Suddenly I loved them both like they were my siblings or parents. I felt pathetic for this, and maybe pathetic for disliking them in the first place. But I also knew that I’d dislike them again, soon even, when Valerie had a tantrum with the delivery boy while Kevin Costner was on hold, or when Jamie told me how much he’d made in stocks last month. And I’d probably hate them again for having each other.
“Should we eat, chef?” she said to my back. “I’m not willing to wait for him any longer.”
I nodded and watched Jamie watching her, staring at her, really, with this mournful, longing look on his face. I couldn’t tell Valerie he was there; but I also couldn’t take my eyes off him. It was creepy, and beautiful. Then he picked up his cell phone, tiny blue flip thing, and the phone rang in the kitchen. I looked back at Valerie, she looked at me, then finally stood up to get it. She didn’t say anything after “hello” and just turned her face toward the wall. Outside, I could see Jamie’s mouth moving as he still watched her through the window.
So I slipped out the front door and around the other side of the house from where I’d seen Jamie, and I walked onto the beach. The sand was cool and a little bit clammy beneath my feet. It seemed like it might rain before morning; I wasn’t sure anymore that the fog would blow away.
I walked down a couple houses until there was one with no lights on. Then I walked up to the edge of the dune grass and lay down. Clouds were thick but there were intermittent star-filled patches like cleared spots in a steamed mirror. I imagined they’d probably made up by now and were weeping together on the couch, Jamie with his hand under Valerie’s shirt, cupped around the bottom of her stomach.
Anyway, I was thinking that the bottom line didn’t have much to do with Valerie and Jamie, or, even, Dan. I was having a moment of total clarity right then and I felt sure I’d realize something very important and helpful. Maybe I was about to truly believe that Dan and I just weren’t meant to be and that I should see the present breakup as a whole lot less painful than what might’ve happened five years down the road. Or maybe it was that Dan and I were destined to be, and I should forgive him and do anything it took to get him back. Or maybe it was that I should move to a new city and start over, leaving them all behind—Dan, Valerie, Jamie, the lawyer girl, and the restauranteurs who hadn’t hired me yet.
But just as I was reaching for one of these certainties, the clarity disappeared with the rest of the stars. I worked back through to that point of clarity, trying to stay precise, exact, to get that almost-conclusion back.
But then, I pretty much failed. I gave up and fell asleep.
I awoke when I heard Jamie calling for me. By the clamminess of my skin and the sleepiness of my eyes, I knew I must’ve slept for an hour or two. I stood and saw him walking down the beach, having already passed me. “Jamie—” I said in a half-shout. “Here I am.”
He turned, saw me walking toward him. “There you are,” he said. “We thought we lost you.”
MOTHER
Aisha D. Gayle
We were lying in my bed, side by side. Outside, the first blizzard of the season raged, but I was surrounded by comfort. The big golden lion that Chris had given me for Christmas was underneath my head. My mother lay back against my maroon headrest. We were curled underneath my comforter with the dark green vines and blooming flowers that were different shades of red. Above the mahogany dresser that stood in front of my bed, cluttered with cream-colored candles, jewelry boxes, and school pictures of my friends, I could see us in the mirror. My mother was holding the koala bear I had had since forever, plucking at its worn fur. A stuffed monkey sat between us, the words Planet Hollywood written on his T-shirt, a memento of the time she suddenly decided one day last summer to take me to see Miss Saigon, and we ate out and pretended we were best friends. There was a night table standing on either side of us—one side held my alarm clock, a bible, and my telephone; the other held a ceramic jar with a yellow baby duck on the front of it, my blue book of poems, and my black Bic mechanical pencil with the purple clip.
“Mommy?”
“Hmmm?” She left my koala bear momentarily, her hand reaching out to grab one of my braids.
I blurted it out quickly. “I got a sixty-three on my Physics test.”
“Did you study?”
“Not hard enough, apparently.”
