When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  Now she’s playing “When You Never Said Goodbye” again. This song is about ME. I like singing along softly to the chorus:

  Wish I could climb inside

  myself, tumble down

  tumble down

  to a past I never knew—

  maybe I’d reach the day

  when maybe you said Be good,

  when maybe you said Don’t cry,

  when maybe you said

  I love you—

  when you never said goodbye.

  It isn’t until the song ends—I’m clapping along with everyone else—that I see it. The little point on the edge of her left ear. Mine’s on the right ear. Bob used to call me Spock Junior, sometimes Half Spock, when we were kids.

  Poetry Walks

  After workshop, Louise and I get huge cups

  of tea at the Third Rail, then walk back up

  and over to Goddard. This has become

  a habit I’ve failed to mention to anyone,

  especially Rhett—this time with Louise

  something I look forward to, like a breeze

  after a climb up a mountain. Mainly we

  talk about people in class, and poetry—

  Kamilah Aisha Moon, Richard Blanco,

  Ruth Stone, Heather McHugh, Gary Soto.

  Which poets we like best changes week

  to week. With fiction, she likes it bleak:

  Edward P. Jones and Cormac McCarthy,

  Flannery O’Connor and J.M. Coetzee.

  Me, I like my stories short: Grace Paley,

  Louise Erdrich, Dan Chaon (an adoptee,

  too). Today Louise says, “Hey, NYU’s

  lit magazine, West Tenth, comes out soon.

  It’s one of the best college journals. We

  can apply for spots on its staff next week—

  Would you want to try?” I choke on my

  ginger tea. We laugh. “Oh, yeah! Would I!”

  Journal Entry #2201

  This afternoon we’re all at The Rock when I make a comment about the bathroom there being “as dirty and dark as Pittsburgh.” Calvin says, “¡Woah, cállate, amiga! What do you know about Pittsburgh?”

  Nothing. I have to admit that I have never even been to Pittsburgh. But I’ve seen pictures of those old abandoned steel mills and remember some song about smoke and smog, about deserted streets and falling-down houses. Well, according to Calvin, Pittsburgh is a happening, college town with lots of cool music and stuff going on. But best (Calvin knows how to impress me) is that an amazing number of poets come from there: Terrance Hayes, Jan Beatty, Li-Young Lee, Jack Gilbert.

  That’s the last time I diss Pittsburgh, Calvin’s home town. He writes fiction but reads a ton of poetry. Says poetry teaches him about compression and word choice. What did I do to deserve such cool friends?

  Now I’m thinking, what if my b.m. lives in Pittsburgh? She could be anywhere. Why do I keep wanting to believe she’s here—not even upstate, in her beloved “country,” but in NYC, in Manhattan?

  St. Patrick’s Day Haiku

  Green bagels, green beer,

  green dog biscuits: even they

  are Irish today

  Frozen: My First Student Reading/

  Mixer at the Café Du Monde

  Like a snow woman. Like a deer in the road

  at midnight. Like the lions on the library steps.

  Like the statues of saints in church—only

  my face isn’t serene. It’s a gargoyle face,

  it’s that deer’s face; it’s wide-eyed terrified.

  I’d thought I could read a poem before a crowd

  but instead I’m stuck in my seat, unable to

  stand. Louise read her “Loud as Silence” poem

  and then some guy Pete read “How Lance

  Romance Got His Groove On,” and now

  it’s my turn. My cheeks burn, my heart sputters

  but my feet won’t move. The MC sees me

  seize, artfully calls the next reader. I think,

  Some poet you are, Lizzie McLane. Rhett

  leans toward me from her seat, whispers,

  “It’s okay! No blame! No beating yourself up!”

  Calvin leans in, too: “Next time, you’ll just have

  a drink first. We’ll sneak in a thermos of my

  magic potion. That will set you in motion!”

  Sam and Henri nod like the bobble-heads

  on the dash of Bob’s car. Calvin won’t let me

  make sour grapes out of this. “You’ll read like

  you’re famous, a poet at the peak of her powers.”

  It’s a sweet promise, but what I need is practice.

  Journal Entry #2202:

  A Few Days Before Spring Break

  When we were all leaving the café last night, Louise caught my arm and said not to worry; she’d had all fall to practice reading for a crowd, and only now was she starting to feel comfortable in front of that microphone. Rhett gave me a weird look, like, “What the freak—?”, but I thanked Louise with a gush of relief, realizing then I hadn’t really been breathing.

  Oh, but I still felt like a loser. Later, it turned out Calvin was right—after two of his rum & Diet Cokes, I was ready to read to everyone in Washington Square Park. But of course that was after dark, and beyond the five of us, hardly anybody was there.

  _______

  Later, same night: Mom calls to tell me she’s already started cooking—veggie lasagna, pea soup, three-bean chili, banana bread—to celebrate my coming home for break. She even stocked up on soy milk for my coffee. “I wish I could teach Butter to stir a pot or chop a carrot, but he’s very good at keeping the kitchen floor clean,” she says. “Of food, that is. His hair and muddy footprints are another thing.”

