by Meg Kearney
Ruth looks straight at me, puts her hand on my arm. “I’m clean. Cancer-free,” she says. My hand rushes up to meet hers. “I’ve not told you about—my treatments, but now,” she hesitates—“Well, you are my friend!”
Oh, kind, caring Ruth. Thank you, God, I think, then give her a hug. “I’m so, so happy,” I say, breathing in her scent, wanting to touch those curls. They don’t yet cover the little point on her left ear. As if reading my mind, she puts one hand in her hair, says, “All this time, I’ve been wanting to tell you I’m a curly-haired girl, too—but they say once it’s gone, you never know how it might grow back. It could have been as straight as your friend’s, the Asian girl.” “Henri,” I say, and Ruth nods, “As straight as Henri’s. But you—I’ve always admired your hair, Liz. Maybe in a year mine will be as long!”
I want to shout: Ruth! Did you ever give up. . . ? But I hear myself say, “Your hair is very pretty, Ruth,” while she unhooks the hinges of her guitar case. Glancing up, she says, “I’m going away for a few weeks.” I must look shocked. She touches my arm again. “Not far—Florida. To see my folks. They’ve been worried.”
Her parents! I’d thought about siblings, but not grandparents, really, beyond the nurse/baker question. My mouth hangs open. Do I say, “Of course,” or “How are they?” I hope I do, but am having trouble tracking what I say inside my head and what I say out loud. Ruth adjusts the guitar on her lap, strums and tweaks it back in tune. She says, “This is for you. I know you have a tough day coming up, and I won’t be here.”
She plays a song she says is by Livingston Taylor: “My Father’s Eyes.” I’m starting to listen to song lyrics with a new kind of attention. Lyrics are like poems, but different. They seem to need the music to make us feel their true power—like a play needs to be acted, or at least an actor’s voice, for its words to have their full impact. This song is a kind of love-tribute to Taylor’s father, full of admiration and longing to be as good a man as his father is. The way Ruth sings it—I swallow hard. At the end, I dry my eyes while the crowd that’s gathered around us claps, cries, “Encore! Encore!”
Journal Entry #2213
I sent Ruth’s photo to everyone—well, not Cathy, not Mom or Tim, but to Kate, Bob, Jan, Jade, Rhett, Henri, Sam, Calvin—with the question, “Who does this look like?”
Rhett: She has curly hair?!
Jan: Jade & I definitely see what u mean, but CAREFUL.
Calvin: Ruth Smith?
Sam: Whats her name. Orphan Annie. Only brown hair.
Henri: U w hair short!
Kate: Call me, L. xoxo
Bob: More like a McLane than any of us. Cousin Lucy? Aunt Marge?
(Kate thinks I’m setting myself up only to be let down: “Please drop this idea!” I told her what Bob said, though, and we had to agree that he’s weirdly right.)
_______
This afternoon, unable to focus, I’m cleaning our room like a crazy person. When Rhett opens the door, I’m standing on top of my desk with a rag in my hand, singing the chorus to “When You Never Said Goodbye.” Henri peeks from behind Rhett, says, “Liz?” No use explaining.
Rhett announces that Sam’s brother Dan is throwing another party, and we’re invited. “So, start thinking outfits, girls,” she says.” “When we go,” adds Henri, “let’s stick together, okay?”
My Almost Party (With Parts I Don’t Remember Filled in by Henri and Sam)
It hit me as soon as we all walked in the door:
hot guys in black T-shirts, girls in short skirts
with sky-scraper-long legs, candy-colored
jello shots and a bathtub full of beer . . . clearly
this was a party to rival any back home. Here
was a party where a girl could find trouble. And
count all that was on this girl’s mind—make that
double. Bigger than I’d thought, Dan’s apartment
thrummed with the bass and drums of Silent
Crimes. “I could use a drink,” Rhett bellowed
in my ear. “Don’t lose me!” shouted Henri
as Calvin and Rhett disappeared. “Don’t worry!”
I yelled, though I doubted she could hear. From
the thick of the crowd came a guy in high heels;
he gave us each a drink, then flew away like
a bird into a cloud. Soon Sam was at my side—
he’d gotten here early to help Dan set up.
“You have to meet my brother,” he said, handing
me another cup just as Rhett and then Calvin re-
appeared, each with extra drinks in hand. Rhett’s
were nearly gone. “We having fun yet?” she said,
then, “Oh! I love this song!” “Good,” said Calvin,
“because I long to dance.” He put out his hand
and she took it, then she sashayed away in her
black and white dress without a second look
at Sam. This was our chance to let loose, a night
for me to forget school work, my search, even
Ruth and April first. I put an arm around Henri,
gulped my vodka punch in seconds. Sam
handed me another. “Do you really think Ruth
might be your mother?” His question made me
down drink number two. Or was that three?
“Birth mother. But let’s not talk about it now,”
I said. Henri slipped out from under my arm.
