The Language Inside

by Holly Thompson

  with Chris and Beth

  it’s better he adds

  and looks down

  I don’t drink at their house

  never have

  so it’s not a temptation

  I sit motionless

  thinking through all he just said

  Sam finishes his second slice

  and picks up our paper plates

  do you see your mom a lot? and stepfather? I ask

  most weekends he says

  as he stands and tosses our plates

  into the trash

  your father?

  hardly ever he says

  it’s not good for me to be around him

  I go to AA

  but he still drinks

  then I’m not sure

  if I should

  but I ask

  did your Mom live in Cambodia

  during Pol Pot?

  and he sits down again and says

  when the Khmer Rouge took power

  she was four

  her father and oldest brother

  were killed the first year

  then a little sister and a brother died—

  from sickness, malnutrition

  and her mother was taken away . . .

  then my mom and her older sister and brother

  were separated

  but found each other

  and finally made it to a border camp

  they got out in ’81

  when she was ten

  I think of the film

  of Dith Pran laboring in the mud

  starving so much he ate lizards

  nearly killed again and again

  finally making his way to the Thai border

  she must be incredibly strong to have survived I whisper

  and lucky

  but he says

  strong, weak

  lucky, unlucky

  who knows

  and looks away

  then we hear a honk

  and through the window see

  Chris has pulled into the parking lot

  so we pick up our bags

  and step outside into the cold

  but Chris gets out of the car

  walks around to the passenger side

  and Sam climbs into the driver’s side

  what . . . ? I say

  as I climb in

  I’m driving Sam says

  I stare at him

  why not? I’m seventeen

  and in a week I’ll have had

  my license six months

  then I can drive friends

  without this guy tagging along

  and Sam pokes Chris in the arm

  I suck in my breath

  buckle my seat belt

  Sam backs out slowly

  pulls onto the main road

  and starts to drive

  with Chris giving advice

  every other second

  for which I’m grateful

  because it seems too weird

  to be in a car driven by someone

  practically my age

  in the dark

  in rain

  that makes the road

  hard to see

  in Japan

  you can’t get your license

  till you’re eighteen

  I say

  good rule! Chris says

  how old are you?

  Sam asks in the rearview mirror

  when we stop at a light

  sixteen?

  in January I say

  then at the next light he says

  so . . . you get your permit in January

  take driver’s ed in the spring

  and get your license in July

  I nod at his eyes in the mirror

  if I’m still here I say

  they drop me off at YiaYia’s

  and Sam says

  see you next week

  or maybe before

  and my stomach turns one way

  hoping for before

  and wishing next week

  were tomorrow

  but then my stomach turns another way

  because in one week

  there’ll be just one week more

  to my mother’s surgery

  I actually see Sam

  in the hall the next day

  pass him when he’s talking

  with a group of guys built like him

  not so tall but lean, broad-shouldered and muscled

  one of them, Jae-Sun, I know from Model UN

  and another, Tim, from biology

  Sam looks up when I pass

  and I say hey

  and he says hey back

  and from the sound of it after I pass

  he’s getting teased

  this week in Model UN

  we’re working on writing resolutions

  and practice position papers for our countries

  Jae-Sun tells me I’ll probably make the team

  to go to the Boston conference at the end of January

  and maybe even New York in May

  I don’t say anything about how I hope

  we’re not living here at the end of January

                 and certainly not by May

  how I hope we’re back in Japan by then

  in dance club Tracy

  and choreographer Claire

  teach us more moves for the jazz routine

  we’ll do during basketball halftimes

  and it’s harder than I expected

  fast and full of leaps and fan kicks

  pirouettes and fouettés

  I haven’t done in a while

  so later, at YiaYia’s

  I roll up the rug in our bedroom and practice—

                 dark outside, curtains open

                 the bedroom window

                 as my mirror

  on Saturday

  I start a new position paper

  do grocery shopping with YiaYia

  work on homework

  practice dance moves

  start another letter

  download new music

  do more Model UN

  but I’m bored

  tired of Venezuela

  tired of this neighborhood that’s not near anything

  where you have to have a car

  even just to get a bottle of shampoo

  so I text Sam

  and wait

  I don’t hear from him

  till it’s practically dark

  when he texts

  poetry workshop at Newall

  where were u?

  2morrow dance practice

  now at my mom’s in Lowell

  and I text

  hey! no one told me about a workshop!

  I would have been there!!!

  and he texts

  sorry! next time

  and in fact it’s fine by me that I missed

  since I’m really just learning

  how to help Zena

  but still, I hope Lin

  or her sister, Anne

  or someone

  was there for her

  then I’m thinking

  dance?

  he wrote dance?

  and all weekend I’m wondering

  what kind

                 hip-hop? jazz? ballroom? ballet?

  and why isn’t he at school dance club meetings

  with those other two guys?