“Eyes on the prize, girl. Eyes on the prize,” she murmured. I hissed out air between my teeth. I hated her inspirational phrases. We would yell at each other, she’d always get the last word, and it’d be something like “Attitude plus aptitude equals altitude,” or “Persistence and perseverance.”
“I hate Dr. Morgan.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Fine, then I hate physics.”
“Attitude is ninety-nine percent of the battle. ‘I think I can’ is the key to—”
“I feel fat.”
“Now what did I tell you about image of self? If you like who you are, then others—”
“I’m not going to get into college.”
“Baby, you have to sell yourself. Believe—”
“Chris and I aren’t talking.”
“In any relationship, the silences are just as important as—”
“I think . . .PMS.”
“Oh, well . . . that’s that then.” I hated the tears that were inexplicably clotting on my eyelashes and rolling their way, unwillingly, down the sides of my face, toward my ears. She dug her arm underneath my back, around my shoulders, and folded me into her side, understanding bad days. She felt soft and strong under my cheek, her skin warm, her round body making the perfect cushion. There is nothing in the world like the feel of a mother beside you, there with you, absorbing your tears and never failing to make them her own. I cried.
• • •
I was in the passenger seat of our van, my friends in the seats behind me. It was around one in the morning and my mother was driving everybody back to our boarding school. We had been at my best friend’s surprise sweet sixteen party. My mother was staring out at the road. Like so many other nights. I fell asleep.
I lazily opened my eyes what must’ve been a few minutes later. I could hear my mother mumbling to herself. I narrowed my eyes at her, turned my head, looked outside. There was nothing but a few garbage bags lining the side of the highway. Slightly puzzled but no longer interested, I fell back asleep.
When I awoke we were at school, and everyone was climbing out.
“Thanks, Mrs. Richards.”
“Good-night, Mrs. Richards.”
“Thanks, Ms. Richards.”
One of my friend’s mothers, Mrs. Cummings, pulled her van near ours and waved. My mother unlocked our car doors, stepped out, and walked over to her.
“Hey, Mom, what’re you doing?” She didn’t answer. I got out of the car and went over to my mother and Mrs. Cummings. My mother was sobbing, huge hysterical gulps. I’d never seen my mother cry before. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, confused.
“Yanique, go call your father and tell him he has to come pick your mother up.” Mrs. Cummings spoke in a low, soothing tone, but her eyes showed her worry. She flagged over my friend Tara’s father. I ran into the dormitory, scared, and called my dad. He sighed, said he was on his way.
“What’s the matter with her, Daddy?” There were tears in the back of my throat, making it hard to swallow past them.
“I don’t know.” He hung up. I climbed down the stairs, numbly, afraid to go back and find her still crying. My dorm master stopped me in the hall, squeezed my shoulder, told me she understood.
I found my mother sitting in the hallway of Clinton, holding tightly to Mrs. Cummings and Mr. Wycoff. She wasn’t really crying anymore, but a dry sobbing sound came out of her mouth—the noise was somehow empty, more painful to hear without the tears that were supposed to accompany the pain.
“Mommy?” She looked at me, looked through me.
“Yanique, we’ve got her. Why don’t you go outside and wa
it for your father?” I nodded, walked out. I didn’t want to be alone. The cold air, which I hadn’t really noticed until now, eased its way inside my jacket to wait with me. I sat down on the bench outside . . .waited. Wrapped my arms around my stomach for warmth, around the back of my neck in frustration, and finally around my head to hold myself together. I was scared to be alone.
He laid a hand on my shoulder and I jumped. When I turned, I saw Erik and I almost began echoing the sobs of my mother. He wasn’t my boyfriend, he was my best friend. It wasn’t until afterward . . . not till after he stood in front of me shivering, his favorite tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt peaking out from under his down jacket . . . not till after I saw his worried eyes looking into mine, his hands reaching out to comfort, then falling back, unsure . . . not till afterward that I realized how much more I needed his—
“Yani? Tara came to get me. She said—”
“My mom . . .” And then I began to feel guilty—for wanting to give him a problem that belonged to me, a problem that I inherently knew was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know that my mother had looked through me.