“Vow you two won’t move until I’m back?”
she asked. I nodded. Sam did, too, saying,
“Upstairs bathroom won’t have a line.” “Two
floors? Holy crap, Sam,” I remarked, “No
wonder four guys live here.” Sam shook his
head. “Five.” He stared straight into my eyes
but I looked away. Darting between couples,
Henri looked fine in her little green dress.
I’d hoped Calvin would notice until he danced
off with Rhett. Now I hoped she’d not do anything
she’d regret. “Another stress reliever, at your
service,” sang the guy in high heels—he and his
glittery gold pants had a way of knowing when
to show. “Dreamy,” he cooed, eyeing Sam as we
took punch from his tray; made a curtsey before
gliding away. “I’d better slow down,” I said to no
one in particular. Sam said, “Let’s get some water
when Henri comes back.” “Hey, are you keeping
track of these?” I asked, handing him an empty cup.
Two black girls squeezed by, holding each other up.
“How come your lesbian friends never visit?”
asked Sam as we watched the girls go. “Who?”
I said. Maybe I’d heard him wrong. “You know,”
he answered, “Jan and Jade.” I nearly spilled my
drink. “What makes you think they’re lesbians?”
I said. (And why did I feel angry?) “They’re good
friends. Plus Jade works at Jan’s shop. That’s all.”
I took a giant swig, wondering, Are they? Sam said
he didn’t mean anything by it. As I looked around
for Henri, the room began to sway. “Liz, are you
okay?” I heard him say as I sank slowly to the floor.
Through my vodka-punch haze I managed to slur,
“Just kind of warm.” Next thing I knew I was outside—
Henri and Sam each held me by one arm. “Where we
going?” I think I asked. Henri said, “You? Back
to the dorm.” Trying to stand straighter, I cried,
“But the party just started! And Henri you didn’t
dance with Calvin yet!” “Uh, Liz,” Sam sputtered.
“Liz,” Henri hissed, “Don’t.” That sobered me a bit.
I’d never made Henri pissed. “I won’t, I won’t,
Henri,” I cr
ied. “I’m so sorry. Romance sucks.
Don’t I know. Doesn’t it, Sam?” He shrugged.
Needless to say, I never did meet his brother Dan.
Won’t I Ever Learn?
Up ’til now, I’ve been so proud of
how I’ve held my liquor—
partying just
enough to feel a buzz but not
lose control. “You’re under
a lot of stress,”
sweet Henri said last night as she
helped me into bed. “No
excuse,” I think
I cried, at least inside my head.
My poor head, throbbing like
last night’s music.
Last summer, I was hung-over
nearly every Sunday.
I can’t—I won’t
be that girl again. No matter
what happens. With that vow
my headache starts
to fade. Then: a knock at the door—
Henri, with a bottle
of Gatorade.
Journal Entry #2214
After Henri delivered the Gatorade and I mouthed a big THANK YOU, she slipped out again, quiet as a pencil skimming paper. From the other side of the wall between our desks croaked Rhett’s groggy voice.
Rhett: Who was that?
Me: Dad would say, an Angel of Mercy. Henri.
Rhett (silence, then): You okay?
Me: Been worse. Feeling stupid.
Rhett: You were gone before I realized—but Sam said you’d be fine.
Me: Sam? Of course—he went back. What time did you get in? I was comatose.
Rhett (silence again): I guess . . . six.
Me (impressed): The party went that long! Dang. I missed it. I really screwed up.
Rhett: Not exactly. . . I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. Between those crazy drinks and—Dan’s friend had some good weed, so. . .
Me: You smoked pot? (Am I a total drip? A virgin who’s never even tried pot?)
Rhett: It made me want to dance all night!
Me: Wow—and you and Calvin danced until six?
(Silence.)
Me (my brain waking, working): You were—you and Calvin?
Rhett: Sam slept at Dan’s, so—
Me (hesitant): Rhett, I thought you liked Sam? I mean, I’m glad for you and Calvin—!
Rhett: I know! (I can tell she’s smiling now.) Here I’ve been trying to convince you what a catch Calvin is—I guess I convinced myself instead. (pause) Besides, Sam likes you. You must realize that.
Me (thinking, Ignore that. Thinking, Poor Henri!): You two looked fab on the dance floor.
Rhett: Isn’t he amazing? I’ve never been with someone who dances like that! So you can imagine how he—kisses.
Me (sitting up now, I gulp some Gatorade): Mmmm. . . lucky girl. He is amazing, on so many levels.
I glance at my phone—texts from Tim and Sam. Sam—it hits me, what he said about Jan and Jade . . .
Rhett: Liz?
I collapse back on my pillow—a few feathers fly out like little ghost-birds. One of these days, my old down pillow could use some TLC with a needle and thread.
Me: Rhett, it’s only 10:30.
Rhett (pause): Right. Good night!
Her mattress creaks; I hear the rustling of sheets. A brief silence. Then—well, if she’s been drinking, Rhett snores. I now know what a snoring, teenage bear probably sounds like.
