Identical
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seen anyone flip from flirt to viper
so quickly. Totally scary!
She didn’t budge as we backed out
of the parking space. Just stood
there, boiling, not a word escaping
her lips. But her eyes said plenty:
I’ll get you back. Wait and see.
I smiled, moved even closer to Mick,
making steering problematic. Could
you give me an inch or two, please?
he said. I gave him a lot more than that.
In fact, once we were well beyond
Madison’s sight, I scooted clear over
by the opposite door, clamped my mouth
shut before I said something I’d regret.
C’mon. Not my fault she’s still hot for me.
He reached across the seat, grabbed
hold of my arm. Pulled. When I resisted,
he yanked harder. Hard enough to hurt.
Hard enough to leave purple bruises.
Someone smart would have screamed.
Someone sane would have waited
for a stop sign, thrown themselves free.
Someone whole would have said no.
Get the fuck over here and don’t give me shit.
I did as instructed. Worse, I liked that he told
me what to do. It meant he cared, really cared.
Right? Whatever. “Did you score some bud?”
I asked, more to change the subject than anything.
Under the seat. Twist one up, okay? We headed
out Happy Canyon Road, only horses and cattle
to mind our business. We could have gone home—
no one there—but I was still too mad for sex.
You know you want me. You’d take slimy seconds.
Gross. “Yeah, right. Like your pimply butt
is such a turn-on.” It isn’t too pimply, and it’s
kind of a turn-on, but that was beside the point.
His hand brushed my left nipple. You love it.
“Not while wondering who you’re thinking
about, Madison or me.” I took a deep drag,
held it. Took another without passing the joint,
exhaling giant smoke puffs right in his face.
Bogart. Pass that fucking thing over here.
So I did, and once we were totally buzzed
he pulled off onto a dirt ranch road, parked.
No maid out here. Just birds and squirrels.
Defenses lowered by excellent bud, I said
okay to a quickie. Totally in control.
In Control
Out of control.
Sometimes they’re
the same thing.
The trick is knowing
that, realizing
it’s okay to feel
out of control
once in a while,
as long as
you’re sure
you can regain
the upper hand
when you
absolutely need to.
And really, when
it comes to my
reclaiming control,
it comes down to one
simple little thing,
something I sometimes
have difficulty with:
saying no.
I’ve Got to Learn
To say no, and not only say
it, but mean it. In some
situations, not always
the right ones, I know,
I’m strong.
Really strong. Tough,
even. I guess, in a very odd
way, I’m something of
a survivor.
But there are times when,
much as I want to assert
myself, know it’s the right
thing to do,
I can’t
find the inner fortitude
to follow through with a simple
two-letter word. NO. One of
the first words babies can
understand,
one of the first they learn
to repeat. No. No, Mick, I won’t
let you treat me with disrespect. No,
Mick, and I don’t have to explain
why I
won’t let you touch me this time.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little
confused. Does being in control
mean I have to cave in, have to
crumble?
Kaeleigh
If Only
I could say yes, Ian, get close to me.
But it’s a place no one should ever be,
and it would be cruel to let him think
I’m strong
enough to ever say yes, I need you.
I start toward the pink stucco building,
see Greta at the window. She’s
a survivor,
having defied the Nazis in World
War II, smuggling Danish Jews into
Sweden. They almost caught us twice,
she remembers. But we outwitted them.
I can’t
comprehend that kind of courage.
Funny thing. My friends (what few
real friends I have) don’t
understand
why I work here at the Lutheran
home. They think old people
are lame. But they’re not. They’re
awesome, and I know exactly
why I
think so. It’s because they’ve
lived entire lifetimes. Loved.
Laughed. Surrendered. Stumbled.
Weathered, beaten, still they don’t
crumble,
not even as they inch toward death.
