Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  Warts and all? She finishes the line with her usual self-deprecating twist.

  Oh no. You were always perfect.

  The outline solidifies. And there she stands, wearing the dress she used to play jazz in. A sleeveless black number, hugging her curves. Even the pointy-toed shoes sit on her feet just like I remembered. The bone bumps of her delicate ankles protrude, her high arches peek above the sides, and even the backs of her heels are callused right above the shoe line, just like before. We stare at one another for … days? I don’t know. But I just feel her and she feels me, down inside, down somewhere in that place we cannot see clearly or smell or hear, down in that place we just remember those senses.

  And I rest.

  How’s Geoffrey, Georgia?

  He’s lonely.

  I thought so.

  He’s busy.

  That I’ve figured.

  Why can’t we touch here?

  I don’t know. The problem is you’re not—

  Dead yet. Yeah, Grandmom keeps telling me that. I went into cardiac arrest not long ago. That was weird. I kept thinking, with my heart stopped, I’d be moving out of the pink. But they brought me back around.

  How’d that make you feel?

  She sounds like a therapist!

  So?

  I have mixed emotions. Sad because Grandmom seems so happy. Mad, because Sean and Fairly know about the letters. Why did I leave them unopened?

  You just couldn’t face what was inside. It’s sort of like not opening your bills. Unfortunately those letters, like the bills, still come due whether you choose to open them or not. Now, your father’s letters. If you’d have opened them, Georgia, you’d be a different person today. Your music wouldn’t have died completely with him.

  That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why did that happen? I’ve tried and tried to figure it out. It’s not like Dad and I were even close. He never encouraged my music. Whenever we were in the car it was always news channels and talk radio and stuff.

  Mom suddenly sat down on a piano bench. Funny how seats appear at whim here in the pink.

  Isn’t it? Mom said. Wouldn’t you just love to be able to furnish your house like this back in the real world? Think of a sofa, and there it is. Think of a chair, and there you go.

  She sat with her legs crossed and her strong hands clasped about her knees, nails cut short like before, enabling her to play without impediment. Here’s my take on your father. You were trying to get him, just once, to say, “I love what you’re doing. I’m proud of you, Georgia. You’re really good at what you do.” And when that opportunity was gone, it all went out the window.

  Really?

  Like I said, it’s only a theory.

  Does God like jazz, Mom? Or is it all Handel’s Messiah around the throne?

  What do you think, Georgia?

  I think He loves it all.

  And you’d be right.

  Outside of me I feel a pair of hands, one hand holding my hand, the other stroking my hair.

  Sean. I still know his touch, after all these years.

  I made a big mistake when I ignored him, Mom.

  I’ll say!

  He couldn’t have tried harder without literally moving in anyway, or somehow forcing the issue.

  And Sean’s not like that, Georgia.

  No.

  You took advantage of his ways. You held one thing against him, a squeaky thing, until it grew into a tyrant.

  I know. I’m tired.

  I know. Let’s just be together. I’m so glad to simply see your face.

  Oh, can you see me? I mean, I’m not dead. Isn’t this all going on in my head?

  It’s a little complicated. It’s in your head, yes, but then … well, heavenly physics are just different. I don’t understand them. But yes, I can actually see you.

  What do I look like?

  Like you’re twelve. It has to come from my memory. You’ll always be twelve, I guess. Until you pass over, and then, maybe not.

  Mom, this whole experience is throwing my theology into a tailspin.

  She shrugs once, like a little girl. For all you know, this really is just going on in your mind. This might not be real at all.

  Sure feels like it.

  You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?

  I’m weary.

  Yes, it’s hard work being in a coma. I won’t leave yet. You can rest if you’d like.

  Would you play something for me, Mom?

  Yes. Rest in that.

  And so I do. A piano appears as I close my eyes, and she begins, and oh, Lord, I think I really am in heaven.

