Phoenix Rising

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  My mother was making dinner.

  “How was school, honey?”

  “Fine.” She has enough on her mind.

  “Bloomfield called again.”

  “Big wow,” I said.

  “He seems like a very nice boy.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “You should call him back.”

  I wanted to escape but she wanted to talk. Mom used to talk to Helen. Helen would’ve looked like this in twenty years: smooth brown hair, a slender figure. I noticed she was more than slender. When had she grown so thin? A glass of red wine was on the counter. My mother used to drink only at parties and celebrations.

  To my surprise, I launched into a rollicking fabrication of my hilarious day at school, making up all this jazz about a football rally, and the joke my sociology teacher told the class: “Marriage is a lot like the gallows. After a while you get the hang of it.” Ha.

  My mother smiled, her bleak eyes brightening. Her smile was a drug. I went on and on, like some crazed talk-show host, like that red-haired comedian. People! You hear about the optimistic drunk who fell out of a high-rise bar? At each floor she shouted to the folks inside: “Doing all right so far!”

  I thought to myself: I am a fabulous liar. I should be a writer. I should be a politician.

  It made my mother happy; that was all that mattered. So what if none of it was true? For a few minutes she forgot that her life had been shattered; that she would never again see the daughter who wore her face; forgot her brokenhearted husband, stranded in a sand trap, beating golf balls to death; forgot the angry alien masquerading as her son, who plays his guitar just as loud as he can, to fill his mind with music, to drive out the pain; forgot the tangle-haired tightrope walker who is losing her balance.

  “I ran into Mrs. Maxson today,” Mom said. “She used to work at the library, remember? She hadn’t heard about Helen.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  My mother’s eyes probed my face. “I told her she’d died.”

  The last time that happened to me, I lied. I said, “Helen’s gone away to school.”

  Death is hard, Dr. Shubert says, but life is even harder. Jessie, she says, you must face the truth.

  I said, “I’m going upstairs.”

  My mother’s face collapsed, her happiness a crumpled mask. I had not fooled her.

  “It’s bad enough we’ve lost Helen!” she cried. “Now we’re losing you!”

  She ran from the room. I should’ve gone after her. Instead, I went up and fell asleep on my bed, curled around Helen’s journal.

  I open my eyes. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. My bed is a boat in a dark sea.

  Why did I wake? The smell. It’s smoke.

  Fire! The bedroom door is outlined in orange neon.

  I get out of bed and touch the door. It’s hot; it burns my fingers. In sixth grade the fire chief talked to our class. He said, “Jessie, don’t open that door.”

  I run to the window. I can’t get it open. It’s stuck where Lucas painted it. I’ve got to get out. I can hear the hungry flames devouring the living room, licking up the stairs.

  I pick up my school books and smash the window. The glass shrieks and chatters. I climb out.

  Neighbors line the lawn, in robes and pajamas. They see me and gasp. “Jump, Jessie!” they shout. “You have to jump! You have no choice!”

  I’m falling through space. I land in a shrub. Thorns rip my skin. Someone’s pulling me out. It’s Bambi’s mother, her eyes full of the flames, the red light flickering on her face.

  “Look at all the people,” she says, calmly, as if she were announcing the time. “Two A.M.,” she adds, reading my mind.

  The crowd is enormous. A man sells hot dogs. “Red hots!” he shouts. “Red hots!”

  Dad is beside me. He takes my arm. “Come on, honey,” he says. “Everybody’s waiting.”

  The Ford’s parked in the street, Mom up front, Lucas in the backseat, his face turned away from me.

  “Where are we going, Daddy?” I ask.

  “To our new house. You’ll like it, Jessie.”

  “But all our stuff—”

  “We’ll buy new stuff.” He opens the car door. “Get in, honey.”

  I slide in beside Lucas. Then I remember.

  “Helen’s in the house!”

  I can’t open my door. Very gently Dad says, “It’s too late.”

