my door is open. Maybe you
could come for a visit at least.
Aren’t you on winter break?
“I am,” I admit, “but I’ve committed
to extra hours at work. I need
the income.” Nothing but the truth.
Let’s keep it an open invitation
That includes Christmas.
Oh, hey. I brought a present for you.
Dollar-Store Teddy Bear?
But no. She cradles the gift,
which is wrapped in newspaper
with jute twine in place of ribbon.
When she hands it to me,
she says, I’ve kept this for you
since you were born. I hope
you’ll treasure it as much as I
have. There’s a lot to go through,
and I think it will explain much
of what you’re struggling with.
“Should I open it now?” I feel
like a little kid on Christmas
Eve. She nods, and I untie the simple
bow, carefully remove the tape,
though the paper isn’t worth
keeping. “A journal?”
Your journal, she corrects.
I started it before I lost you,
and kept it all these years.
I wanted you to know, if I ever
found you again, my own journey
while you were missing.
I dare to open it, and inside
are lots of entries, long and
shorter, plus photos of a young
Maya, Dad in his late twenties, and . . .
I’ve Never Seen Pictures
Of baby me. That fact smacks
me like Dad’s open hand, hard
and stinging. “I . . . I . . . was cute.”
You were adorable. Beautiful,
in fact. And smart. And curious . . .
Now her tears drip onto
the table, and some foreign
part of me wants to comfort
her, but sincerely doesn’t know
how. Or maybe is afraid to.
I flip through more pages,
come across a faded photo
of a Christmas tree, toddler
me sleeping just beneath it,
with a golden-furred puppy.
“Boo.” The name scratches
up from a buried dream.
Yes, Boo. Your father took her,
too. She was a gift from Tati.
Whatever became of her?
“I . . . don’t . . . remember.”
I should,
shouldn’t I?
But I can’t.
You were very little. I hope
the book fills in some blanks
and that over your break
you’ll have a little free time
to read it in-depth. I’m sure
you’ll have questions. You
know how to get hold of me.
Syrah’s been watching
the scene unfold and seems
to think we’ve reached
a conclusion (or maybe
they need the table; it is
Saturday night), because
she zips over with the bill.
Unless you want dessert?
We’ve got killer apple pie.
Maya glances at me,
the offer of pie in her eyes,
but I shake my head.
“I’m stuffed. But thanks.”
She gives Syrah her credit
card and says to me, Tati
and I are staying in town
for a couple of days. If you’re
so inclined and can make
the time, I’d love for you to
meet her. Maybe we could have
lunch or something. You could
bring Monica, too. If there’s
anything you need—anything
at all—please don’t hesitate
to give me a call. Okay?
There she goes again,
being oh-so-sweet, and
making me feel cared about.
“I have to work tomorrow,
but maybe we can catch
a bite after. Monica, too.”
Her smile is genuine and
seems to melt a year or two
off her striking face.
My mom is pretty.
That sounds perfect. Text
me when you finish up at
the barn. Tati will be thrilled.
Let me finish paying and
I’ll walk you to your car.
Outside
The December night
feels a little less frozen.
I even accept Maya’s good-bye
hug. It’s lingering, warm,
and promises I never have
to be alone in this world.
You’ll remember my open-
door policy, right? Anytime.
And Casey? I love you.
I don’t say it back. I can’t.
For me that bond was severed
years ago. But maybe it can be
regrown. For now, I nod. “I know.”
The simple acknowledgment
seems to satisfy her. Smiling,
she turns, and I watch her go
before returning to my own car,
clinging to the journal she kept for me.
Before I start the engine, I check
my phone and sure enough,
there’s a message from Monica:
WELL? HOW DID IT GO? TEXT
ME ASAP! I consider going over
to her house to dig deeper
into the journal entries. What an
amazing gift, one I’ll share
with Monica eventually. But not
tonight. The initial exploration
is something I must do on my own.
I don’t text. I call, to fortify myself
with the sound of her voice.
I let her know things are okay,
invite her to a late lunch tomorrow
with my mom and her wife, and
the lightning thought strikes that I
just might have someone I can confess
to about my love for mi bella novia
Monica. “Buenas noches, mi amor.
Dulces sueños.” Good night, my love.
