

I shift the Buick into park, waiting for the shouting voice behind me to make sense. The mechanic by the garage door leans an elbow on the frame of my open window.

“Your parking brake is on.”

“Oh,” I say, my ears flushing. “Okay.” This isn’t the first time I’ve made this mistake. I release the brake and shift it back into drive. This time there is a response. I am out of here!

I turn left out of the parking lot, my mind’s eye still in the garage watching the mechanics shake their heads at each other.

“People like that shouldn’t be allowed to own a car,” one says.

“Yeah,” they all agree. Yeah, I’m thinking, yeah.