  “Helen’s in there!” I’m screaming. “We’ve got to save her!”

  But we don’t. We drive away. I look out the back window. The house is blazing. Tongues of flame stick out the windows, flames as orange-blue as veins. The walls shudder, then collapse.

  I am screaming Helen’s name.

  My eyes snap open. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. The clock glows like a jack-o’-lantern. Two A.M.

  Helen’s bed is empty. My father was right.

  9

  March 23

  Bloomfield and I drove to the ocean today—after an hour of instructions from Dad: Drive slowly, wear your seat belts, don’t pick up hitchhikers, etc. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he’d tailed us in an unmarked car.

  Bloomfield was wearing his jeans jacket and looked ultracool in blue.

  It was the first time we’d ever gone out of town together and I felt like—It’s a good thing nobody can read my mind. I was pretending we were married.

  Oh, I have gotten so sappy lately! I want to touch him and hug him all the time! The other day he said, “Why are you smiling?”. “No reason,” I said. “I’m just happy.”

  The car ride made me a little nauseous. For a few dangerous seconds, I thought I was going to puke. Then I told myself: Will you please calm down? And miraculously, I did.

  It was BEAUTIFUL at the beach! Clear and breezy, not too cold, and not many people around. We unpacked our stuff between two big rocks that shielded us from the wind.

  We’d brought chicken and French bread and apples and cheese. Bloomfield ate like the world was on fire. He’s always in a hurry; like, if he doesn’t grab fun fast, someone might snatch it away. I guess that’s what happens when you have a lot of brothers. Bloomfield is the runt of the litter.

  After we ate I felt a little urpy, but the feeling passed in a while.

  We walked along the shore and looked for bottle glass and shells. Bottle glass is my favorite; it’s jagged edges smoothed soft by the waves, smoky-colored and mysterious.

  Bloomfield talked and I listened. If Jessie read that, she’d say, He’s such a chauvinist! But he’s not; he hardly ever talks. When he does, it’s precious as a soap bubble. The moment is that fragile.

  Besides, there’s so much I can’t talk to him about. Bloomfield’s body is hard and strong. He has no patience with patients. He suggested we climb some cliffs, but I pleaded fear of heights. My legs have become undependable.

  Later (here it comes, Ma) we lay down on the blanket and looked into each other’s eyes. Or tried to; he had on mirror sunglasses.

  Him: “What’s the matter?”

  Me: “Nothing.”

  Him: “You look kind of strange.”

  Me: “I’m staring at myself”

  Him: “You mean my glasses?”

  He took them off. His eyes looked like chips of the sea.

  He said, “I like you, Helen.”

  Me: “I like you, too.”

  Him: “You’re not like most girls. You’re—I don’t know.”

  He kissed me, deeply, sweet and warm. A current was carrying me. We floated away, our arms around each other.

  Bloomfield was on top of me.

  I freaked out. I got scared. He said: “Don’t worry; I brought a rubber.”

  I said: “That’s not it.”

  “Is it the place? Is it too public? We can go back to my house.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “I
do,” I said. “But I’m just not ready.”

  Bloomfield looked into my eyes as if he was reading my mind. “Are you a virgin?” he asked, and when I said yes, he got this look on his face that I couldn’t name. He sat up and took my hand and said, “Let’s walk.”

  We walked along the shore, the wind in our faces, and I finally asked him, “Are you mad?”

  He stopped and held me, his breath warm on my cheek. He said, “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Helen. You’re so special.”

  “How?” I asked, wanting him to shower me with compliments, but he just kissed me.

  We sat beside a tide pool, holding hands. I pressed my lips to his starfish palm. I wished that we could stay there forever, in a driftwood house with bottle glass windows spilling jewels of light on the polished stone floor. We would fall asleep cradled on the breast of the ocean, knowing that our love, like the breath of the tide, would live on and on.

  Instead, we went back to my house and listened to Lucas and Dad argue. Lucas can be such a mutant. Then Dad said something about Cretins Clearwater.… They’re shouting at each other through a thick glass wall. They see the lips move but they don’t hear the words.

