Dinner at Christine’s
I make it halfway through my first meal at
Christine’s place before I start wondering how
soon I can leave. Mrs. Oakey is a great
cook but she is also a believer in
interrogating her dinner guests.
“You poor child. How are you holding up?
And your poor mother, is she managing all right?
It must be such a difficult adjustment for you and your
poor, dear brother, with your father passing so suddenly.”
What is she expecting? Does she imagine that I might
get up on a chair and give a heartfelt speech
at dinner? To strangers?
Afterward, (no dessert, thank you, I really could not
swallow one more bite)
I follow Christine to her room,
wondering why she didn’t warn me.
She manages to blurt out, “Sorry!” before
collapsing on her bed, laughing so hard she can hardly
catch her breath. This annoys me until
she gets herself
under control and launches into a
hilarious imitation of
her mother, which, for some reason she
delivers in an Irish accent.
“Aw, you poor, pathetic creature!
Is your heart so broken you can barely chew your food?
Surely you’d like to tell us all about your
innermost thoughts and feelings!
Pay no mind to the fact that
we only just met you
four minutes ago.”
The next hour is a blur of laughter
and girl talk.
Long Distance Scott
I have to say that texting
back-and-forth is less than
satisfying and anyway,
how many times can you
text someone that you
miss them like crazy?
Hey! You up yet?
Ya
Anything interesting going on today?
No
Sounds familiar :)
Lol
At least you have a beach there, right?
Ya
I love beaches. Building sandcastles, and collecting shells and stuff
Cuz your a girl
I thought you liked that about me ;)
Haha
I sure miss you
Me 2
Well I guess I should get going
K
Bye for now
By
Being apart sucks.
Neighbourhoods
The streets give rhythm to my
impatience, beating out thoughts of
Scott’s return, a few more days,
a few more days, a few more days.
And what began as an aimless walk
moves me with its own purpose until
I find myself surprised, or not surprised
at all, at the corner of Morgan’s street.
I can see her house from here. It is
a measurable distance, like the space between
then and now, from the place where we
were friends to this point where we are
something not yet defined. It is a longer
and shorter time
than I can grasp.
I now know that I did not, could not,
would not believe
this chasm could open between us.
It did not seem real when she was there—
in the hallways and classes and lunchroom.
When at any second she could have
looked my way and smiled and said,
“Hey, Laren.”
When normal was possible and I could
still see a way back.
So I stand where my empty heart and
longing have brought me. A journey that
pride will not let me complete.
And I turn away.
4
I’m downtown, stopped before a window display of
stained-glass lamp shades, when a man and his
small daughter emerge from the store. Her face is
grumpy and sleepy, but when he scoops her up, her
little fists fly at his chest and she
hollers that she can walk all by herself.
Time shifts and another scene unfolds:
one where I am the
little girl.
The child I was
in this moment from my long ago
has gaps where teeth have been
and this makes the me-in-memory about
seven. My class had just returned
from a day-long excursion, a bus ride that
began noisily, song-fully, joyfully, and ended
with zombie children, sluggish and cranky.
There’s a hazy recollection of feeling stiff and out of sorts, as if
I’d just emerged from a cozy snooze, although I don’t
believe I’d actually been asleep. I recall the
bright light of the sun in my eyes as I took that
last big step down off the bus.
And then my father was there, lifting me up, but my hands
shot out and I shoved myself away from his hold.
“Don’t!”
I have no idea what made me react
that way. I only know it wounded him.
In this memory, that is the only detail that is clear.
Letter to Dad.doc (continued)
I was getting some earrings out earlier when the birthday bracelet from you caught my eye and I slipped it on my wrist. Mom calls it the gift you sent me from the great beyond. And maybe it is. But an uglier possibility occurred to me while I stared at it.
Maybe it wasn’t meant for me at all. Maybe it was for her. The Passenger.
I’ll never know for sure, will I? Oh, I’ll wear it, and I’ll try to tell myself that it’s a final gift from my father. But part of me will always feel a bit like a thief.