Assumptions
We McLanes are a motley crew—
all sizes and shapes—some eyes
brown, others blue. Truly, my sister
Kate is Rose Red, while my brother’s
Elmer Fudd. Yet when introduced
to someone new, my family, it’s
assumed, is related by blood.
Henri counts on her fingers, passed
algebra by the skin of her knees;
chemistry, she claims, only makes
her sneeze. But because she’s half
Chinese (and her father’s a professor
at MIT), people assume (she laughs)
she excels at science and math.
Calvin can dance, but says he sucks
at basketball: “All black guys can’t
play!” And though his last
name is “Paris,” Sam can’t speak
French at all. So just because Jan
and Jade are always together when
I call, just because they’d rather go
home than be with me on a Saturday,
just because they’ll soon be room-
mates, do I assume they’re gay?
Journal Entry #2215
Scratch “Are Jan and Jade gay?” You’d think I’d know, right? I mean, Jan and I have been friends since third grade. She would have shared something that intimate with me. I think that’s why I was so mad when Sam suggested it—the idea that he would know that before I did, even if maybe it had crossed my mind in the past, seemed so wrong. But weirdly, they both called late last night to give me their new address, and to announce Jade’s got a boyfriend. Funny, I’m actually disappointed. They’d make such a great couple! Will give Sam this news when I see him.
Jan said what a drag it was, moving in the rain and wind. It’s poured sideways for two days. Coming around the northwest corner of Goddard Hall, I nearly blew backward into the man behind me. I tried to cheer myself: the rain will just make the flowers grow faster in the park.
Both yesterday and today I’ve seen Louise in the library. Had to tell her what I’d read— that the poet Alexander Pope was so blown away by Sir Isaac Newton’s scientific accomplishments, he wrote this epitaph for Newton’s gravestone:
“Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night;
God said ‘Let Newton be’ and all was light.”
Louise said, “Isn’t it cool when a class like Social Foundations kind of crosses over into a poetry class?” Mainly it got me thinking about what I could write for Dad’s bench. Or my own gravestone.
Part of me wants to share my story, my search with Louise, but our friendship isn’t quite “there” yet. I think I’m just wanting as many friends around me as possible when I hear from Kin Solvers. And when everybody leaves town at the end of the semester, Louise will still be here, uptown with her parents. But it’s not like we’re that close that I can share this with her . . . maybe at some point, if our friendship keeps growing. Still, I can’t count Louise on the list of buddies who will be here for me when I need that. With every day that goes by, Karen Mason must get a little closer to finding something. Finding her.
April First
No one will play me for a fool. Not today.
Rhett’s made sure of that. She and Henri left
a card taped to the bathroom mirror, hand-made
(Rhett drew the picture of both of them: their dark
hair is black thread; clothes, real fabric). “Through
thick & thin, we’re here for you!” it read.
Kate I’d see later. Bob sent a text that read
“Bear hug. Love.” “Thinking of u today,”
read Tim’s. Before calling Mom, I had to get through
Spanish. I’d meant to look up “headache,” but left
my dictionary back at the dorm. Senora Arroyo’s dark
eyes blinked at “Mi cabeza está mal,” my made-
up way of saying, “Don’t expect me to talk today.” She made
a sympathetic face. “Ah, usted tiene un dolor de cabeza.” I did read
a Neruda poem out loud, “Horses,” set in a “dark
Berlin winter”—Berlin oscuro. It seemed that today
was perfect for miracles lighting up all that winter left
so otherwise bleak. So it was poetry that got me through
Spanish class. What could possibly get Mom through
this morning, this day? When I called, she’d just made
peanut butter dog biscuits. “He’d eat them all, if left
&nbs
p; to his own devices,” Mom said of Butter, though she read
online some dogs stop eating once they’re full. “Today
he can have a few extra,” she said. “Next comes dark
chocolate cake, but Butter can’t have chocolate, dark
or milk. Makes dogs sick.” So baking would get Mom through
the morning at least. I asked, “And the rest of today,
Mom? What will you do?” Her friend Isabel made
them a dinner reservation; otherwise, she’d read,
take Butter to the cemetery. I could see it: left
on Parker, right on LaGrange . . . Dad’s bench is left
of the clump of pines. Mom knew this was a dark
day for me, too, but I assured her I had tons to read
and would see Kate; my friends would see me through
the rest of the day. Sure enough, when I made
it back to the dorm, a bouquet was waiting. “Today
going ok?” texted Tim—the yellow roses from him, who threw
his arm around my shoulder, who listened, who made
me feel all might someday be okay, a year ago today.
The Rest of April First
Almost like the “old days” (six weeks ago),
Tim and I spent an hour on the phone.
We laughed—Zeena, it seems, is known to throw
a tantrum if she doesn’t get her way.
Otherwise, she’s “very nice,” and sometimes
lets him win a round of golf. “You could say
he’s from Mars, Zeena’s from Pluto,” jokes Rhett.
“Pluto’s not even a planet anymore,” I say.
“Exactly.” Hey, I don’t expect to forget
