A smile that it was Scott calling and
it turns out he really likes bowling and
is coming with us this weekend.
But still. She had better not pull anything like that again.
The Shunning: Part Two
So.
My Facebook Friends list has shrunk by nearly forty.
Not your typical ebb and flow, but then
there is more at work here than
gravity.
THERE ARE TWO SIDES TO EVERY STORY SO DON’T
JUDGE UNTIL YOU’VE HEARD BOTH OF THEM
The caps in my status update are probably
overkill.
I leave them anyway.
A thought hits me, but it takes a little while
to find the courage to check.
According to Facebook,
I have no friends named Morgan.
I’ve gone from
Best Friend to Unfriend.
Discarded with a single click.
That feels a bit unreal. I try to push the hurt
out of my head and chest,
like I’ve been doing for weeks
but this time it’s stubborn, like a
trick candle that keeps
re-lighting itself.
I picture them
Morgan, Angie, Nina
having the best time ever
while I watch people
seep
out
of
my
life.
Unexpected Scott
Scott. At the door, smiling.
“Sorry for not calling first,” he says.
His eyes are not sorry.
He is kissing me when
Jackson comes down the hall and makes
little brother barfing sounds. Scott laughs out loud and says,
“Hey, Jackson, how you doing? Put ’er there, man.”
I can’t help smiling as they do some kind of
secret guy handshake.
When I make coffee, Jackson swaggers in to
get himself a mug too and then sits with us,
trying to look like this isn’t his
first cup ever.
It is ever so much easier to spot a
“first”
of something
than it is a
“last.”
Phone Call — March 15
Mom has turned to stone,
except for her mouth,
which is moving without sound,
like someone has pressed pause on the remote
and the picture is fluttering ever so slightly.
When she hangs up she tells me to get Jackson
and get in the car.
There’s been an accident.
It feels as though I am moving underwater,
the Unknown, a tidal wave of fear.
At the hospital, the emergency doors slide open.
We are sent down a hallway
> > > > > following yellow arrows.
8
Jackson runs into the room, gawking at Dad like
he’s some kind of alien life form.
Mom bursts into tears and I
am not far behind because
the person in the bed seems
too small and frail to be my father.
We all say how glad we are that he’s okay.
We ask if he needs anything.
Dad has a speech ready.
This was a real wake-up call.
It opened his eyes to what matters.
He wants us to know that
things are going to be different.
We’re going to be spending
more time together
from now on.
No more late nights
and weekends
at work.
We can’t stay long, because
he needs his rest. But before we go
his arms
open and when they close
I am inside them.
He promises that
everything will be all right.
We say goodbye and leave, defying the
There are no arrows to tell you how to get back to
where you were before.
After Accident
In the car Jackson announces that he’s hungry.
“Can we have take-out, please, please, please?”
Mom agrees. “Why not? After all,
we have something to celebrate.”
I call Scott when we get home.
He’s watching a hockey game on TV.
I can hear it in the background, and also in
his voice as we talk.
“You aren’t even listening,” I say.
“It was scary.”
Scott says, “Yeah, but you said he was okay, right?”
The announcer’s voice rises in excitement.
I let him go back to the game.
There is no one else to talk to.
By 9:30 I’m in bed and asleep.
Second Call
The sounds tug me from sleep.
I try to crawl back into my dream but
they are coming
pounding down the hall
racing toward my room
slamming the door open.
My mother is in the doorway—
her face says everything even
before the words come
but they do come
those words.
I’m on my feet, ready to fight
because this is a lie, a lie, a LIE.
I’m on the floor, broken
because it is the truth.
Jackson is silent.
He stares from the doorway.
He stares ahead in the car.
I wonder if he could be sleepwalking.
A Minor Fatality
Arrows point you to the living but for
the dead you get an escort.
Mom tells the nurse that the injuries were minor.
The nurse answers that it’s especially difficult when
it is so unexpected.
Everything is wrong:
the colour of his skin,
the way his face is sunk in,
as if the air is leaking out of him.
The nurse’s voice is a meaningless
hum in the background. I hear random words:
driver, car, passenger, red light, seatbelt.
None of them mean a thing,
hovering behind us
as we try to grasp
what lies ahead.
As we leave, she tells us he didn’t suffer.
Planning
At the kitchen table, Mom is
talking on and on. Making lists
as if she’s organizing a party.
I am assigned to writing down names
as she blurts them out,
people we have to call with the news.
Jackson’s foot swings against the table leg,
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
My brain sinks into the sound
until Mom runs out of words,
until her head drops and her shoulders heave.
That is when I notice that
the roots of her hair are gray.
She will need to colour them before the funeral.
I write this carefully at the bottom of my list.
Cinnamon Buns and other Edibles
I don’t remember falling asleep.
My mouth is dry, my head aching but
the house smells good, spicy and warm.
Aunt Rita is here. She
calls me her poor darling and
tells me to come and have a cinnamon bun.
She has baked them fresh because
we all need to keep our strength up.
The cinnamon buns are huge.
I eat two while Aunt Rita fills me in on
what’s coming.
Apparently, it is not enough that
my father is dead.
I am also about to learn who my
real friends are. And
I might as well prepare myself because
even family members will let me down,
although heaven forbid that she should mention names.
I consider a third cinnamon bun but I already feel
like I might puke.
Mom appears in the hallway, her pain an invitation.
I’m on my feet in a flash,
racing to her,
grabbing hold.
Aunt Rita is held at bay
by the slippery mess of our faces.
By noon there is a steady stream of hands
thrusting food through the door.
Aunt Rita has a system for the offerings.
Casseroles and baked goods are sent to the freezer while
trays of veggies and plates of cold cuts
are stacked in the fridge.
Sorry about your tragedy. Have a snack.
