Sucked-in cheekbones,
sunken ribs.
42nd Street.
How did he get so thin without me noticing?
34th Street.
The new plague.
More people dying in this city than ever before.
28th Street.
I look around at the car full of people.
Think about infection, how it stirs inside.
23rd Street.
A death sentence.
And I know.
YELLOWED, GRAY
Get off,
take the 9 back uptown.
Home.
April meets me at the door.
Gives me a huge hug, pulls me further in:
Dad’s laid out on the couch.
Mom holds his feet, rubs them,
yellowed, gray.
Dad says he’s glad I’m back.
That he was worried about me.
He’s sorry I had to see him
like that.
He tells us to sit down.
Girls, there’s something I need to tell you.
My stomach knots around his words.
He wipes a tear.
I take April’s hand.
Try not to cry,
but I know what he’s going to say.
I am HIV Positive.
April sobs,
drapes herself across his knees.
I whisper how long?
Years he says.
My breath comes quicker.
Mom says they wanted to protect us,
didn’t want us to worry,
to take on more responsibility.
He’s been okay for a long time.
I can’t breathe.
Dad goes on, says he’s on new meds,
could still live for many more years.
Mom smiles, says yes, he could,
that they’re working on cures all the time.
Says she doesn’t have it, James does.
April sobs and sobs.
Mom rubs her back.
Dad says I’m still your dad, the same man I’ve always been.
But whoever this is,
this man
who parades his lover around the house,
who doesn’t prepare his children
for what’s happening,
who isn’t honest until it’s too late,
who doesn’t realize preparation is protection,
whoever this is,
yellowed, gray,
he is not my father.
NO SIGNS OF STOPPING
Get out of there.
Go.
Mira, where do you think you’re going? Mom calls out.
But I just close the door.
Walk the streets, cry.
No destination in mind.
Wish I had my Walkman.
Wish my head would erase itself.
Rewind.
A car runs a red light.
The first time
Dad tried to teach me to drive,
I sideswiped
a STOP sign,
knocked the mirror off the car.
His face grew red when he told me
he wouldn’t always be there
to grab the wheel.
Miranda, you need to be careful.
Now I know:
he wasn’t just talking about me,
he was talking about himself,
telling me not to be reckless
like him.
And I realize,
every moment until now has masked this truth:
Dad was sick when he helped me with science projects,
essays on King Lear,
the Odyssey.
Dad was sick when we made eggs benedict,
black-eyed peas, angel hair.
Dad and James fell in love while sickness stirred inside them.
All this time Dad was one thing; I thought he was another.
Things can shift so quickly,
like the flick of a light.
Or maybe they’ve been changing longer, steadier,
like a sunset,
colors dragging, day left behind,
a long fade into night.
Crossing the avenue,
the light goes yellow.
A warning.
I dare myself.
Run.
CLOUDY GLASS
Hours later,
after wandering the park,
up and down Broadway,
I duck into a phone booth.
The cloudy glass
surrounds me on
three sides.
Through the front pane
I see a little girl with her dad,
holding tight to his hand.
A pang of jealousy nips me.
I fiddle with the quarter in my pocket.
Call Chloe.
She says Nonna called my parents,
told them all about New Year’s,
asks where am I anyway,
she’s been trying to reach me for hours.
I tell her I went to the movies,
better get home now,
thanks for the warning.
Hang up quick,
keep walking,
home.
TOGETHERNESS
This time when I come in,
April’s not waiting at the door.
She’s still on the couch,
watching TV, tissues all around.
They sit me down again.
This time, at the dining room table,
by myself.
Mom says how dare I
walk out on our family,
on something
so serious.
I almost laugh in her face:
Were we not serious enough?
Is that why you walked out on us?
Mom says what’s done is done,
now is the time
for truth, family togetherness.
She says they know I went to Massachusetts,
they’ve decided that between that and running away just now,
I’m grounded again.
Suddenly she’s a disciplinarian. A real parent.
Dad says he knows I’m upset,
I have a right to be,
but he has lots of time left, don’t worry.
As if it’s possible not to.
I mumble sorry,
ask him how he’s feeling.
He says he’s been better, but he’s okay.
I say that’s good,
though I know he’s lying.
An awkward silence,
the air hangs heavy,
I head to my room,
leave them there,
her, him
all masks off,
no more lying or hiding
their brand of togetherness,
the signs and marks
of who they really are.
KINDLING
I take that ridiculous drawing
of my dream of a family
out from under my pillow,
rip it to shreds,
like kindling.
I open the window,
throw the pieces into the wind,
tossing my own dream
into the raging
firestorm
of trash.
COUNTING STARS
April knocks,
drags in a bag of Doritos.
Tells me she’s scared.
I nod me too from my windowseat,
/> she comes and sits,
we munch chips.
Just like we used to,
we pretend apartment lights are stars.
Count them,
tap the glass with our nails.
Maybe he’ll live so long they’ll find a cure,
she says.
Maybe we can help,
she says.
I say
How? Find a DeLorean?
Go back in time?
That night April sleeps in my bed,
and for one brief moment,
like the steady light
of this ever-glowing city,
it feels like
nothing has changed.
RECORDING SESSION
January
SESSION FOUR
I’ll try to keep this short today. I know you need to rest.
Question eight:
Do you have any advice for me as a Peer Mentor?
Teach by example.
Okay, and question nine:
What’s the hardest part of being a mentor?
Watching people fail and not being able to help them.
Just like being a parent. Watching your kids make dangerous choices and not being able to prevent them.
(Pause)
What about when parents make dangerous choices?
Miranda, I know you’re scared. We all are. But we will get through this . . . day by day. All of us, as a family. Okay?
Okay.
CRYSTALS DANGLING
Last day, winter break:
April and I, Celestial Treasures,
Dad said I could accompany her,
even though I’m still grounded.
