big enough to crawl through.
Lots of homes have doors from their backyards
into garages, and then unlocked doors from
garages into houses.
Must brace for the worst.
Many dogs and cats have starved to death
and are decomposing inside.
I occasionally surprise a pet who’s managed
to survive by drinking toilet water.
But as guilty as I feel, I can’t help them.
It’s hard enough to keep George and me fed.
I leave the doors open and try to shoo them through
so they can test their luck at survival outside.
Mostly, though, rancid fish tanks, bird and rodent cages
carcasses of pets make me gag and want to run.
I get in and out as quickly as possible.
Limit my searches to kitchens and pantries.
Anything I haul home has to fit one of
two categories or it isn’t worth my time:
1) food and drink (cans of soup, vegetables, fruit, chili, boxes of crackers, bottles of water, cranberry juice, ginger ale)
2) supplies for survival (soap, propane, matches, candles, boots, sunscreen)
I always bring a pad and pencil with me.
I always leave a thank-you note with my name and address.
At one house, I find a shoebox full of batteries
along with extra flashlights.
At another, I find a first aid kit with bandages and those ice packs
that freeze when squeezed hard enough.
At still another, I find a hand-cranked emergency radio.
Radio
No news since the power went out.
Only voice I’ve heard is my own, talking to George.
Or my mother’s—calling in my nightmares.
I sit on the floor.
Pull the radio out of the case.
Hold it in my hands, turn it around.
Switch it to on but nothing happens.
How does it work?
Crank the handle several times.
Broken hisses come from the speaker.
Stop again when I stop cranking.
I crank and turn the tuner at the same time.
At first, just static.
After a while, though
words push through the crackle.
Turn the dial back and forth.
Music.
The melody catches in my throat.
Makes my eyes sting.
Turn again.
Voices become discernable.
I don’t recognize names or places.
Have no idea where they are.
Sports scores and laughter.
Jokes about a baseball game from the night before.
How can baseball season continue
with so many people displaced?
Are the Rockies still playing somewhere?
More laughter.
Sadness balloons in my chest.
Voices marvel at the events of the game.
I lean back against the wall and cry.
A commercial for Magic Car Wax comes on and
diamond jewelry “guaranteed to win her heart.”
A woman reports that traffic is jammed downtown
due to a broken water main.
Commuters should avoid the interchange
at Hudson and Parkway.
The voices sound so close
but they could be as far away
as Maine or Florida or Alaska.
Or Mars.
I stop cranking.
I tuck the radio in my backpack.
Write the homeowner a thank-you note
and head for home.
Ghost
I’m hot and sticky.
I’ve spent most of the afternoon scavenging.
One more house then quits for today.
I crawl through a large pet door.
Am assessing the contents of the kitchen
when my eyes land on a photo on the fridge.
The face of my classmate smiles out at me.
Heather Juay and I had known
each other since kindergarten.
We were never super close, but we went to
birthday parties and played on soccer teams.
We were friends.
In the summer between fifth and sixth grade
her family was driving in the mountains.
A rockslide fell down on the highway
crushing the roof of their car.
She died instantly.
My whole family went to the funeral.
I occasionally saw her brother at school.
Now I am standing in her kitchen
her dead face grinning at me from
the front of an appliance.
Heather’s bedroom is easy to find.
It’s as though no time has passed.
Like she might walk into the room at any moment.
Bed made.
Stuffed animals arranged across the pillow.
Movie posters on the wall.
Summer reading books stacked on the desk, along with
a new binder, a ream of notebook paper
a package of mechanical pencils.
Either Heather had been excited to start middle school
or her mother had been.
But the evacuation happened and she’s still dead.
Her room stays frozen in time, despite the disappearance
of everyone she loved.
Do ghosts haunt places? Or people?
If she haunts this house
does she know she’s been left behind?
I am a ghost.
Haunting this town.
Snoop
I ride ride ride
toward Emma’s
neighborhood.