I Work Part-Time
Setting tables for dinner,
washing dishes afterward,
arranging flowers in vases,
reading to those whose
eyes no longer can. But
the absolute best is when
they share their stories. There’s Sam Lonnigan, who
as a liberal-leaning broad-
caster became snared by Joe
McCarthy’s communist witch
hunt. Commie? No way,
not that his true ideology
ever came into play.
Miss High Fashion Spyre
lost her modeling career
when “skin-and-bones,
raccoon-eyes Twiggy” hit
the scene. Till then, curves
were hip, she complains.
Size subzero? Spare me! Also sharing words of
wisdom are a fifties test
pilot, three retired doctors,
one author, one poet, two
politicians, one Olympic
medalist, four domestic
divas, and Greta Sorenson.
Greta Is My Faux Grandma
It’s nice having her take on the grand-
parent role, because I never see my own.
Mom’s father was killed in Vietnam.
Her mother, Grandma Betty, retired
to Florida. She used to visit, but not
since the accident. I don’t blame her.
Daddy’s father and mother divorced
when Daddy was still in grade school.
The reasons were so ugly no one
will talk about them. Other than
a few creepy film noir–type scenes,
I can hardly remember Grandma
Gardella, can barely conjure her
face. Daddy says she only ever
came around looking for money.
When I asked what for, he clammed
up completely, except to say he
wasn’t about to finance her binges.
Grandpa and Daddy haven’t
spoken in three decades. A few
years ago I tracked Grandpa down,
told him we were studying family
genealogy in school. He had no clue
Daddy was married, let alone about
Raeanne and me. Sheesh. He
sent us birthday cards for a year
or two, until Daddy found out.
I’ll never forget the fit he threw.
That sonofabitch better stay far,
far away, or I swear I’ll kill him.
When I asked him why, he had
nothing substantial to say. I haven’t
heard a word from Grandpa since.
So I have a stranger for a grandma.
At least she was a stranger until
we got to talking. And now it’s like
we’ve known each other forever.
Not that she knows everything,
a fact that she’s quite aware of.
Pretty young woman like you,
spending so much time with an old
lady like me, instead of out
with your friends? That can
only add up to one thing—
you’re hiding from something.
Said with a sparkle in her ice
blue Scandinavian eyes. But her
tone was 100 percent serious.
That’s okay, honey. You know
you’re safe here with me. And if
you ever want to talk about
it, I’m a hell of a good listener.
Meanwhile, why don’t I teach
you to crochet? It’s a lost art.
Sometimes, mid–slip stitch,
I’ll catch those sharp blue eyes
poking at me, as if trying to pierce
my armor. So far, they haven’t
succeeded. But, to tell the truth,
once in a while they come close.
Once in a While
I catch something
in her eyes, something
not meant for me to see.
Something very close
to what she sees in mine:
fear.
Once, I gathered up
all my courage, asked,
“What are you afraid of?”
She sat very quietly
for several long minutes.
Finally,
she took a long, deep
breath. Cleared her throat.
Nothing. Now. But I used
to be afraid all the time.
I met evil when I was only a
child.
It followed me for many
years, through adolescence,
into adulthood. I married
evil, but it was nothing new
and so I accepted it. It was the
wrong
thing to do. Never accept
evil as something you must
walk with, something you
deserve. Somehow. Do you
understand what I mean?
I nod, because I do
understand. I’m just not
sure how to go about
divorcing myself from
the evil I’ve already
accepted.
This Afternoon
Greta is in her room, napping.
Unusual. The pre-dinner hour
is generally noisy, busy with
afternoon activities designed
to keep older minds exercised.
Card games. Sing-alongs.
Classes on memoir and poetry.
I almost always find Greta
smack in the middle of it all.
Today she’s under the weather.
I bustle around, doing assorted
duties, every so often poking
my head through her door. Shades
drawn, her room is dark as a coffin.
And why did I think that, exactly?
That pulls my thoughts toward
something she told me once, how
she never really rested until she saw
“that no-good son of a bitch”
laid down in the hard, cold ground.