So I stood up and into Erik’s arms, trying to cry, trying to force this hurt, this confusion, this bewilderment upward, out of my body. The tears wouldn’t come. I simply hiccuped, told him I didn’t know what was happening, and asked him to stop the numbness. I couldn’t say any more. Didn’t have to. He held me. His hand made circles on my back while the other held my hand, and he told me stories to make me smile. But I wanted my mom.
“You’re father is here.” Erik nudged me up from his shoulder, then quietly slipped away.
“Should I take her to the hospital?” my father asked when I saw him.
“I don’t know . . . I think so?” I’m only fifteen. This has never happened before. How do I know what to do? You’re the father.
“I’m taking her to the hospital.” This was a statement. I nodded, relieved.
“Take her to Clearview,” I said.
“Muhlenburg is closer.”
“She wouldn’t want to go to Muhlenburg.”
We thanked Mrs. Cummings and Mr. Wycoff. “She talked about you, you know. I know you think she didn’t see you, but all she talked about was you.” I couldn’t manage “thank you,” so I nodded at Mr. Wycoff’s statement. They drove away.
My mother wouldn’t get in the car. She wailed low in her throat, like women in a long line on their way to a funeral. “Bodies . . .,” she’d whimper. My dad finally coaxed her in half an hour later. I sat in the backseat, clutching my hands together. Then she started. These godawful keening noises, over and over again, a litany, a chant of someone in mortal hell, as my dad put the car into reverse. I tucked myself into myself, put my arms around my head, and squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still hear her. My dad held her hand with one of his and drove with his other. She moaned over, and over, and over.
We got to the hospital and they made us sit at this small little desk and answer too many questions.
“Primary health care?” Who cares? My mother isn’t my mother anymore, please take her and make her better. They put her in an examining room. Everything was white. The bedsheets were white. The cabinets were white. The gloves were white. The Q-Tips were white. My dad looked at me worriedly.
“You should try and sleep.”
“Where?” I asked humorlessly. We waited.
And waited.
“Let me see if I can find you a place to sleep.”
“Daddy, no, it’s really okay, I—” He took off. I pitied him. He needed something, anything, to do. Minutes later I was following a nurse to a stretcher of my own.
“I wear contacts.” Which were now residing in a permanent place on my corneas. The nurse smiled (why was she smiling?), left, came back with two containers for my lenses. I followed her to the bathroom, then went back to my stretcher. Everything was fuzzy now. I could no longer see distinct shapes and expressions, and I was glad I wouldn’t have to see the look of pity on that nurse’s face. I sat on the edge of the stretcher. My dad came in.
“Sleep,” he said.
“I don’t want to.” He came over and pushed me down gently. I sat back up. “I don’t want to.” He wrung his hands. I’d never seen my father wring his hands before. He left. I finally heard the doctor’s voice. I don’t remember his voice. He asked my mother questions. He examined her. He admitted her.
My mother, father, and I followed someone out of the emergency room and down the hall. We turned left, then right, then left again. We passed under a sign that read BEHAVIORAL HEALTH. I didn’t want to go under that sign. She was quiet.
The lights were dim. Everybody’s voice was hushed. My mother had to sign herself in.
“If someone were to call, do we have permission to tell them you’re here?”
My mother listened attentively. They had to repeat themselves. “No,” she said.
“But, Mommy, how will we talk to you?” She looked at me, apologetic. So apologetic and frightened.
“No,” she whispered.
“But what if I have to talk to you?”
“Yani, stop,” my father mumbled. My shoulders drooped, my body sagged, and I began to cry. But what if I need you?
I fell asleep in the car on the way home. If I had been younger—if he had been younger—my father would’ve carried me upstairs. As it was, he tried to help me.
“I’m okay, Daddy.”
“Are you hungry?” He tried so hard, and I wanted to cry again. It’s not your fault.
“Could I have an Egg McMuffin?” He almost ran out of the house.