Funny thing—the first thought I had when I put it on was that I should write a note thanking you for it. So, thanks. I guess.
Dee’s big Splash
I can hardly believe my ears when Dee says,
“So, bring him with you,”
because she’s talking about that dreaded
creature, the-nuisance-no-one-wants-around—
the little brother.
They have an amazing in-ground pool
and with the sun blazing, her initial invitation
seemed almost cruel as I explained that I am
stuck home today, with Jackson.
But Dee is unconcerned with the thought of
a nine-year-old tagging along.
“He’ll have fun,” she says.
“The more the merrier.”
I watch her laughing as he beats her at a game
of water Frisbee. I smile as he trails along
behind her to fetch lemonade and snacks.
I think to myself: he adores her.
Socorro
I’m in my weekly meeting with Socorro when
something inside me snaps. It’s odd because I
wasn’t at some cathartic moment. It comes from
nowhere, a tidal wave of words,
rushing, crashing, tumbling over each other
on their way out.
“It’s so hard trying to sort through everything,” I say,
putting away my tears. “I don’t know what it means to me.
How can I? I didn’t know what it meant when it was
happening. I didn’t even know it was happening. I thought
my father was something he wasn’t.”
“What is it that you thought your father was,
that he was not?”
“That should be obvious,” I say.
“I thought he was a
good person, a good father.
I thought his family was
imp
ortant to him, that he
loved us more than anything.
Me and Jackson and Mom.
But if he was having
an affair, that means
none of those things are true.”
“Does it?”
I make my voice sound like I am explaining
this to a small child.
“Of course it does.
What else could it mean?”
His eyes are still as he
waits for me to answer
my own question.
I had not expected, when I
opened the door to find him there,
that he would seem more a stranger
than my boyfriend.
It is as if the month away has made him stronger,
more commanding. Joy clashes crazily with
a curious unease and my stomach quivers
in confusion. His mouth hurries to mine.
I will myself to find the thrill.
He is so close. So close.
The room tilts. Scott murmurs
something, a smudge of words
that I do not need to hear
to understand.
I am thankful that Jackson
is home.
Back-to-Normal Jackson
Scott is here so instead of the usual
lazy lunch, I make grilled cheese and bacon
sandwiches with cold, sliced tomatoes,
dill pickles and potato chips.
Jackson watches Scott gobble his
sandwich and says he will have
bacon, too, the next time.
At suppertime Jackson puts a
single fish stick
on his plate with his fries.
Mom, for once, has the sense
not to mention it. We eat in silence until
Jackson breaks it with an announcement.
“Guess what! I’m not a vegetarian anymore.”
Just like that.
Mother-Daughter Day
I humour her because she has enough
on her mind and anyway it won’t
kill me to spend a day out
with Mom. Besides, I
could use some new
clothes for school.
By noon there are shimmering heat waves
rising from the pavement and I am more than ready
for a break even though I’m a little worried about lunch.
It has crossed my mind that Mom might be planning
a heart-to-heart, “how are you really doing?” kind of talk
and today is one of my hollow days.
I’d like to keep it that way.
I’m dipping a chicken ball into sweet-and-sour sauce when
she reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine.
I wait, dreading what’s coming, but all she says is that she
loves me and Jackson more than anything in the world.
And then she cries.
The Real Thing
I love Scott.
We are sitting at the table in his kitchen, eating hotdogs when
I notice a little blob of ketchup at the corner of his mouth. It
bobs up and down as he chews. So I reach over with a
napkin and dab it, and he turns and smiles and looks
into my eyes for a second longer than he needs to.
And it hits me.
It crashes into me.
I love him.
I love him.
I can’t finish my lunch.
I tell him I’m full.
I am full.
School and Other Miseries
I swear that August melted under the blazing sun,
soaked into the ground and drained away.
Its bright new promise a yellow swell,
a golden trance, while the moon
conspired to distract us with
thirty-one lazy winks.