Gloria, behind the glass counter,
huge silver hoops swinging from her ears.
April palms an Animal Spirit book.
I trace Andromeda on the map.
Suddenly, I overhear: April telling Gloria Dad’s HIV Positive,
asking if there’s anything she has in her store to help him.
I yell her name. Tell her no.
But Gloria’s already there,
arm around April, tears sparkling, earrings twinkling.
She starts naming funny-sounding pills and herbs:
selenium, St. John’s wort, astragalus.
She says this is what they do for their HIV patients
in the Netherlands, India.
Says our dad is one of millions of cases worldwide.
That we need to give him the strength to endure these tragic times.
Shows us crystals, talks of Reiki, acupuncture, homeopathy.
Can’t listen to
these impossible remedies,
this invasion of privacy.
I leave. Wait for April outside.
Finally, she emerges, bundles of herbs in her arms,
crystals dangling around her neck.
I ask her how she could do this to us,
tell a total stranger something so personal,
so private,
April says this is our DeLorean,
this is our chance to save Dad.
She walks quickly home.
I walk twenty feet behind.
STARLESSNESS
That night, I cocoon.
April slides a piece of paper under my door:
Homeopathic medicine is a form of alternative medicine that uses very small amounts of natural substances, which in larger quantities would cause disease. The theory behind homeopathic medicine is that “like cures like,” and that a substance that causes an illness in a healthy person might cure those symptoms in someone who is ill.
Sounds like a witch’s brew.
What’s the point of placing hope in that?
Hope as slim
as the sliver of moon
hanging
in this empty,
starless sky.
EXCAVATION
The cluttered dining room table,
a white-blank college essay.
April trots past with her
bottles and crystals.
Dad in the living room with James,
watching a documentary
on an archaeological dig in Mexico.
I return to the essay questions.
Try option one.
How would you describe the defining aspect of your identity?
I type on the blank page:
My dad was my mentor. My identity was formed by watching him.
April stands in front of the TV,
tells them about herbs, crystals,
Dad and James smile at her, touched.
I delete.
Start over.
James reads a label.
Dad says he’s working with the best doctors in the city.
I write:
I used to like living in the skies of Manhattan. I identified myself as a proud New Yorker.
April gets teary,
says she’s not giving up, this could save him,
Gloria has helped others.
Delete again.
They say they’ll think about it.
Them.
Like they are their own team.
Their own family.
April leaves everything on the table in front of them.
I turn back to the blank page,
punch the keys hard:
Identity is not a fixed thing, but something that evolves over time. Like an excavation, you never know what you might uncover about yourself or those around you. What might change you, forever. Beyond your own control.
I highlight the paragraph.
Shrink the font,
make it invisible.
As Dad and James turn their eyes back
to the TV,
I shut down my computer,
pick up the keyboard, slam it down,
don’t press save.
The archaeologists dust dirt from bones.
WHAT’S ALREADY GRAY
Back to school,
Dad’s bought us MetroCards,
a note lying on top of them:
Happy second semester!
I crumple it into a ball,
leave it on the kitchen counter.
April and I fight
the white wind
to 86th Street.
On the bus
she begs me to listen to her.
I say no,
she shouldn’t have told,
no, she shouldn’t get her hopes up.
I don’t say
it’ll be worse this way.
If she gets excited about it,
if she hopes for the impossible,
it could crush her.
Dylan slides in next to me,
smelling more like soap than cigs,
humming a Beastie Boys song,
drumming the rhythm on my knee.
He can tell the air’s frozen between April and me,
tries to bend it with song.
I don’t give in,
there’s no way out now.
The snow falls heavier
as we land on Park,
shuffle to the door,
fresh white snow covering
what’s already gray.
WINTER DUST
A cloudy first day back,
a useless Peer Mentorship meeting
on peer pressure.
Now, Yearbook.
I’m late.
Some lip-glossed girls say
the advisor was here to pick up
the sports pages, deadline today.
I look at the pile that
’s half-done—
team pictures, no action shots,
players’ names, no font picked.
Picture my old self,
using all I have to fix this.
If only it were that easy.
The staff asks if they can just pick the fonts,
if they can use last year’s action pics,
I say whatever.
Winter dust coats the white office.
Like the streets and sky, it is graying too.
Who cares about capturing a present
that’s almost past?
Stars that look the brightest are
already dead and gone.
PLAYING PRETEND
Mom, Dad, the couch,
a crossword between them,
she gives him his pills,
crystals collect dust,
herbs remain in plastic, unopened.
Later, April sits with Mom,
each one preparing for her own show—
school play, glass exhibit.
April launches into her herbal plan.
Mom calls Celestial Treasures “darling.”
They ask me to join.
Say I’m busy, college apps.
But even if I didn’t have essays to write,
even if I wasn’t still grounded,
I’d be out with Chloe, at the Big Rock with Dylan.
I wouldn’t be playing this game of pretend,
playing family, playing doctor, playing healthy,
as if the world we knew hadn’t slipped
off its axis.
DELETE ALL
Focus in on my essay.
Again.
Option two: What was a pivotal moment in your life and how did it shape you?
The question screams at me.
I try: When my mom left us for Italy.
Highlight it. Turn it red. It seems like a joke compared to
The day I walked in on my dad in bed with his best friend.
Delete.
Try again: The day I found out my parents have always had an open marriage.
Italicize it.
Then, select it.
Delete.
The day I found out my dad was HIV Positive.
Bold.
A newspaper headline.
Wonder to myself:
Is my dad his disease?
Can protecting someone do more harm than good?
What’s the difference between a secret and a lie?
Move the cursor. Select all. Delete.
Instead, I write about scuba diving.
Skyscraping Page 6