  Mom asked Bloomfield to stay for dinner. It was excruciating. Dad and Lucas stared at Bloomfield like he was an escaped lunatic. Mom filled the awkward conversational gaps with fascinating facts about my childhood. Meanwhile, Jessie rolled her eyes like a wild horse every time Bloomfield made a joke. She’s such a twit lately; always moping around. If I don’t do what she wants, she throws a fit. (She wanted me to take her shopping today. Why won’t she get her driver’s permit?!?)

  It’s not that I don’t want to be close to Jess—we just need some breathing room. A lot of people like her but she won’t make friends; she keeps to herself or ends up hanging out with Bambi, who drives her crazy. It seems like Jessie is jealous of Bloomfield, but when I said that, she blew a fuse.

  On the school front: I LOVE my creative writing class. Ms. Tormey is an inspiration. She says I have the talent to make it big, but that perseverance is just as important; that I must develop a thick skin to endure criticism and rejection. (The thick skin I’ve got; I thought that nurse would never find a vein the other day! What’s a little rejection when you’re used to being stabbed?)

  Sometimes I worry that there won’t be enough time; that I’ll die before I have a chance to get famous. But it’s not really fame that I want. (Sure.) I want to be a good writer. I want to capture life on paper.

  Then I think: Who knows how long their ride will last? You live to old age if you’re lucky, and duck the accidents and madmen and floods.… In a world this nuts, it’s amazing so many children live to be adults.

  In other words, I try not to worry.

  I’ve been working on a short story that stinks and a poem that I like pretty well. And I’ve started making notes for this book I have in mind. I’ll call it How to Survive Your Life, and it will be full of odds and ends and helpful hints, like: If you don’t want people to know you’ve been crying, apply Preparation H to swollen eyelids. Works like a charm but it makes you squint. Thanks to Bambi Sue Bordtz for this beauty tip!

  And I’ll include recipes for success, like this one Mrs. Thompson taught us in Home Ec:

  Cinnamon Toast

  Bread

  Cinnamon

  Butter or Margarine

  Sugar

  Carefully Toast Bread. Melt One Cube Of Butter Over Low Heat On Top Of Stove. Add One Teaspoon Cinnamon And One Tablespoon Sugar. Stir Continually, Being Careful Not to Burn. Use Basting Brush To—

  Jeez! someone shouted. Make a production out of it! Why not just sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on toast? Mrs. Thompson threw her out.

  The book would contain words that people need to know. Like: Catkin. I love that word. Fuzzy buds on bare branches. Catkin is the name I’ll call my daughter.

  And it would offer cheap advice (a penny for my thoughts) like: In the game of tag with Time, you’re always it.

  The other night I dreamed I was in surgery, and this doctor I’d never seen before (where was Dr. Yee?) was cutting off my arm, then a leg, etc., examining them, and saying: “This one looks fine.” I tried to protest but I couldn’t speak. A phone kept ringing and ringing. The doctor finally answered and held it out to me. I was afraid it was God, but it was Bambi.

  10

  My mother tapped on my bedroom door and said, “Jessie, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “If it’s Bambi, tell her I joined the Peace Corps.”

  My mother didn’t answer. Her footsteps faded down the hall.

  I drew back the curtains and looked out my bedroom windows, down to the front door below. Nobody was there. Only Bloomfield.

  In a few minutes my mother came back. “Didn’t you hear me?” she called through the locked door. “You’ve got company.”

  “Tell him to go away,” I said.

  “I’ll do no such thing. You open this door.” She rattled the knob until I obeyed. “Now, you listen to me,” she said when we were face to face. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Jessie, but I will not tolerate rudeness. You spend all your time locked up in this room—”

  “I don’t feel good. Maybe I’m getting the flu.”

  “You’re not getting the flu,” my mother said. “Dr. Shubert says—”

  “She’s been blabbing to you? So much for confidentiality.”