  Also have a date with Jan & Jade at Gertie’s Diner, our old hang out. (Mine & Tim’s too . . .) Jan says New Hook will seem boring after New York, but I told her no way. She also thinks that Bob is just projecting his own fears on my search—but she still reminded me that, instincts aside, I need to be prepared for anything.

  _______

  Minute ago, text from Tim: “Wish I were going home next week. U know I have a tournament. Would rather see U. Talk soon?”

  I write back, “Good luck. You’ll be great.”

  I’m his friend, but obviously this Zeena is, too—I’m confused. And “When You Never Said Goodbye” continues to play in a never-ending loop inside my head:

  Once I met the great wizard

  of heart-ache—his mask was the sea—

  I pled for his pity.

  The wind blurs

  then snuffs the star lights out.

  There are just some things

  it can’t live without.

  . . . and with that, I think it’s time to switch off my lamp, get some sleep.

  Holy Buttered Popcorn!

  “Buttered popcorn and Coca-Cola:

  another fine dining experience

  brought to you by Calvin Casanova.”

  Calvin makes a bow. “You never

  mince on quality when it comes to

  snacks,” Henri says, holding up

  her cup to toast him. We’re sitting

  in the third-floor hall. Cheery music

  wafts toward us from a ukulele

  played by a girl I’ve seen but don’t

  know. “Ruth plays this song,” I say.

  “That’s right,” says Sam, snapping

  his fingers. “Dan used to go see her—

  meant to mention that, Liz.” Calvin

  groans. “Dan’s my man, but we part

  ways when it comes to musical taste,”

  he says. Rhett nods, adds, “Hey, Dan

  will go with you if she plays the clubs

  again!” “No, I’ll go with you,” says

  Sam, doing a little sit-dance. “Ignore

  my roommate. Who besides Calvin

  and Rhett doesn’t like Ruth Smith?”


  Journal Entry #2203: RUTH SMITH?

  I just about spit my Diet Coke when Sam says Ruth’s last name. Good thing I’m already sitting on the floor. Rhett’s head whips around so fast I hear it crack like a knuckle. All I can say is, Holy Crap.

  Rhett puts her hand on mine. “There are millions of Smiths, Liz. That’s part of the problem, right? Don’t read into this—”

  “I’m not,” I say, but we both know I’m lying. I can see Sam’s eyes grow wide as it dawns on him—Henri and Calvin realize what we’re implying at about the same time.

  “Shit,” Sam says. He looks stunned. “I never put that together.”

  “But as Rhett says, there’s millions of Smiths—in New York alone!” Henri adds.

  “What are the chances?” Calvin asks. We all stare at him.

  “RIGHT,” says Rhett at last. “Things like that only happen in the movies. Or in a Charles Dickens novel.”

  Surprise in Profile: Washington Square Park

  Just as I’m closing my book, Oscar Wao,

  the day so mild I don’t need mittens now—

  I get an odd sense someone’s watching me.

  Ruth’s not there. I gaze around, pretending

  to stretch—I look left, and that’s when I see

  Sam, sketchbook on his lap, putting away

  his pencils. “Are you drawing me?” I say.

  He sort of peeks over, cheeks sunset pink.

  “Not now,” he says, his smile so loony I

  wonder for a second if he’s had a drink.

  Smiling back, I say, “I hate my profile.”

  He leaps up from his bench. “Oh, Liz! I’ll

  show you how beautiful you are!” Before

  I can stand up, he’s sitting beside me,

  saying, “If I’d only had a few more

  minutes, I’d have finished. Can I show you?”

  His sketchbook is already open. I do

  want to see, but my head’s also spinning

  like the break dancers by the fountain—

  the image blurs. Why is Sam sketching

  me? What Rhett would give to be in my place!

  Doesn’t he get—but wait, is that my face

  in profile? “You don’t know, Liz—that’s one

  reason I like you so much,” Sam says. “Know

  what?” I ask, staring down at what he’s done,

  what a miracle he’s made with a pencil.

  I actually look—well, pretty. “Sit still

  for five minutes?” He digs in his backpack,

  pulls out another charcoal pencil. Tim

  used to photograph me gazing up at trees, back

  when—“Sam,” I say, “this is crazy.” He looks

  so sad. I sigh, “Five minutes,” pick up my book.

  He jumps up again, runs back to his bench.

  Don’t ask me out, I think. Imagining

  how hurt Rhett would be gives my heart a wrench.

  A Flattering Complication

  “You could be a model,” Sam says as we stroll

  through the park toward Goddard Hall. He’s got

  a way with words—he sweet-talked that second-

  floor R.A. after our baby powder escapade—but

  this is over the top, the silliest thing I ever heard.

  Smiling my thanks, I change the subject to spring

  break. “You going to Florida with your brother?”