  I feel like I’ve been conscious for three days. Uncle Geoffrey’s working quietly outside, papers flipping every so often. Peg visited earlier, and they talked about the true loves of their lives. I never knew Uncle Geoffrey was engaged once and that she ran off with a guy in his fraternity. And poor Peg. She was in love in tenth grade, but he used her, then dumped her, and she “kinda went off the deep end” after that. “No real guidance at home. My father was in love with his job, and my mother was in love with her psychiatrist.”

  On that note…

  I succumb to whatever rest we find in places like this where we are neither here nor there, part nor whole, awake nor asleep.

  Clarissa

  The girl listens as the cousin slams into his bedroom. Drunk again. He’s old enough to know better. She realizes this already. And when the mother gets home from work and checks to see if the rooms are clean, he’s going to get it. And if he gets it, well, she’ll be next.

  So she sits on the couch and waits while crashes and curses explode from the crack underneath the door.

  A horn honks from the curb.

  “Reggie, Casey’s here!” she yells as loud as she can.

  He storms out of his room, throwing her a look of hatred.

  She gathers her strength and a trash bag and heads into the room to clean up the mess.

  Out by the kitchen door, she opens the lid to the trash can. The TV mom is crying on the garden bench. Clarissa doesn’t know why, but she walks over, sits next to her, and holds her hand.

  Fairly

  Sean is now as frightfully addicted to Della-Faye’s fried chicken as I am. I believe we’ve consumed it at least once a day for the past three days, and I’m going back tomorrow. A little something appears to be happening between Jonah and Della-Faye. A beautiful thing, love is.

  I’m recognizing a sadness to Uncle G’s house. In fact, the same sadness permeated his former apartment in New York. He’s volunteering tonight, cooking dinner with Peg and Alex at the Catholic Action Center on Fifth Street. Pasta, garlic bread, and salad. I’m surprised he’s not interested in Peg. She has this gorgeous hair, auburn with a bit of white near where her bangs would be if they were cut. She actually has tresses. But it’s also plain to see she’s set her sights on Blaine.

  Which makes me think that years ago she might have been a princess in the making. Peg the almost prostitute, if born in the right neighborhood to the right family with the right attitude toward children—which means to me loving, kind, encouraging, industrious, and supportive like my own mom and dad—would have ended up healthy and whole. She wouldn’t have been someone who walked the streets, someone who, one night, so down on her luck, nearly accepted the offer of “that greasy redneck” who asked her, “How much?”

  “I had to think about it,” she told me. “And that scared me as much as actually going through with it would scare others.”

  So she ended up checking herself into a home for drug addicts, and not long after that, she met Gracen, who wears his faith on his sleeve—that sleeve being broken in and highly comfortable.

  Gracen likes Della-Faye’s chicken too.

  Gracen is the color of my mother’s old mahogany jewelry box. Of all the cult people, I most want to be like Gracen. Gracen’s so smart and kind and attuned to others. I’m so practiced at acting shallow, I don’t know if I can project a diff
erent image.

  My real estate agent called. With the market so sizzling, we received a full-price offer the first day. I’m sending Solo a list of the furniture I want to keep, to move down here to Lexington. The rest I’ll sell.

  I bought a bunch of chicken from Della-Faye, and she actually prayed over the pieces! “Lord, bless the folks that eat this chicken,” and such. Isn’t that a hoot? And honestly, it tasted better going down.

  So when Uncle Geoffrey got back from the hospital, Sean came over, and Gracen, Peg, Jonah, and I set out Della-Faye’s chicken. Also on the table were greens with egg and tomato, mashed potatoes with real gravy, and buttered carrots.

  Uncle G ate and ate and ate.

  “Whoa, Uncle G, you’re going to have hardened arteries by tomorrow morning. Your system’s not used to this stuff.”

  He pointed his fork at me. “Funny you should say that. I was sitting there by Georgia’s bedside, and Peg came in.”

  “Mac’n’cheese Peg.”