I can hardly stand the thought of early mornings,
trying to focus on boring subjects
dragging home stupid assignments
hearing the Mother Brain Rules for school nights
and worst of all is that Dad isn’t even
here to negotiate.
What?
I wonder if could I even be a more horrible,
selfish person. My father is
dead and my big regret is that he
can’t make things easier for me anymore?
Except, that isn’t what I mean.
It’s just one more gaping hole in the fabric of my life.
A hole that cannot be mended or hidden. There is
Socorro
My new math teacher looks at me
warily when I pass her the slip
that allows me to leave class for my
weekly appointment with Socorro.
I tell him, “You should have seen her
face. I swear that she thinks I’m crazy
or something.” And, of course, he
asks, “How did that make you feel?”
I think that over and then tell him,
with a smile, “You know what? It kind
of amused me, but it also gave me a
strange sense of power.”
There is a kind of freedom in
having this
one place in the world
where I can say
anything I
want to.
I like how he never tells me what
I should think or how I should feel.
I know he’s guiding me
with his questions but
it is always a path to
my own solution.
Letter to Dad.docx (continued)
Remember the chats we used to have about school—the ones I tried to avoid? Well, this would have been a good time for one. Since classes went back in, a lot of the people who were snubbing me have come back around. And, to my surprise, it hasn’t meant much to me. In a way, I actually feel a little embarrassed for them.
It’s different when it comes to Morgan. That’s been hard, and it’s felt hopeless for a long time. Until this afternoon, on my way to french class.
I was heading toward the language department when I saw her coming down the hall toward me. For months she’s been acting like I don’t exist so I was startled to see her looking straight at me as she got closer. We were almost face-to-face when she offered a sad smile. And I swear I heard her whisper, “Hi,” as she passed. So, I got wondering whether I should give her a call or send her a text or something. It seems likely that she was giving me an opening because she wants to fix things between us. But what if I’m wrong? Or what if it was a trick?
Trying to figure out what to do made my head hurt. And then it hit me—I don’t have to do anything. I let go and, just like that, all the troubling thoughts and questions floated away.
Sometimes it’s a lot easier to just wait and see what happens. That seems to be my new philosophy. I’ve turned into Miss Inertia.
Four-Tier Cake
You never know when something will
slam into you. Like today, at my cousin’s wedding.
I hate weddings. You expect them to be romantic but
what they mostly are is boring. You wait
for pictures, you wait
for dinner, you wait
for speeches to be over, you wait
for it to be late enough that
you can leave without being rude.
Jackson is seated on my left. Dad’s watch,
too big for his wrist,
sits halfway up his arm. There was a near breakdown
over it earlier. He ran about wailing that
he needed to wear Dad’s watch and
he just had to figure out where it went.
Luckily, I was able to “find” it. (Also lucky was
how no one found that suspicious.)
I
don’t think he will be careless again.
At our table, Grandma and Aunt Rita are
vying for that coveted title of The Person with the
Sorest Feet. Grandma’s corns and bunions take us
through the salad but Aunt Rita gives her a run for
her money during the main course, when she
parades out her swollen and strap-strangled tootsies.
There is still no clear winner by the time our
half-melted gelato arrives.
The deejay’s voice takes over the room, inviting
the newlyweds to the floor for their first dance as
husband and wife. They gaze at each other like
they are still posing for pictures, which,
I suppose they are.
I see a wet shine on Mom’s cheek.
No doubt she is thinking back to
her own wedding day, while the
Father-Daughter dance takes me
forward to mine.
It is a new, raw moment of loss,
knowing there will be no dance with
my father at my wedding. He will not
walk me down the aisle or lift the veil
away to kiss my cheek before
I turn to face my groom.
As I struggle not to cry a small arm reaches
across my shoulder and I feel Jackson’s
head lean toward me. Sometimes I just
want to grab that kid and squeeze.
And then, a memory.
Theirs, not mine.
About me. And my father.
3
I was five (Grandma says six) and my