Sweet dreams. I need alone time
to process way too much
information, both good and terrible.
I point the Focus back toward
the house, no longer home, but home
is not a building. It’s a harbor.
As I Drive
Images flurry, a hint
of snow before the blizzard.
Maya’s hand, tentatively
reaching for mine
across the table, nervous
in its desire for connection.
Monica’s hand, sensuously
tracing the outline of my face,
the peaks and valleys
of my anxious body.
Dad’s hand, a lightning
strike against my cheek,
an outburst of rage,
undeserved, unnecessary.
Garrett’s hand, viciously
snapping my head back
in his grotesque bid
to prove I’m straight.
Killers.
Rapists.
Justice.
I doubt I can find justice
by reporting an attempted
assault that’s a week old,
but I think I have to try.
If not for me,
for the next girl Garrett
decides needs convincing.
At the very least, if I go public,
I’ll have done what I can
to prevent a repeat performance.
The idea of confrontation
scares the hell out of me.
For my entire life,
I’ve been coached
to keep my mouth shut
about things I knew were wrong.
Enough.
It’s time to stand
up for what’s right.
I can’t do it alone.
I’ll lose my nerve.
But I’ve got people
in my corner who’ll help.
Tomorrow.
Tonight I dive into
chapters of my history
I believed were lost to me.
I Read for Hours
Reread. Return again
to many passages.
Learn a lot I didn’t know
and more I never expected.
Absorb information.
Build knowledge about
myself.
My mother.
Her wife.
And my father.
Much I still find hard
to believe.
Who.
What.
When.
Where.
And most of all,
why.
Taped on a page, beneath
an entry dated December 2001,
is a letter from Jason to Maya.
Maya, Maya, Maya,
You conniving whore. Well, fuck you and your dyke lover, too. You thought I didn’t know, that I didn’t see you kissing her in our living room, with little Casey sleeping right there on the floor? You’re disgusting.
I saw you, and I heard you talking, too. Did you really believe you could desert me, run off with your “best friend,” the one I can just see you finger banging? And you didn’t even let me in on the fun. Oh, that would be a picture, wouldn’t it? You and me and lezzie makes three?
I get it now. Marrying me was a farce, a way out of your miserable childhood. I guess I gave you that much, didn’t I? Not to mention a home, a paycheck, and a baby girl. Well, guess what? You won’t see her again. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let you near me or my daughter.
I bet you hoped they’d send me over there to that hellhole, didn’t you? I bet you hoped they’d send me back home zipped inside a body bag. Well, bitch, I’m not going over there again, and it will be a cold day in hell before you find a trace of Casey or me. Or the damn dog, either.
Boo
Oh my God.
I remember now!
Boo.
Sweet little Boo.
She traveled
with us for a while.
Dad always bitched
about having to feed her
and the messes she made.
But I loved Boo.
She was all I had left
of Mommy.
I must’ve said that
too many times
because one day
Dad let her out
of the car to pee.
He drove off
without her.
I cried and cried.
But he said it was best
for her because dogs
belonged running
free, and wasn’t I
just a selfish little girl
to want to keep
a puppy cooped up?
The Sudden Insight
Zaps me like a stun gun.
Freezes in certainty
a watery concept
recently introduced
to me: gaslighting.
I go back to a paragraph
that won’t let go of me:
Oh, to be given the gifts of the chameleon! Not only the ability to
match the appropriate facade to circumstance at will, but also the
capacity to look in two directions simultaneously. How much gentler our
time on this planet would be.
I think most people
are chameleons,
hiding pain and anger
beneath a mask of civility.
We call those who
aren’t afraid to disguise
it dangerous, but I wonder
if hiding behind the facade
is not, in fact, the more
perilous pursuit.
I have lots of time
to dissect the past
fifteen years of my life,
look for clues to the man
behind Dad’s veneer.
I Close My Journal
beside the pillow I sink
my head down into,
a cushion for my dreams.
Funny, but before all this
I didn’t dare dream too far
into the future. It’s like unlocking
the past freed me to move
into tomorrow in pursuit
of bigger goals than I ever
thought possible.
Thank you, Maya McCabe,
for never giving up
on finding me.
I inherited your looks.
I hope you’ve given
me your courage
and determination, too.