  Another boy would have taken the bait, but not

  Sam. He laughs. “Okay, I won’t say how pretty

  you are for the rest of the day.” (We stop to let

  an old man pass; I don’t say a word.) “And yes,

  I’m heading to the beach with Dan, because

  he has all the money.” Now I laugh, too. Sam

  opens the front door to Goddard, greets both

  security guards as we pass through the turn-

  stiles. “So, Liz,” he says as we wait for

  the elevator, which is going down. “Where

  are you heading, and am I allowed to say that

  I’ll miss you?” Rhett can’t know any of this.

  Journal Entry #2204

  Rhett’s packing, so our room looks as if it was toppled by a surprise tornado—sweatshirts, jeans, bras, shoes, empty water bottles everywhere.

  She makes a joke about moving my poetry books. At least she’s open about liking Sam now, but geez, what timing! I can barely look her in the eye for fear I’ll blurt out everything that just happened with him.

  That Sam is smooth, him and his pencil smell. Bob always said I’m too naïve—am I, really?

  How can I feel guilty? Rhett just can’t know. By the time we get back from break, this all will have blown over.

  Henri, wearing her dragon slippers, just popped her head in to say goodbye—she’s soon off to Boston. She says she wishes she were going to North Carolina like Rhett. Rhett says she’d go to Boston in a heartbeat. And did we hear Calvin’s going to Boston, too, to see an uncle who teaches at Harvard, Henri wants to know? Rhett looks odd. Jealous, almost. She shrugs, tosses Bleak House into her suitcase. It seems she does know that.

  Me, I’m glad to be heading to New Hook, though pray Kin Solvers doesn’t text me while I’m there. I’m totally not prepared for anything to happen when I’m home.

  Tim sends a text: “Hi to ur Mom tomorrow. & Butter.”

  He might be the only one who hears about Sam Paris. I text back, “I will,” and send it with a kiss. Maybe Zeena will happen to see it.

  Holy shit. I hope he’s not sleeping with her.

  . . . I just think of that NOW?

  Home on Break / Break for Home

  For most of the train ride home

  I stare out my window at the river—

  watch a rusty blue tug boat take its time

  lugging an oil barge north; follow

  a little iceberg with my eyes until

  it’s floated too far south to see.

  At the Poughkeepsie station, I see

  Mom and Butter ready to take me home,

  red bandanas around their necks. Until

  this moment, I would have bet a river

  of dollars Mom would never wear red, or follow

  a dog wearing red, with a red leash. Time

  changes people, I know—but the one time

  I bought her a red scarf, she said kindly, “See,

  Lizzie, it clashes with my hair.” I follow

  them out of the station after much hugging. Home

  is forty minutes north; less if we could take the river

  instead of a road. Mom talks about Butter until

  we pull in the driveway. It’s not until

  we’re in the kitchen that she asks, “How much time

  might it take Kin Solvers to find”—and a river

  of words runs through my mind. Can she see

  words puffing from my ears like smoke? The home

  fires are burning, I think, then realize I didn’t follow

  all she just said. “Sorry, Mom—I didn’t follow

  you,” I say. We talk over a pot of tea until

  Kate calls, wanting to know if I made it home

  okay. Then Butter jumps up from his bed: time

  for his walk. Besides his kitchen bed, I see

  one in the living room, one in Mom’s studio, a river

  of beds, it turns out, wends around the house, a river

  of bones, balls, stuffed cows and monkeys follow

  this river end-to-end. Bob’s room, I see,

  has been turned into Butter’s room—that is, until

  Bob comes to visit (that won’t be ’til Christmas time).

  My room, so far, is Butter-free, feels most like home.

  In bed I dream I’m swimming in the river; until

  I see Mom on shore, I feel lost. She shouts it’s time

  to follow her, waves that it’s time to come home.

  At Gertie’s Diner

>   Waiting for our food, I tell Jan and Jade

  how my mom’s lost her mind over Butter.

  They’re not sure which is funnier: that

  the cookie jar now is loaded with dog

  biscuits, or that Bob’s baby blanket covers

  the royal, three-sided, therma-rest dog

  bed in Mom’s room. It feels good to laugh,

  be with these friends. Jan looks happier than

  I’ve seen her. Ever. “Hey, not to put an end

  to the jocularity,” she says after our waitress

  sets down our omelets. “What’s up with

  Kin Solvers?” Really, this was why I needed

  to see them so fast—I couldn’t wait two more

  days, when we’d said we’d meet—Karen

  Mason had called to say YES, based on what

  I’d sent, they believe they can locate my birth

  mother in three to six months. Jade gasps,

  leans into Jan, who says, “That’s not long

  at all, Lizzie. It takes some people years!”

  I nod, take a deep breath, then a bite of toast.

  “How can you think of anything else?” says

  Jade. “I’d have to take a break from school!

  I’d be a mess, thinking any day I might get

  that text!” Jan nods, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Such mental and heartfelt torment,” I think—

  my birth mother’s letter reveals an anguish

  deeper than this. “School’s a good distraction,

  even if it’s hard to focus,” I say. Jan’s decided

  not to go to college since she’s taken over

  Mack’s Auto from her dad. But she understands.

  “And don’t forget,” she says, “Liz has poetry

  to keep her sane.” But now I don’t want to talk