  Peg smiled. “That’s right, honey. Why die miserable?”

  “I heard that!” Gracen agreed.

  Uncle G nodded. “So I figured that there’s something almost sacred about enjoying the food that others prepare and the way they, as creative beings, made it. To be choosy about others’ gifts is like slapping Jesus in the face.”

  I laughed and laughed. “Uncle Geoffrey, you are way too much! You could make a theological statement about”—I picked up my greasy napkin—“this thing!”

  Peg picked up the bowl of carrots. “That’s what I love about the guy.”

  Blaine arrived for dessert and sat down right next to Peg.

  And she blushed.

  Blast.

  I think my uncle is a much better catch.

  He regathered his ponytail, shoved his feet in some old clogs, and headed out to the soup kitchen to make the meal. Why do people like him have to raise the bar for the rest of us?

  Georgia

  Wow, I blacked out for a while there. I didn’t think you slept here in the pink, but apparently … well, something happened. Don’t know what. But the last thing I remembered was a visit from Sean and Fairly, and do those two ever do anything apart these days? Good night!

  And now I hear UG out there.

  He’s talking to me like he’s sitting at my graveside or something. Oh great, thanks for the major creep-out. I mean, the baths are bad enough, being naked, turned over this way and that, limbs lifted and set down. I’m a total object. But UG’s taking it to a new level.

  He’s slowing down. Or he needs to, I can tell you that. Talking about the need to simplify his life and saying, “Why do I have to be the big lawyer man, Georgia? I think of myself just serving in the neighborhood, driving Mrs. Stevens to her doctor appointments, making chicken casseroles, and I cringe. Is it because I don’t think that’s big enough or important enough? Or do I really feel it’s wasting my gifts? I just can’t tell.”

  He sighs, and then I hear papers rustling.

  Oh, forget it all. UG has angst too? Now that’s crazy. Shouldn’t he at least have some peace?

  It’s a little lonely here in the coma zone. It’s nice to be able to sit on a chair—sort of—when visitors come. But I’m just kind of floating right now, suspended in the foggy pink. I like the feeling of this, like floating on the Dead Sea, only the sky is pink. Pink is highly soothing. I just never realized it.

  Someone begins to exchange pleasantries with UG. A doctor, the one I picture with blond curly hair and acne scars. The cardiologist. He tells my uncle that I should be all right as far as my heart goes. They’ve balanced me out with this medication and that, and dear heavens, this is too much to take when you’re comatose.

  “What about the brain damage?” UG asks.

  “That’s something you’ll have to discuss with the neurologist. It’s only been a week and a half, though. Too soon to tell much. I’d give her more time.”

  More time?

  “Do you have power of attorney, Mr. Pfeiffer?”

  “No, but Georgia’s married. Her husband lives here in Lexington.”

  “Well then, I guess he’s the one who can order the cessation of treatment if it comes to that.”

  Cessation of treatment?

  CESSATION OF TREATMENT?

  Gee, I guess I kind of liked it when it went dark for a while there.

  Hello? Hello?!!!

  Mom?

  Come in, Mom. I need you. Over and out?

  Nothing.

  God? A little help?

  Yeah, like I expected an answer to that one!

  Oh man, now that the doctor left, UG’s back to his mumbling. I love the man, but you know, I’m the one in the coma! Still…

  “… and when I travel it’s easier, Georgie. I don’t think about the fact that I’ve slept in that same bed since I moved from the crib. Okay, different mattresses.”

  That is a little pathetic.

  I want to ask him about his engagement.

  Hey! Can you shoot subconscious vibes at people, sort of an ESP-psychic thing?

  Okay. Here we go. Concentrate, Georgia.

  Unnnnclllllle Geeeeeeeeeeoffreeeeeeeeeey. Listen up…

  I focus my thoughts like a laser beam, a red line of will glowing with a slicing intensity.

