by Monroe, Anya
was remind me of what wasn’t
and what was.
Nothing good
came out of it.
Toby pops his head in the doorway. “Hey, Louisa, want to get a hot dog next door, with me?”
“No,” I say. “But can you bring one back? No mustard.”
“Sure thing.”
I didn’t want to stop
writing.
And even if the crossed out part was crap
for some reason this floor is the place
I want to be.
Maybe that’s how Terry feels when
she puts seeds in the
soil.
It all boils
down to what your body says you need.
I look back down at the crossed out page
realizing that I can want to do this.
For me.
155.
After work I ask Ms. F
if I can use her computer.
“What for?” she asks.
“Oh, um…this poetry contest thing. It’s not a big deal, it’s just a thing for teenagers.”
“Oh, okay, sure.”
She leaves me alone in the den, letting me type
the address in
to submit my entry.
I have a gut feeling it’s because she’s glad.
Glad
to see me grab
onto something good.
An hour later she brings me a slice
of warm apple pie.
I like the way she
processes.
156.
“So I wanted to let you know I decided to enter.”
“Really? That’s awesome!” Margot gives me a hug.
She came over to Ms. F’s on a rare
Saturday afternoon when we’re both
off work.
“I guess, but I was looking at the website. At the rules and everything, and I’m super confused. Like, how it all works.”
“Oh, right. Okay. So here are the rules.”
Margot sits on the couch
pulling up her now bright orange hair
(think safety cones)
into a ponytail
revealing a new tattoo
under her collarbone.
It reads:
Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat.
“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing to the script.
on her neckline.
“Fortune Favors the Brave,” she says.
I repeat the words
letting them resonate deep
knowing that connection
everyone seeks
in life
is found with Margot and me.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
Ms. Francine walks in. “Whatcha guys talking about?”
“Just my new ink.”
Margot lifts her chin up high
to more easily let Ms. F spy
her heart art.
“I love it, Margot. I can’t believe you did it without me, though,” she says, pouting.
“You want a tattoo, Ms. F?”
I look at her, with what must have been
shock and a scowl
because the two women laugh.
“Girl, you have a lot to learn about my sister!” Margot says. “But we need to talk about the rules. You only have a few weeks!”
I listen as Margot explains in
detail
everything I need to
to excel.
I listen closely, intently
but keep finding myself looking at Ms. Francine
wanting to know
who she is
realizing (again) there’s more
to her
than what I see
and wondering why
it’s taken me so long to
show
an interest.
157.
Do I start at the beginning or do I
start at the end?
The parts in the middle seem to blend
together so much that I can’t tell what
bit I should say
or what year was more significant
or which way
I should go.
I scratch out and restart and try to decide
how I want to use my three minutes on stage.
Margot said the rules are:
Three minutes on stage,
to pour out your heart.
Three minutes on stage,
if you go over and under you are docked points
and points added together
give you a passing, a failing or a soaring grade.
Three minutes on stage
just me, myself and I ––
I can’t bring out an instrument,
a costume or a prop.
Three minutes on stage
to give it all I got.
Three minutes on stage
to tell an original poem about
whatever I choose,
but most winners always use
the most important plot:
Truth.
“No pressure,” I told Margot after she went through the list of do’s and don’ts.
“It is no pressure,” she said. “Because it can be whatever you want.”
Some poets focus on something happy
something political
something scary
something radical
whatever resonates with the artist is the
thing that matters most.
I keep thumbing through my journals
trying hard to see
what part of my story
means the most
to me.
I realize that my story
won’t ever be complete if
I
don’t go
and see Benji.
Because for me
I need that chapter to be bookmarked
not to close
but it needs to be okay for me to put that part
on hold.
I ask Terry if I can go see him
if she can put in a word
for this one special request.
She gets me the consent.
I get to go see Benji tomorrow.
158.
The facility is just like the hospital.
Clean, bright.
Lockdown doors so no one can take flight.
Be out of sight.
It’s safer that way.
I stay
in the waiting room until the lady
at the desk calls my name.
She says we have the same
shoes.
I look down and see I’m wearing
brown boots from Christmas
I look at her smiling quietly
trying to act politely
wondering if we’ve walked the
same steps in our same shoes.
She takes me back to a room
where couches line the walls
Ping-Pong table set in the middle
smells like freezedriedfried
chicken nuggets.
Eww.
My response makes me think
I’m morphing into Ms. Francine
in ways I don’t even know.
He sits with
hands on his knees
tapping the beat
beat to my heart.
Seeing him
makes me realize how long we’ve been apart
and more importantly
Just. How. Long.
He’s been away.
“Benji?” I say, questioning everything.
He looks up
with those big brown eyes
and
I see him.
“You came, Lou-Lou?”
My beating heart stops.
It feels so good to hear him say my name.
159.
“Of course I came, Benji. First chance I got.”
I go to the threa
dbare couch
noticing the man sitting in a chair
surveying the scene.
“Don’t mind me, I’m Geoffry,” he says, smiling. “Just here, doing my job. Your brother Benji and I have spent time together the last few weeks and he’s told me so many things about you. Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”
“Water would be good,” I say.
“Great, I’ll be right back. Benji, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
We look at one another after Geoffrey walks away.
“Is he your…your doctor or something?” I ask.
“No, he’s like the guy who’s on suicide watch. They come in shifts. He’s here most days.”
“Terry told me. About how you tried...again.”
“Yeah, well did she tell you why?”
“About Mom you mean?”