I asked her who, but she was lost
in reverie, stuck in some horrible
memory, unable to extricate herself.
I saw something in her eyes, though.
Something that made me afraid for her.
Hello? Miss Gardella? Sam calls
from the confines of his wheelchair.
Would you mind giving me a push
to the rec room? The arthritis
is acting up something awful today.
I turn away from Greta’s sleeping
form, softly close her door. “No
problem, Sam. Sorry about the
arthritis.” I give the brakes a nudge.
“Hold on tight. Here we go.”
One Problem About Caring
For someone, especially someone
who’s getting on in years,
is the likelihood you’ll lose them
too soon.
The nurse says Greta has a flu
bug, nothing major, but just
the thought of her giving in to
death
makes me indescribably sad.
I want to wake her, soothe
her fever, tell her how much
she means to me before it’s
too late.
Don’t worry, says Psychic Sam.
No damn flu gonna take Greta
down. I nod, thinking about
going “down,” no last shot at
redemption.
That will likely be my fate.
Done in by some viral villain,
sent straight to the fiery pits,
shackled by my silence,
sentenced to
spend eternity locked in
a hot red chamber, no way
to claim innocence and avoid
an eternal
dance with the devil.
Raeanne
Mick Picked Me Up
And I made sure he kept
me out extremely late. It’s always
desirable not to get home
too soon.
I can’t always manage it, though.
Daddy doesn’t always cooperate,
drink himself to a state resembling
death.
Tonight Kaeleigh and I are in luck.
The bitter perfume of bourbon
smacks me as I stumble in. It makes
me thirsty. It’s late, but never
too late
for one last shot. I tiptoe past
Daddy’s snoring, ease the Wild
Turkey from the table. Can’t
really blame him for choosing
redemption
in a bottle. Two bottles, actually.
One holds 750 ml of amber liquid.
The other is small enough to fit
in a pocket. Daddy has been
sentenced to
pain abatement à la OxyContin.
The accident was eight years ago
and his doctor keeps refilling,
like he doesn’t know about Daddy’s
dance with the devil.
Like I Care
Truth is, I borrow a little Oxy
every now and then too. Not
often, though. It’s expensive.
Daddy would miss it, even if
his dimwit doctor didn’t. I
have to admit it’s tempting.
It makes me feel like how
you feel when you fall in
a dream. Only you don’t
wake up. You just keep
falling deeper and deeper
into the darkest recesses
of sleep. Especially when
you help it out with a nip
or two of Wild Turkey.
Of course, I have to be
very careful not to do it
when Daddy’s not trapped
in the snare of sleep too.
Wouldn’t do to be lying
there unaware if he came
crawling to me. No, I’d
; want to be totally ready.
But it won’t be tonight.
Fifth of whiskey beneath
my arm, I slip noiselessly
into the kitchen, pour two
fingers, replace the bottle.
Then I slither into Daddy’s
bathroom, help myself to a
small green pill. Just one.
Just enough for a free fall
totally without a parachute.
My Bedroom Is Dark
Quiet as death, and I keep it exactly
that way. Even the bed cooperates,
as I slide like a whisper under
the cumbersome quilts, sit up in bed,
motionless. I feel like I’m in
a hollow black space. A cave.
Empty. I chance a sip of Turkey.
Have to wet my tongue before
letting the Oxy dissolve. Slowly.
Nasty. Another sip. Jet fuel, hot
and acrid against my taste buds.
Another time, another place, I’d let
myself cough. Not now. Not here.
Nothing to disturb the deep breaths
resonating throughout the house.
My tongue burns. My mouth
tastes like crap. The spinning
inside my head begins. Grins.
I lie flat, give myself up to the
Oxy/Turkey merry-go-round.
Eyes closed, I start the tumble.
Round. Round. Down. Down.
Outside, the wind rouses suddenly.
Branches scratch against the window
and the sound, like something wants me,
carries me where sleep will not follow.