A golf course meanders
around streets called
Enclave and Aerie
and Repose.
Em’s ground-floor bedroom
has French doors
out to a fountain and
a trampoline.
The doors are unlocked.
My eyes adjust to the dim light.
Unmade bed.
New clothes with tags still on them
strewn across the floor.
She left in a hurry.
Bottles of nail polish and polish remover
on the plush carpet next to
a pile of stained cotton balls
and a stack of magazines.
In the bathroom
cosmetics litter the counter.
A hair dryer in one of the sinks.
A bottle of Emma’s perfume.
I remove the glass stopper.
My throat cinches shut.
The fragrance is so familiar
it’s disorienting.
Like Emma is standing next to me.
I see myself in her mirror.
My face is sunburned and my hair
hangs over my shoulders in tangles.
I haven’t worn makeup or
straightened my curls since
the evacuation.
I’m wearing Mom’s T-shirt
with the lotus flower and the om symbol
but it’s stretched and faded and
smells like lake water.
My shorts are filthy and
I haven’t shaved my legs.
My silver Converse have a hole
in one toe.
Emma would not approve.
I lie on her bed.
Bury my face in her pillow.
I can smell her shampoo.
Sleepovers and slumber parties.
Salted-toffee popcorn. Pink lemonade.
Cold feet under down comforters.
The time Emma dreamed she was
standing up in a canoe and
fell out of bed
in the middle of the night.
We got the giggles.
&nbs
p; Couldn’t stop laughing.
Where is she now?
Is she laughing somewhere
with someone new?
Does she ever think of me?
Too Personal
I go upstairs.
The house comforts me
despite the lack of human presence.
In Emma’s mom’s office
a large desk takes up two walls.
I swivel in her plush leather chair.
Pile of documents
under a glass paperweight
with tiny flowers inside.
Folder labeled
Dissolution/Divorce.
This can’t be right.
Emma’s family is officially
the Happiest of All My Friends.
Emma’s dad gives her mom
beautiful, expensive presents.
Whisks her away
to remote Caribbean islands and
exclusive Swiss chalets.
They kiss in public
even at school events.
The whole family
counts their blessings
before eating dinner together.
Every night.
Literally.
Counts them.
Before anyone takes
a single bite.
I go back downstairs.
Out into the backyard.
Lie in the shade under the trampoline.
If Emma’s parents aren’t happily married
I’m not sure a happy marriage is possible.
My own parents fought and cried
before they finally split up.
Emma’s never mentioned
anything like that.
Does Emma know?
Has the evacuation changed anything?
Made them forget their troubles?
Or has it made things worse?
I want to unread everything.
Go back to Perfect Happy Family.
This is too personal.
Intimate.
Especially if
Emma doesn’t know.
I want Mom.
Nothing Makes Any Kind of Sense
i ride.
pressure
in my chest
starts as
a low thrum
but swells from
inside out
emanating from
belly upward
pushing against
sternum
into
throat
taking space
in my
mouth.
sound
bursts out
up into
air above
the road.
shouts.wails.roars.
down below
muscles
explode
pedals
blur.
i ride
as
fast as
i can
straight
down
the middle
of the
street
toward
home.
Dream
I’m at Heather’s funeral
but my parents are getting
married and I’m
shouting at them to stop
and I’m trying to find
Jennifer and Paul
and the twins are crying
and I look into the grave
and see Trevor playing
on top of Heather’s coffin
and I scream
but nothing comes out
and I wake up
in the middle of the night
jaw clenched fists locked
shaking violently.
Paradox
maybe God
sends us nightmares
so our living reality
doesn’t seem so bad
when we wake up
until we wake up
and remember
we are living in a nightmare
we can’t escape
except by going
to sleep
I Want to Know More
I sit at Paul’s desk.
Open drawers.
Shuffle through files.
Bills. Tax documents.
I find what I’m looking for.
Mom’s divorce papers.
I want to know what really happened.
Fifty percent custody.