I went upstairs to my room and curled underneath the comforter. I stared at my koala bear, remembering her hands playing over it. I wanted to blame her, I wanted to save her, but all I could do was cry. This time she was not there.
RESPIRATION
Chandra Steele
You could see the hill through a clearing of trees that were leafless even though it was summer. The house, with its uneven, exposed foundation, shrugged down the hill. The shingles were like the teeth of the house’s residents—yellowed and either missing or on the verge of falling out. On the arid, rocky soil was an assortment of furniture—an orange and gold sofa with its innards exposed, a drawerless chest of drawers, rusted folding chairs that no longer folded, and a nubby once-avocado armchair. Hollow aluminum poles were jabbed into the ground all over the hill. Openings had been sliced through them near the tops for ropes as bumpy and slimy as sheepgut. Inexplicably, there was a rotting pig’s head on a stake at the bottom of the hill. There were kids and chickens everywhere.
Annie got out of her white car. She stepped carefully to what was meant to pass as a front door but was really a plywood plank attached to hinges. She knocked, swinging the door open to reveal a dark interior that she only got a glimpse of as the door swung back at her.
“Hello? Is anyone home?” And then, with doubt in her voice, “Mrs. McCurdle?”
Just then Annie heard an inhuman squeal that chilled her despite the heat that made her clothes adhere to her skin.
Annie saw the children freeze guiltily near her car as she turned to ask them if their mother was home. “Excuse me,” she said, but she wasn’t sure they heard her, so she stepped closer. They were covered in a film of dust and their hair was clumpy with filth and sweat. She began, “Is . . .” But a pack stealthiness had crept over them and they took off in one sudden motion for the scraggly trees.
“Don’t mind ’em,” Annie heard a wheezy voice say behind her. “They ain’t much used to folk comin’ ‘round here.”
She turned to see a heavyset woman with coarse, sparse hair wiping her hands on a housedress that didn’t look like it would be much help in cleaning them.
“I didn’t hear ya come. I was ‘round back butcherin’ a pig.” Her hands took a last swipe across her dress, the pig’s blood streaks fading into the worn print. “You from the agency?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Annie said, as m
uch for her own benefit as for Mrs. McCurdle’s. She felt the need to establish herself as separate from the surroundings. “I’m Annie Ballard.” She reflexively began to extend her hand, but instead made a motion to shift the bag on her shoulder. “And you must be Lucy McCurdle.”
“Yes’m, I am.” Mrs. McCurdle’s eyes narrowed slightly. Annie realized that she hadn’t been as subtle as she thought when she shifted her bag rather than shake the woman’s hand. Either that or she had underestimated Mrs. McCurdle’s intelligence. Both thoughts made Annie uncomfortable and she blushed slightly. She coughed nervously at the silence as the other woman surveyed her. “You bes’ come in.”
Annie followed Mrs. McCurdle through the plywood door into a kitchen that was in no better condition than anything else around it. Mrs. McCurdle motioned Annie to one of the mismatched chairs that surrounded a battered linoleum table.
“Coffee?” Mrs. McCurdle said as she filled a pot with water from the sink, the shaking and squeaking pipes echoing through the house.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
Annie felt uncomfortable in the house, subject to the mercies of Mrs. McCurdle. But she was there for a purpose and the sooner she got the papers signed, the sooner she could erase the smell of the place from her nostrils and her mind. She opened her bag and took out a manila folder that was thick with the papers that defined Mrs. McCurdle to the state.
“Mrs. McCurdle,” she said to get the other woman’s attention away from the pot on the stove. Mrs. McCurdle didn’t turn around. Annie continued, “Mrs. McCurdle, as you know, we have been paying for your daughter’s care for these past eleven years.”
“Have you now?” She shifted her bulk and fixed Annie with one eye.
Annie caught her meaning but proceeded.
“Yes, we have.” She fixed Mrs. McCurdle with her own look. “And what I am here to inform you about is that a change in the law now makes you ineligible for that aid. The monthly visits from the home health care worker will be discontinued and the medical equipment that the state has provided must be paid for or returned . . .”
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