I’m still scared
to try and make it
on my own. But I don’t have
to do it all alone.
I have friends.
I have Monica.
And I have a mom.
No More Tonight
I glance at the clock.
One a.m.
Seems I missed
Hillary’s Christmas party.
Christmas.
Not my favorite holiday,
but this year, beyond
the drama, I find hope
in the gift Mom’s given me.
Not just the journal
itself, but in what it represents:
moving into the New Year
blessed with the hindsight
of yesterday.
Looking two directions
at once.
I still don’t know
exactly who I am.
But I’m a lot closer.
I’m Casey Baxter,
eighteen years old.
I’m in love with a girl
named Monica.
And I don’t want that
to be a secret anymore.
I’m done with secrets.
Postscript
Held fast atop terra firma,
by a force not yet fully explained,
I gaze upon the electric waltz
of the aurora borealis and consider
what
mystical Intelligence might in fact
have created such mad beauty.
From here the northern lights appear
random in flow, but I understand
if I
could peer down from outer space,
I’d see how auroras crown the poles,
north and south, where the earth’s
magnetic field is strongest. I
am
amazed by the science. Probability.
But more intriguing is the design,
past in relationship to future.
Possibility flung from a faraway
solar
plane. Sometimes I wonder if I am
only flesh, bone, and blood, or might
I be a spark of stellar fire, carried
through time on the tail of astral
wind?
Maya’s Journal
For Casey
November 2001
In the wake of the World Trade Center tragedy, every American life feels changed. Patriotism is running high. Red, white, and blue is a common theme. Flags fly in the usual places, but also on porch pillars, car antennas, and trees in yards and parks. I’ve even seen one hoisted above a doghouse!
Neighbors are helping neighbors. Families have bonded tighter. (Mine happens to be an exception, but some relationships can’t be repaired.) Couples are holding each other closer. Your daddy and I even felt lovey-dovey again for a few days.
Things on base are a little crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. Rumors are flying about eventual deployment to
the Middle East. Your daddy’s gone a lot, with extra training and lots of drills. Any military installation could be the next target, so everyone’s on edge. The hijackers took out part of the Pentagon, so it’s not much of a stretch to think we could be in danger here.
It didn’t take long to figure out who the hijackers were. The FBI found suitcases one of them left behind in Boston, where he took the jet. Inside was a list of every one of them, nineteen altogether. Most were from Saudi Arabia and had ties to some organization called Al-Qaeda.
I never heard of it before, but everyone’s heard of it now. They hate the United States because of our friendship with Israel, and because we have our own problems here at home. But now they hate us because of our presence in the Middle East. I think a lot of Americans were kind of like me—ignorant about all that. But now we’ve become very aware of the wider world and how it views the US.
I mean, it had to take an oversize load of hate to do what they did. We still aren’t sure how many people died that day. It will take a while to sift through all the wreckage. But it’s thousands, including hundreds of the rescue workers who tried to save lives and a bunch of little kids in a daycare center. It’s the saddest thing ever.
What if I lost you? You are the best part of every single day. You entertain me. Make me laugh. Make me learn, because you’re always asking questions I don’t know the answer to. Best of all, you keep me from being lonely.
Your daddy insists I need to go to work, that his paycheck isn’t enough to cover all we need. I don’t think that’s true. We’re doing okay, even if we can’t afford to go out to dinner or buy a bigger TV. And the thought of leaving you with strangers scares me to death.
I probably shouldn’t confess this here, but no one else will listen. When I told Jason I didn’t want to work until you got older, we had the biggest fight ever. He’d been drinking, of course, though that isn’t any kind of excuse for slapping me around.
Thank God you were asleep, and totally unaware of the ugly scene going down just beyond your bedroom door. I suppose I should be grateful he used an open hand instead of his fist, but I’ll wear his bruises on my face for many days.
Oh, he apologized, swore it would never happen again, but something in his eyes says it will. And now I’m scared he might do the same thing to you. I can’t take that chance, Casey. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t dare call the cops. From what I’ve heard other army wives say, military policemen hate domestic abuse situations, which could ruin the career of one of their comrades in arms.
No, I’ll have to find another answer, and quickly. I won’t ever let Sgt. Jason Baxter lay a hand on you.