  Your fiancée … your fiancée…

  Focus, focus, focus, focus.

  Nothing. Rats.

  And I was concentrating so hard, I don’t know what he’s talking about now. Something about having mosquitoes as his friends.

  Oh, good night, UG, how weird is this?

  “Well, at least they’re more reliable than Jessica was.”

  Oooooh. Maybe my vibes worked.

  “And tell me, Georgie, how in the world did I let that heartbreak go on for decades? I mean, you would know with the way you never got over your mother’s death.”

  Hey!

  “The way you pushed everything and everybody away, even yourself.”

  Hey! Hey!

  “I’m wondering if I should blame myself so much for your turning off your jazz. I mean, you jumped on the classical bandwagon right away as if I was giving you an easy out. And the fact that you could switch so easily, that you were talented enough to do so, made it seem like the right thing. On the surface.”

  Hey! Hey! Hey!

  “Still. Your mom would have been really disappointed in me for what I did. She knew, Georgie. She knew you were made to be something great. When I think about what she would have thought about your drinking …”

  Hey, at least I was great at drinking.

  “Man, I hope you come back around. I don’t care what the doctors say about brain damage. I think you can will yourself back. Right? Can’t you?”

  He stops, coughs.

  “Okay, this sounds very Hollywood, but if you’re there, squeeze my hand. Give me some sign.”

  I will my hand to move. Come on! Come on!

  Now!

  Now! Now! Now!

  So just shut up, Uncle Geoffrey. Please, just shut up. I can’t handle this.

  Clarissa

  The young girl opened up her twelfth birthday present.

  Underwear, socks, a chocolate bar.

  She thought of Charlie Bucket. Well, but at least she got underwear too.

  And when she didn’t gasp with delight right away, the mother stood up from the sofa and stormed off.

  White underwear too.

  Down at the bottom of the bag … a training bra.

  She reached in and held it in front of her. The cousin walked into the room, his face twisted into something she’d never seen before.

  “If a boy ever takes that off of you, Clarissa, I’ll kill him. After I kill you first.”

  The girl shoved it back into the bag, thinking that breasts weren’t worth this. Growing up seemed like the biggest joke she’d ever heard.

  She hurried next door. They were giving her a party. Thank goodness Leonard the Granddaddy Man was okay now. They we
re all scared while he was in the hospital. They prayed with a lot of people from the church and then he came home.

  Fairly

  Sean spread out a blanket in Duncan Park. We’d just been to see Georgia. No change. Sean’s going to have to make a tough decision. I wouldn’t slip on his shoes for a million dollars.

  Life and death, life and death, life and death.

  Believe it or not, we weren’t eating! I’ve gained eight pounds since Georgia drank herself into a coma. My derrière looks like two balls of pizza dough. And I actually don’t give a fig.

  Well, not as much as I thought I would, anyway.

  But I sipped on an Ale-8, and so did Sean.

  The humidity of the late-July day made the breathing hard and my airy new Target clothes much appreciated.

  I lay back, enjoying the sun on my face and the red veiny eyelids from behind. Was it true that people in comas hear what’s going on around them? Was this crimson sheet of skin what Georgia was seeing? If she really could hear, she was going to have a fit upon coming to and finding out I organized those letters.

  So be it.

  It’s amazing how glaring other people’s hang-ups are.

  “So tell me about that monastery business, Sean. Everybody wonders how you could go off like that and just pray and all.”

  He sighed. “That’s the thing, Fair. It wasn’t that kind of monastery. You all must think I’m some kind of monster with the way Georgia painted everything.”

  A blue jay bickered across the grass.

  “This is a different kind of monastery. We were in the worst section of town. Still are, actually. Just served people, ran a soup kitchen and a tutoring center, and kept up the hours of prayer. I begged her to come with me.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “Can you see Georgia living communally?”

  I snorted.

  “Right.”

  I sat up, shielded my eyes against the sun. “Then why did you go?”