by Meg Kearney
my grief, but laughing sure does help. My friends
gave me that gift all evening—first Henri
showed up with a pizza, then Sam and Calvin
with a bottle of merlot and a toast:
“To Liz: you’re the girl we admire most.” *
* followed by assurances to Rhett and Henri that they admire them “most,” too
Decision: Ruth
Why torture myself with being unsure?
We’ve so much in common—she could be my mother.
When Ruth gets back, I’m going to ask her.
Don’t I already have enough pressure
searching for that “she,” my other mother?
Why torture myself with being unsure?
We both love music, spending time in nature,
poetry, too—is it so odd that I wonder?
When Ruth gets back, I’m going to ask her.
Why not take all possible measures
in searching for the one I call “birth mother”?
Why torture myself with being unsure?
Kate fears I’m setting myself up for disaster.
But Ruth’s last name is Smith! She might be my mother.
When Ruth gets back, I’m going to ask her.
Thank God—Ruth is beating her cancer.
Still—it could be now or never.
Why torture myself with being unsure?
When Ruth gets back, I’m going to ask her.
Do-Over at the Café Du Monde
I down a rum and Coke before we go,
so I’m not even shaking as we glide
into the room where the microphone
looms on its little stage. But my faux
confidence flies away like a scrap
of paper in the wind when Professor
Aguero strolls in. Please, no. Looking
around for Louise, who’s sitting near
the back, I see she’s as shocked as I am.
“Chill, Liz, you’re ready to rock this
place,” Calvin says when he sees my
face change. Sam and Henri echo him
as Rhett lights the candle on our table.
“For you,” she says. Still, my hand
trembles as I lift a glass of water to my
lips. Flicker-flicker go the lights. Shit.
The reading’s about to begin. Why did
I agree to do this? Why did Aguero
have to show? It’s not too late to leave,
I think, then the professor’s by my side.
I stand, shake her hand. “Sorry,” I say,
“my hands are ice.” Her look says,
Don’t worry. I understand. “Word of
advice?” It’s not a question. I nod.
“Just honor the poem, Liz. It’s not
about you. It’s about the work, which
is strong. Do the poem the justice it
deserves, and you’ll be fine.” As she
walks back to her seat, they call my
name: “First reader up, Liz McLane.”
Fifteen feet never felt so freaking far.
As the host raises the mic to my
height, I glance at Rhett, set my poem
on the music stand. No worries, then,
about my shaky hands. Aguero’s
words resound in my mind. Warm
against my chest, my charm assures,
I’m near. I clear my throat. “Visiting
Dad’s Bench,” I hear myself begin:
“I stroke this marble
as if it is your face,
smooth after shaving . . . ”
The words are there. All I have to do
is believe in them. And not cry.
When I’m done I know I served
that poem well, because all I can hear
is applause.
Last Postcard from Cathy
Amiga,
I don’t think this will reach you by 4/1,
but you know I’ll be thinking of you
that day. So much has happened in a year!
But how is it possible that a whole year
has passed since your dad died? I’ll never
forget that scene at your house after the
funeral—Mrs. W couldn’t get over how
you’re the tallest in your family, and joked
about your b. father being the cable guy.
I saved you both from calamity, didn’t I?
LOL. Anyway, you’re on my mind
a ton. Want to hear this song you keep talking
about. Wondering how the search is going.
Your Spanish, too. Language is a fascinating
thing, isn’t it? Today Pedro asked about
“bees knees.” And how to explain “hot
dog”? Forget “funny bone”—I don’t
understand where that comes from, either.
Okay, try to keep smiling, Lizzie, and see
you in two months!
Con amor,
xoxo Cathy
My First (and Last) Date with Sam Paris
It’s kind of like driving somebody else’s car.
You get behind the wheel (he does let you
drive); the seat’s back too far, but the thing’s
rusted in place, so—you stretch (daintily,
gracefully, you hope) to reach the pedals.
Pedal, that is—you’re used to your standard
transmission but this is an automatic. You
know that, but still, your left foot keeps
pumping air (daintily, gracefully, you hope),
feeling for the clutch. Meanwhile, does he
really listen to this station? You can tell
he’d rather you not touch that button. And
whoa—he’d said there was “a bit of body
damage,” but didn’t warn you about holes
in the floor, about lifting your feet when
splashing through puddles. (So much for
your cute new sandals.) Hey, is there any
heat in this thing? Can we talk? I liked it
in my car. I liked it better when we walked.