The food-bringers talk to Mom, but
Aunt Rita answers most of the questions.
Everyone says what a shock it was, that
they couldn’t believe it when they heard.
They hug Mom and take her hand. They say,
“Be sure to call if there’s anything I can do.
Anything at all.”
A few make her promise she will.
I watch them leave.
They look satisfied.
Grandma
Grandma Powell arrives at the same time that
Mrs. King lands with what she calls her
Famous Chicken Pot Pie.
She gives us heating directions depending on whether it’s
frozen or thawed when we cook it. I hear a jumble of numbers
and the mention of tinfoil, which is when Grandma snaps.
“My daughter has just lost her husband,” Grandma tells her.
“And these children have lost their father.
Do you think they want to hear
a lot of nonsense about heating up a pie?
Take the silly thing back home with you
if it needs that much coddling.”
Mrs. King backs out the door clutching
her Famous Pie, staring at it in bewilderment,
baffled by the fact
that it’s still in her hands.
Gathering Family
Memere and Pepere Olivier are on their way.
I think of Pepere peering over the steering wheel,
his back straight.
The image crushes in on me, squeezing my chest,
filling my eyes.
When they arrive
Memere crumples just inside the door.
Aunt Rita rushes her into a chair and bustles off
to make a pot of tea. Aunt Rita believes
tea is some kind of magic potion.
A solution for everything.
Got a tummy-ache? Tea.
Fight with your best friend? Tea.
Flunked your algebra test? Tea.
Death in the family? Tea.
Circle Talk
Memere does not understand how this terrible
thing could have happened, and
Pepere cannot believe that it is really true.
A day full of words
makes no difference at all.
When my brain cannot stand one more
minute
I escape to my room.
But something is wrong in there —
the air is thin and tight and
I cannot get enough of it into my lungs.
It is like trying to breathe
through my damp pillow.
The Wake
At the funeral home a tall, thin man passes out
pins that identify our relation to the
deceased
We are given half an hour for a private visit with the
remains
Everyone cries quietly, gathered around the
departed
Morgan and her parents arrive soon after the doors open.
She hugs me and we cry and I
feel grief and hope and guilt.
So many people.
After a while it is as though we are stuck
in a soundbite loop.
Sorry for your loss.
Sorry about your troubles.
Such a tragedy.
Angie and Nina do not come.
That is fine. That is their choice.
But Scott also does not come and
my neck hurts from looking for him.
Funeral
I feel as though my father has been cheated.
There are prayers and hymns and readings but
no one gets up to talk about him:
what he was like and things he cared about.
Mom has decided against a eulogy and so
there are no humorous or touching stories.
This funeral could be for anybody and that
makes me angry because
it is the only funeral my father will ever have.
Panic surges through me when
the pallbearers walk down the aisle,
and the coffin carrying
My Father
is wheeled behind them.
I can hardly keep myself from yelling,
“Stop! There’s been a mistake.”
Jackson is trembling. I
yank him close to me.
He doesn’t even struggle.
The graveside service is not like
they show on television. There is no lowering
the coffin into the ground, no handful of dirt or flowers
thrown on top of it. Even the hole is hidden
by a bright green cover.
Barely a Blip
The crowd is like a cloud
breaking up, drifting away,
returning to their own lives.
Only a few family members remain and
we gather at the table
eating, talking, even laughing,
just like everything is normal.
As if my father’s death was nothing more than a
blip on the screen.
I think to myself that the worst is over
but that is because
I have no idea what lies ahead.
Comfort
Finally. A text from Scott.
He is so sorry. So, so sorry.
I want to ignore it, make him wait,
but the longing to see him is stronger
than my pride. I hate it when I am so weak.
It makes me feel pathetic but that doesn’t stop me
from calling him.
He says, “Hello?” on the third ring. Not a single
word gets out before my tears begin. Finally, I sob,
“Please, can you meet me somewhere?
I feel so bad and I really need to see you.”
Relief floods me when he tells me to meet
him at the tiny park on the corner of my street.
“I’m on my way,” he says softly.
I see him walking toward me from the end of the block.
The rhythm of his steps brings a rush of yearning,
the urge to get up and run to him.
I hold myself back because I am
a tragic figure, huddled alone and
suffering on a bench,
and I don’t want to spoil the image.
“I got here as fast as I could,” Scott says.
He holds me close and
there is no seeking, no petition in his hands.
I press my face against his chest, inhaling
the scent of him and feeling
guilty about the warm pleasure it brings.
Until
the comfort of his touch, his nearness
gives way to sadness
gives way to pain
gives way to anger and
questions burn inside me.
I want to ask him, “Why didn’t you
come to my father’s wake or funeral?”
but the right moment is not there, or perhaps
something stands in its way.
I decide that is not the important thing.
I tell myself that what matters is that he came
when I asked him to.
Escape
Mom has taken a week off work so that she can
sort out our affairs. How do you rearrange
your whole life
in seven days?
Jackson and I turned down her suggestion that we
miss a few days of school.
It won’t hurt, she says.
But she is wrong and all I want right now is
out.
The rooms are full of shadows and sighs.
School: Day One
Science class is just what I need.
Mr. Zallum’s voice offers a resting place to my brain.
I sink into the low buzz, focusing on the
sound until I feel a jab on the shoulder.
The guy behind me is hissing for me to wake up.
Was I sleeping?
I’m not sure.
I turn slightly and nod my thanks because he
doesn’t know what he took from me.
When the noon bell sounds I realize
I haven’t written a single word all morning
though my history notebook boasts a couple of squiggly lines,
from when Ms. Ardena gave us our homework.
She’s a hawk, sharp-eyed and ready to swoop down
on unsuspecting prey. The last thing I want is that kind,
or any kind of attention.