  “Jessie.” Mom raised her hand and I flinched. That flinch caused her so much pain. “I wasn’t going to hit you!” She cupped my chin. “Jessie,” she crooned, searching my eyes with her own, “what am I going to do with you? Dr. Shubert says you can’t accept the fact that Helen’s dead.”

  “Of course I don’t,” I snapped. “Do you?”

  My mother shrugged helplessly, her eyes shiny with tears. “Do I have any choice? It’s true,” she said. “Honey, you’ve got to come out of your shell.”

  “Shells are good. They protect you. Ask snails,” I said. “Either way, you get stepped on.”

  My mother began to cry. She sat down on Helen’s bed.

  I went to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Momma. Please don’t cry.”

  “Oh, Jessie,” she sighed. “I’m no good anymore. I used to think I was a pretty great mom. Now I can’t help you or Lucas—”

  “That’s not true! You’re a wonderful mother! You help us all the time.”

  My mother shook her head. “All I do is cry. But, honey—I feel like you’re slipping away. I feel like I’m losing you. I’m sorry. Look at me. I’m such an inspiration.” She smoothed her hair and dried her eyes. “Now, please don’t leave your friend standing at the door.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “He was a friend of Helen’s.”

  I could’ve told her the truth but she didn’t need the pain. Helen had protected my parents. They never knew why Bloomfield had faded away. “No big deal,” Helen said, and they’d wanted to believe her. I was the one who heard her crying in the night.

  I pretended to be sleeping. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to Bloomfield.”

  “Good,” Mom said. “Then I’ll stop crying.”

  When I opened the front door, Bloomfield looked startled, stepping back as if he thought I might attack him. I leaned against the doorjamb, my arms across my chest.

  “My mother said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yeah, I miss your friendly smile,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t talk if I were you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “As usual, your mouth is on upside down.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly the Welcome Wagon Lady.”

  “You’re not exactly welcome,” I replied.

  “I didn’t come over here to be insulted.” Bloomfield’s scowl spread to his eyes.

  “Why did you come over here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

 
; “I have nothing to say to you, Bloomfield.” A lie. I could’ve screamed at him for hours, for days. I would’ve said, “You bastard. Helen loved you best.”

  What was the point? Helen was dead. Life goes on. But not for everyone.

  Bloomfield stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look, I want to apologize,” he said.

  “For what? You didn’t do anything wrong. Remember?”

  “I’m trying to talk but you won’t listen—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, so just—”

  A shove cut me off in midsentence. My mother had pushed me outside and locked the door. “Why don’t you two take a walk?” she called sweetly.

  I couldn’t believe what she’d done. “Let me in, Mom.”

  “I can’t; I’m waxing the floors.”

  “I’ll break a window.”

  “Take a hike!” she roared.

  Bloomfield tucked a snicker inside a cough.

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s take a walk. Why not?” I would let Bloomfield make his speech of repentance and then he would leave me alone. That’s what I wanted.

  The sun was a topaz in the bright blue sky. Kids flew by on their bikes on the way home from school. At the corner of Harker and Winston we passed Mrs. Jensen, who was waiting for the school bus to arrive. Her little boy was run over as he got off the bus on the first day of first grade. She waits with the other mothers every afternoon, her face smooth; she never cries. If her son got off the bus today, he could be driving it. He would be twenty-five.

  The breeze was brisk. Bloomfield held out his jacket. He didn’t need it, he said; he had a sweater. He chucked it at me. I let it fall to the sidewalk. But after another block, I ran back and got it. The fleecy sleeves still held the warmth of his arms.

  Bloomfield said, “I know what you think of me.”

  “If you did,” I said, “you wouldn’t come around.”

  “I was an asshole.”

  “On good days.”

  He shot me a look. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”

  “I can’t help it; for once you’re right.”

  He frowned. He shoved his hands in his back pockets. He looked up at the sky. “I got scared,” he said finally.