“Yeah. That’s the understatement of the century. She’s locked up though. Did you hear?” Benji asks me.
“Yeah. I know. I tried to see her, like to say goodbye at the termination hearing. But then...then everything came out...out about her.”
“Out about me is more like it.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me? Ever Benji? You never said a word.”
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve
as Geoffrey walks back in
making me freeze
inside.
“He’s cool, Lou-Lou. I mean, I’m done hiding. I never told you because I didn’t think I could. But after I saw Mom and had my…attempts…I was tired of holding it all in so I told the truth…about Mom…about our family.”
Geoffrey hands me a bottle of water and
sits back down
pulling a book out to read
not making a sound.
“But how did that make you so strong…so brave? I can’t talk about anything, without…without falling or breaking or…feeling like I’m dying.”
My hand flies to my mouth.
“Shit, Benji, I didn’t mean that,” I say.
“It’s the truth though, Louisa. Isn’t it? I tried to kill myself and somehow doing that…it set me free.”
“So you think I should try and kill myself, Benji? What are you talking about?”
Geoffrey lowers his book
giving our conversation a harder look.
“No, of course not, Louisa. I would never, ever want that. I thought I wanted to go…go away forever. Some days I still feel like that. It hurts so bad –– being messed up inside like this.”
His eyes fill
he looks away, breathes in and out.
Steady now, finding his ground
ing.
“But what I’m learning here is that nothing is as bad as it feels. I have things to live for. I have you.”
He has never spoke like that.
Broke
it down like that.
So perfectly.
So intelligently.
“So how am I supposed to unfreeze? Get unstuck. I can’t do what you did to get to that place.”
“I don’t know, Lou-Lou. I just know I wish I’d said something sooner. Told the truth sooner. But I was scared. I’m sick of being scared.”
Me too.
I am sick of living in fear.
Sick of being scared of having people get near
me.
Sick of the girl trying so hard
to sweep up the messes
sweep up the crumbs of myself
bury myself.
I want to sweep up the fear
once and for all
and put it in the
trash.
160.
I beat Benji in Ping-Pong
and he beats me in checkers.
The afternoon wasn’t long
enough.
Benji is different somehow.
In a good way.
In a grown up way.
I see him like I never have before.
A person who’s going to be okay
without me.
I’ve been trying so hard to save him
make him
whole.
I can’t offer salvation when I
haven’t set myself free.
I can’t offer salvation to a
boy who I see
is becoming more whole than me.
Whole in his imperfection
because he’s finding
a voice
in his introspection.
In his dissection of his
story.
And God,
that sounds like a salve-made-for-glory.
He’s still hurting, that’s for sure.
A nurse came in once
and gave him his meds
a cupful of pills
pinkbluered.
He swallowed them fast
they must be what
is giving him this last
ing
effect of calm and collected.
It’s working.
I wonder what my mom would have
been like
if she’d gone to a
doctor for help
for her head
instead of lying in bed
self-diagnosing
self-medicating in a sicktwistedway.
Crazy how Benji’s attempt on his life
is the very thing
saving
him.
I put on my coat
Ms. F’s here to pick me up.
“Are you going to be okay here, Benji?”
“Yeah. I’m more worried about you, sis.”
I scrunch up my mouth. “You keep making me cry, Benji. Stop it, will you?”
“Louisa, did they give you the note? The note I wrote the first time…time I tried?”
I nod
thinking of the crumpled piece
of paper
I put in my palm.
“Do you remember the stars?”
“I remember the stars, Benji.”
And I did.
I do.
I remember the nights that came after
the dark.
The dark that broke us.
I see how they stole
so much from us
but here
right now
in the clean white facility
I can see that
they never took what mattered most:
Brother and Sister.
Lou-Lou and her little Benji-Boy.
The dark
is pushed out by
the light.
The sickness they carried
that they tried to pass along to us
didn’t survive.
But we did.
We Are.
We Are Survivors.
161.
Suddenly I’m on a roll.
Rock n’ Roll inspiration from the 6-Spot’s
not quite what I mean.
More like rolling down a hill
suddenly feeling free.
Finding words for my poetry performance
that makes me believe
in change.
I take a break from the words I write
to go to the hill by the side of the house
the one still covered in snow.
The February chill
still setting in deep down to my bones,
but somehow I just
know
what I need.
I need the rolling down a hill
feeling of free.
Jess is with me
and I know I need to tell her
a piece
so the
rest doesn’t come like a shock.
We ditch our sleds
as we act like kids
rolling in the snow.
We get to the bottom and we laugh
loud
our make-up smeared in the
tiny creases of our eyes.
Surprised
it’s as fun as it is.
We lie on our backs
snow angels under us
the wings flying with us
we look at one another
both knowing there’s so much unspoken
ground I we never had the guts to tread.
She speaks first.
“Louisa…?” Her voice cracks.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of the
downhill motion
or maybe it was the part of her that was scared
to utter words that would
ring true.
“Are you okay?” she finishes.
I hear the hitch in her voice.
I feel the catch in my throat.
“Not really, Jess,” I say.
Before I can turn away
she makes me stay
by grabbing my hand.
Wrapping it around
hers.
And the contact that I spend forever running from
hits me full force.
I can do this.
I can be like Benji.
I can find words.
Even if it’s hard.
I can be brave.
“What happened to you, Louisa? To make you like this?”
“It started before I can even remember. My dad. Taking pieces of me until there was nothing left.”
162.
I keep talking,
telling the story of my childhood.
She stays by my side
in the freezing white snow