  all weekend long

  I’m thinking

  hey

  Sunday morning Mom, Toby and I

  go with YiaYia

  to her Greek church

  as we drive into Lowell

  past huge homes that YiaYia says

  once belonged to mill owners

  across a bridge into the center of town

>   with old factory buildings and apartment blocks

  I’m wondering where Sam’s mother lives

  or if I might catch a glimpse of Sam

  on the street

  YiaYia’s church is huge

  with gold domes topped with crosses

  modeled after churches in Constantinople she says

  which is Istanbul I want to say

  inside are long windows of stained glass

  a curved wooden balcony

  saints painted on the ceiling

  even puffy clouds

  I don’t mind being there

  since I’ve never had the chance

  to be in a building like this

  just staring up

  watching the light

  beam down

  at the coffee social afterward

  we’re introduced to the priest

  and all of YiaYia’s friends

  and two breast cancer survivors

  even Mom is smiling, relaxed

  not pinched and overrevved

  like she often is these days

  as if she’s psyching herself up

  for a marathon

  after we leave the church

  we drive slowly through a downtown

  of shops and restaurants

  where I’d like to get out and walk around

  but YiaYia’s at the wheel and she says

  she has sandwich makings at home

  we pass signs for sushi

  spring rolls

  and pad thai

  and my mouth waters

  for rice

  noodles

  bean sprouts

  seaweed

  anything

  but the pasty taste

  of egg salad

  or chicken salad

  or tuna fish sandwiches

  on Monday I see Sam once

  as I’m making my way into the cafeteria

  but he doesn’t see me

  and we don’t even get to say hey

  after school I hang out in the library

  going through the poetry collection

  searching for poems for Zena

  and while I’m reading one of the oems

  at first I think it’s just the irregular line breaks

  the space the poet made tween words

  but I look up

  at the sh lves

  at t librarian

  and the spot fo lows

                 grows

  I pack my bag

  call YiaYia

  tell her to come get me

  then I go outside the school

  sit on a low stone wall

  my head in my hands

  eyes closed

  waiting

  but YiaYia doesn’t arrive

  and she still

  only uses her cell phone

  to make, not receive, calls

  I set my pack in my lap

  fold my arms

  put my head down

  try to stay calm

  but I’m already half blind

  and soon I’m shivering

  inside the school

  I make my way

  along the wall

  to the nurse’s office

  and drop onto a bed

  then sit up

  and throw up

  into a wastebasket

  by the time I wake

  to the sound of Mom’s voice

  speaking to the nurse

  the crescent of triangles has left

  but numbness claims one arm

  plus my tongue and jaw

  and my head pounds and stabs

  I lean on her

  my eyes closed

  as we walk out

  the quiet school

  to the car

  then I fall across the backseat

  she says something to me as she drives

  I catch

                           YiaYia mistake

  Newall

                                           forgot

                 high school

                                          drive

  but I can’t piece anything together

  can’t make sense

  or speak

  and at YiaYia’s

  she puts me to bed

  later I wake in the bed

  set up in the study

  for my mother’s recovery

                 hungry

  the house is dark and still

  and in the kitchen

  lit by streetlight

  I make myself a piece of toast

  I dip a spoon into the

  jar of yuzu preserves

  eat a whole mouthful of the sweet-sour

  then take another heaping spoonful

  and spread it on the toast

  after the toast I open the pantry

  and find the instant miso ramen

  Dad brought us and I heat some water

  without letting the kettle whistle

  when the ramen is ready

  I hoist myself up to sit

  on the kitchen counter

  and slurp my noodles

  by bluish ghostly streetlight

  maybe in the future

  I hear Shin say

  don’t change

  I hear Madoka say

  even you, Emma-chan

  I hear her grandmother say

  hey I hear Sam say

  and I think

  I don’t know my life anymore

  I sleep late the next day

  and Mom drives me to school in YiaYia’s car

  I don’t say anything and neither does she

  until we’re nearly at the school driveway

  I think you should start running she says

  hmm I say

  I hate running

  I like sports

  I play sports

  I’m good at sports

  and dance

  but I hate

  just

  running

  if I were in Japan

  I’d be playing volleyball

  maybe on varsity

  practicing for the tournament

  and taking Saturday classes

  at the dance studio . . .

  here Toby has middle school soccer

  but for me there’s just dance club

  I swallow my thoughts

  hold my tongue

  maybe I say to my mother

  just before I get out of the car

  but it doesn’t end there

  when I get home from school

  she insists on taking me for a run

  she plays the guilt card

  so I can’t refuse:

                 I’ll show you a loop

                 you can do on your own

                 even when I can’t

  Mom’s fast

                 she does 5 to 10 kilometers

                 most every day

                 and runs in charity races

                 several times a year

                 she’s a dedicated runner

                 with a lean runner’s body

  I’m out of shape now

  not sinewy like her

  but my legs are longer

  so after a while

  we find a pace

  that suits us both

  it’s a thirty-minute run

  that seems
to go on and on

  down long streets

      into a neighborhood

       of houses with lawns

       big as family farms in Japan

       and on those lawns more play equipment

       than any playground in the city of Kamakura

       and next to the houses

       garages for two or three cars

      and porches and gardens

       and huge shade trees

       dropping their leaves

  as we run past

  I’m short of breath at first

  but get into the rhythm

  and the autumn air

  and our breathing at last

  until we come to a road

  where three leaf blowers

  blare at once

  I sprint

  to get by them

  sprint

  the final leg

  but Mom pumps

                                          past

  in a blur

  and beats me

  to YiaYia’s stairs

  on Wednesday

  I have two tests, one in Chinese

                 easy ’cause of Japanese