Solo

meant it. When we showed up at the front door, we were always let in, no questions asked. We could get a snack or play a board game or just tip back in one of their big recliners and watch TV. It was calm at my grandparents. They loved us unconditionally.
Grandpa Pete was brilliant; he’d earned his electrical engineering degree from USC after serving in the navy. He managed the engineering unit at Hanford until he retired in 1988. Grandma said she married him because he was the only man she’d met who was smarter than she was. He always seemed happiest when he was out on the river, at the wheel of his yacht. Every Christmas Grandpa would decorate the boat for the parade of lights with a lighted tree, a star, and a cross he had welded together. He would let me steer the boat and get on the intercom to say, “Ho, ho, ho—Merrrrrrry Christmas!” We liked to walk down to the river together with his black lab, Maggie, and throw the rubber dummy into the water for her. And Grandpa could always make me laugh with one of his jokes, even if I had been in tears just moments before.
Grandma Alice was the rock of the family, making sure we all went to Sunday school, that we had enough pocket money, and that we had a place to stay if we needed to get away from home. My grandparents were spiritual people—they pastored at a church in nearby Mabton. Grandpa sang in the choir, Grandma gave sermons, and we helped clean up after the services; it felt like our own little family church. I went with Grandma to deliver flowers to nursing homes and to funerals. I walked up to caskets with her to say good-bye—I was never afraid of dead bodies because Grandma seemed so at peace with them. My grandparents set an example for how to treat others and withhold judgment; they cared for disabled adults, opened their home to those in need. They loved to travel: to Germany for the Passion play in Oberammergau and to the Holy Land for pilgrimages. Grandma Alice called Richland “God’s second paradise” because the stark desert plateau reminded her of Israel.
Grandma explained that every stress and strain in life was the Lord’s will. She peppered her conversation with bits of scripture and Christian thoughts. She told me, “Don’t let the devil steal your joy.” She loved my name and once told me, “Hope is, by definition, defiant. It is only when everything is hopeless that hope begins to be a strength.”
Grandma and Grandpa showed up for all our sporting events and school activities. They took me to soccer tournaments in their camper, setting up chairs and playing cards while they waited between games. Their house was our shelter—a place to escape Glenn, and our mother’s drinking. We’d stay there until my mother could convince us to come home, promising that Glenn would be cool. We’d go home for a while, and then the chaos would start again, and we’d run the four blocks back to Grandma and Grandpa.
V.
My mother was working full-time at Hanford. By the time I was in middle school, Hanford had shifted into cleanup mode. The government had to deal with the massive amounts of contamination and hazardous waste left behind from the nuclear buildup of the Cold War. The new emphasis kept Richland citizens employed. Mom was working to clean up what has been called the most toxic site in the world. The environment after work was pretty toxic too.
My mom had always been a social drinker, partying with her river friends. But for whatever reason—the trauma caused by my father, the tension at home—her drinking escalated. As I got older, I noticed the signs more and more. I learned to detect the plummy smell on her breath. I saw her passed out at night. I was ashamed.
Battles became our primary means of interaction. If she tried to discipline me or offer advice, I would throw her failures back in her face. I felt like the outsider in my own house. My mother seemed more concerned with Marcus than with me. He demanded more attention: he was in constant trouble as he got older, requiring my mother’s intervention. She seemed to believe that Marcus needed her more—because of childhood illness, Marcus was deaf in one ear, and because of an inner-tubing accident when a rope snapped, he was almost blind in one eye. He had almost died in the house fire. I was lower-maintenance: younger, a good student, busy with sports and my social life. But I felt neglected and driven away by my mother’s drinking. I didn’t have my father. I rebelled against my stepfather. And I couldn’t depend on my mother.
At night, lying in bed, I made up stories about running away to Seattle to find my dad. We’d eat Neapolitan ice cream—he could have all the strawberry—and watch sports and maybe even get a new sheepdog.
VI.
My sister, Terry, decided I needed a female influence. Ten years older than me, she was a young woman with her own busy life, but she stayed connected, driving over the mountains to visit whenever she could. When she went to New York, she sent me fashionable gifts, like a pink Swatch watch. One day she picked me up and took me back to Seattle for a girls’ weekend. I was thrilled.
Terry is beautiful, dark-haired and stylish. When I was young, I was in awe of her looks and fashion sense. On that weekend in Seattle, she tried to spoil me and smooth down my rough country edges. She had always liked to dress me up and do my hair when I was a baby, but as I got older, I spurned her efforts and took pride in being a grubby tomboy.
But this weekend I loved the attention. She took me shopping at Nordstrom’s department store and bought me a green dress