Alternating holidays.
Shared costs of orthodontia and college tuition.
Take turns claiming me as a dependent
whatever that means. Ironic given
how independent I’ve become lately.
Paul’s files are boring, except for
a bunch of ten-year-old hospital bills
and brochures about in vitro fertilization.
Wow. Seriously?
Never occurred to me
that the twins weren’t just
freaks of nature.
I’m glad Paul and Mom had Trevor.
As much as I resent sharing my room
(It’s only… just temporarily, honey, until
we get the basement finished…)
I adore the slobberface.
Photographs
A shoebox full of photographs
on a closet shelf.
Some taken before my parents got married.
College. Graduate school.
One from when they eloped in Las Vegas.
I love my mom’s jeans and T-shirt.
My dad’s long, curly ponytail.
Baby photo of me in a
tie-dyed onesie snuggling a lamb.
Pretty darned cute.
Mom must’ve enjoyed dressing me up.
Different outfits in every photo.
Dad seated at the piano.
Me standing on the piano bench.
Leaning on his back
making us both laugh.
I pull that one out.
Set it aside.
School photos.
Happy holiday faces
around Christmas trees.
Can’t remember some of those
early years together
just as a family of three.
Now impossible to imagine life without
Jennifer and Paul and Trevor and the twins.
Hate stories about wicked stepmothers.
The phrase “broken home” pisses me off.
At my sixth-grade back-to-school night
the principal told all the families that
“children from broken homes were five times
more likely to suffer mental issues than those
where the family of origin was intact.”
Mom got so angry she cried.
Afterward, Dad told the principal
to do anatomically impossible things
to herself on her way to hell.
Maybe once the evacuation order is lifted
we can write a book about our lives.
Or something.
And maybe
Emma’s family will be okay
too, after all.
Homesick
I take a baby photo of me
reading and cuddling
in Mom’s lap and
the photo of Dad
and me at the piano
out on the porch.
Sit and study
my parents’ faces.
Close my eyes.
Picture them safe
somewhere.
Together.
Mom and Dad talking intently
to high-level military
personnel who strategize
about how to get back
to Millerville to rescue me.
Jennifer playing with Trevor
while Paul and the twins
consult with top military brass
on expediting homecomings
for all evacuees.
I smile
thinking my family might
single-handedly halt
the imminent threat
and save the day
for me and the rest
of the country.
I wonder who will
play us in the movie.
It’s Weird
The imminent threat
all the reporters
were talking about
has yet to materialize.
At least that I can see.
Aside from the power going out
nothing has changed.
It’s weird
not having a device
to turn to
with every urge
to text someone
go somewhere
know something.
my body’s habits
reaching
clicking
swiping
bending
over my screens
are breaking
my muscles are confused
but
my mind is steady
Days. Weeks. Months.
Weeds choke
the yards
in all
the neighborhoods
and grass
grows tall
and goes
to seed.
Dogs and cats
roam
the streets
foraging for food.
The summer
crawls by
and the
evenings begin
to cool off.
I talk
to the silence.
Sometimes
I sing.
I study
my features
in the mirror
looking
for traces
of my family.
I don’t recognize
my face
but
I see
my father
in my
hands.
Comfort
Sprawled out on Mom’s bed
in the glow
of solar garden lights
wedged between
the headboard and the wall
I reread her worn-out copy
of Mrs. Mike for the
gazillionth time.
Perfect escape from my reality.
Possibly the best
adventure-romance-fiction
book ever written. Never fails
to transport me out of my life
and into the vastness
of Mrs. Mike’s
Canadian wilderness.
Follow the geese north
over Millerville toward Wyoming
over Montana toward Alberta.
Toward Sergeant Mike Flannigan
Royal Canadian Mounted Police
in his red jacket with brass buttons.
Sergeant Mike and me.
Facing unrelenting threats of danger.
Fighting to survive against all odds.
Doesn’t matter I am far
Alone Page 4