Journal Entry #2216
Scene: Dorm room, after reading Rhett my “First Date” poem
Rhett: Was it that bad?
Me: Before he dropped his wallet in the puddle, or after I spilled my ten-dollar glass of wine?
Rhett: They let you order wine?
Me: It does help being tall. They must have thought twice after we spread those soggy bills all over our table, though. Then, of course, my hands were flying in the air as I told him how Jan and I got to be friends, and I hit my glass—
Rhett: You haven’t told me that story.
Me: Oh, third grade—I punched this mean girl—it’s best told over a drink.
Rhett: Make mine a Diet Coke today.
Me: Mine, too.
Rhett: And . . . how exactly did your hair get caught in his jacket’s zipper?
Me: Don’t ask. But—(I pull out a short lock, just barely tucked behind my left ear)—you can guess how we got it out.
Rhett: Ouch. (pause) Did he kiss you?
Me: Like kissing my brother.
Rhett: Double ouch. (pause) I don’t suppose there will be a date number two?
Me: We’ve sworn we’ll be better friends than ever. In other words—
Rhett: No.
Me: No. And thanks for not asking what Bob asked. Of course you wouldn’t. I actually emailed him the poem, because I thought it would crack him up.
(Rhett looks at me quizzically.)
Me (lowering my voice in imitation of Bob): “But I thought you guys took a taxi?” I had to tell him, “It’s a metaphor, Bob. Driving that car—it’s just what the date was like.”
The Workshop Challenge
(I bring the poem I wrote for the anniversary of Dad’s death)
Got up the nerve to bring my “April First”
sestina to workshop. Such an o
dd thing,
how poets never stop bearing our souls
to strangers. After debating the repetition
of “ok/okay” in the last stanza, Professor
Aguero told us that “When the subject
feels dangerous, form is your friend.”
“Liz was born a formalist,” remarked
Ben, winking at me over his so-geeky-
they’re-cute glasses. “No,” said Aguero,
“Liz just works hard.” (I winked at Ben
then.) “Classes will be ending in a few
weeks,” she went on, “and I hope what
I’ve been saying about formal verse will
inspire some of you to bring in a sonnet
or pantoum—for better or for worse, just
to try it. Don’t worry about it being good.
Worry about knowing how the poem is
made. How that tool in your toolbox
works. Then, when you need it, you’ll
be able to reach in and use it.” Natalia,
who’s minoring in film, let out a sigh.
“Who wants to bet her other favorite
pastime is sticking needles in her eyes?”
Journal Entry #2217
Strolling with our cups of tea after workshop, Louise says I’ve inspired her—she’s already been working on a villanelle for more than a week. We try to guess who might take Professor Aguero up on her challenge. Cathy and Colleen will for sure, and Gabe, Von, and Maria. Wren? Maybe. Taylor? Maybe not. Ben? Natalia? A definite no.
“Which reminds me,” said Louise, “it’s so amazing that Tim was there for you like that the day your father died. No wonder you two are—well, close, still.”
I had to explain—he wasn’t really. Tim was there the day of the funeral, but it was the sestina’s form that led the poem’s “speaker” to say it was “today”—the day Dad died.
“So, it wasn’t really true?” asked Louise.
“It is here,” I said, pointing to my heart.
Confronting Ruth
Not until it’s nearly the last
week of classes, Sunday,
do I spot Ruth.
Her guitar’s on the bench—she’s—what?
She’s writing. Left-handed.
She’s left-handed!
Sam, who’s come to the park with me
to sketch, touches my arm.
“Try to be calm.”
Sam’s right—I don’t want Ruth to think
I’ve turned lunatic while
she was away.
But you know how many people
are left-handed?
Like, ten percent
of the whole world’s population.
Sam waits by the fountain
while I breathe deep,
head over to Ruth’s bench. “Hey, Ruth,”
I practically whisper,
suddenly shy.
Her rich, brown tan makes her look strong,
healthy, her lengthening
curls are copper
on the ends—sun does that to my
hair, too. Seeing me, Ruth
leaps to her feet—
when she hugs me, I smell sunscreen,
coconut. “Excellent
timing,” she says,
“You’ll understand this, Liz.”
I bet I will, I think.
“It’s a hard day,
today. Oh, I’m so extra glad
to see you. Want to sit?”
After moving
her guitar, she motions for me
to join her on the bench.
I want to ask—
to burst—but happy as she is
to see me, her eyes are
red and teary.
“This is the anniversary—
ten years today—of my
husband Jack’s death.”
I open my mouth to say I’m
sorry, but Ruth stops me.
“Too much death, right?”
(Just a cruel fact of life, I guess.)
“Anyway, I’m about
to sing a song—
a song I sang for you once, Liz.
Maybe you’ll sing along.”
Looking into
the tree tops, Ruth says, “This is for
you, my darling, Jack Smith.”
“That was his name?”
I interrupt, my heart beating
like a Congo drum in
Bob Marley’s band.
“You were married to Jack? I mean,
you took your husband’s name?
Before you were
Ruth Smith you were—” “Ruth Steinberger.”
Her turn to interrupt.
She laughs. “Ruth Smith
is a better stage name, don’t you
think? But yes—a Jewish
girl from Brooklyn,
that’s me. Now, ready to sing, Liz?”
My left hand grabs the bench
under me; my
right rubs my eyes as if something,
suddenly, has stung them.
“Liz, you okay?”
Ruth asks, poised to pluck the first string.
Life’s so freakin’ crazy.
Ruth Steinberger.
“Yes, I’m fine, Ruth,” I say. “Let’s sing.”
We start: “Although your soul
is full of woe . . . ”
Journal Entry #2218
After Ruth and I begin singing, Sam wanders over. He keeps looking at me in a way that I know means he sees something in my face—that something weird has happened—weird for me, at least. So, I think, this is where Reunion Fantasy #2,001 gets me. I had it coming.
I only stay for that one song. Then I give Ruth a quick hug, say I have to go—she tells me she’s going to play “When You Never Said Goodbye” next—and that makes me move all the faster. Still, I keep my head long enough to make sure she won’t be alone later today. No one needs to be alone on these anniversaries. She tells me she has plans with friends, and gives me a convincing smile.
Sam, Rhett, Calvin, Henri, Tim, Jan—they only laugh about it now because I do. Ruth Steinberger. Well, I let them all know that I have been told by not one, but two Israeli taxi drivers that I look Jewish.
Do I tell Kate & Mom about this when I’m with them on Easter? They’ll probably laugh, too.
_______
When’s the last time I took a nap? When I was five? This afternoon my head feels like cement. I have to lie down. Luckily Rhett is out and the dorm is pretty quiet—I sleep more than two hours. What weird dreams come from daytime sleep.
Birth Mother Letter Dream
Words begin to fail me
teacher, music, siblings
Dear God, how will I do it
I sign the papers Friday
teacher, music, siblings
This writer has always loved
I sign the papers Friday
Don’t let her grow up in the city
This writer has always loved
beauty everywhere—nature, poetry
Don’t let her grow up in the city
else I’ll go on forever
beauty everywhere—nature, poetry—
so many doors are open
else I’ll go on forever
blessed with a love of music
So many doors are open
I must put my trust in you
blessed with a love of music
how I’d love to guide her myself
I must put my trust in you
There is much more that could be said
how I’d love to guide her myself
such mental and heartfelt torment
There is much more that could be said
Dear God, how will I do it!
such mental and heartfelt torment
Words begin to fail me
Train Ride, Easter Saturday
It’s a light-jacket kind of spring
day wh
en Kate and I take the train
north to Poughkeepsie. Keeper of
crazy hours, Kate sleeps all the way
to Cold Spring. I read Jane Kenyon’s
Otherwise, poems published after
she died. She was just forty-seven.
Leukemia. Ruth’s husband didn’t die
of cancer, but was also taken too
soon—hit by a drunk driver, just after
their honeymoon. Too much death,
as Ruth said. And today, the day
before Easter, we mourn Christ in his
tomb. “You look gloomy,” says Kate,
yawning. Now that she’s awake
I figure I’ll fill her in about Ruth,
but she’s got stories, too—about
Downtown and Bill the crazy sous-
chef, who makes all the waitresses
cry. We laugh so hard, our mascara
is gone by the time we reach the end
of the line. We spot Mom and Butter
on the platform, wearing matching
polka-dot bandanas. Mom waves;
Butter’s tail wags like a wind-shield
wiper gone berserk. “I warned you,”
I whisper, “Our mother is bananas.”
Easter Saturday Lunch
(Yet another family meal ruined by yours truly)
Maybe it’s the way I bring up Ruth
so casually at first, as if her story will be
like that of Louise and Operation Baby
Powder, or like the one about Rhett and her
brother learning to play gin rummy. Maybe
it’s the way I let the story build, filled
with a smoky voice I thought I knew, with
jokes about Cold Mountain and Robert Frost,
with the surprise of “Smith,” a happy song
