by Gae Polisner
Relief! I want to cry with it, knowing they’re not in the air.
The message ends. Already, there’s a new one flashing. God, let this one be Dad.
“Kyle, honey?”
It’s Mom again, not Dad.
“I didn’t mean to hang up. Jesus, I hate these things. Kerri, what am I doing wrong here?” There’s a high-pitched beep in my ear. She’s still pushing buttons, doesn’t realize it’s already gone through to my voice mail.
I hear my sister yell: “No, not that one, Mom! I told you that one hangs it up…” and they’re gone again.
I replay the first message, run to the kitchen to write the number down, letting a third message play, praying with all my might that it’s Dad.
“Kyle, sorry, it’s me again. If you’re getting these, if you’re listening, I’m sure your father is down there—already down there … I’m sure he knows more than we do. But it’s just … I can’t reach him…”
There’s a choked sound, and Kerri yells, “Mom! Stop! Tell him what you need to!” and her voice steadies again.
“Anyway, we’re going to get home to you as soon as we can. But I don’t know … if you can reach your father … I just need to know that you’re both okay. So, call me, please. I’m borrowing this nice man’s phone—Ed, his name is Ed. I swear if it’s the last thing I do, I’m getting a cell phone when we get home. Wait, okay, here’s the number again.”
She repeats the number I’ve written down and says, “We’re going to try to get out of here, find somewhere to stay, a hotel or something. If we leave, I’ll try you as soon as I can. Or call this phone. I’ll leave Ed our information … Wait, Kerri, it’s beeping! Maybe it’s him! How do I answer this thing?”
There’s a click, and she’s gone.
I stare at the phone, waiting for it to ring, trying to figure out why I didn’t hear the other calls, but probably nothing is coming through the way it should.
I dial the number Mom left me for Ed, but that doesn’t go through, either.
I toss the phone down and walk to the fireplace, to the row of framed photographs on the mantel. There aren’t any recent ones, only one from my parents’ wedding, another of Dad when he made Lieutenant, and a third of me holding Kerri as a baby. There are a few more of Kerri, including one on a swing, and another in a school play dressed as Tinker Bell.
I pick up that one and stare at Kerri’s little white wings, thinking of the girl’s wings. Kerri wore a pair like that for something else, too. A Christmas play. A recital. A dance thing where she played an angel.
I stare back at the wedding photo, at my mom. At my dad. We look alike, he and I, but I’m not much like him. He’d like me better if I were.
Still, I’ve never wanted him to get back home so bad.
In the sister’s room, I stand at the cracked-open window,
feel for the bottle in my pocket.
I don’t have a glass of water.
I listen for the shower, but
it’s already off,
so
I can’t go get one now.
Dad’s phone finally rings!
Then it rings and it rings and it rings.
I pick up another photo of Dad, this one with Uncle Matt and Uncle Paul. They’re at the base of a ski slope in Vermont. I should try calling Uncle Paul. He can be a jerk, but maybe I can reach him. I’m worried about him, too. I’m worried about everyone.
I put the photo back and think about Uncle Matt, how he’s different from both Dad and Uncle Paul. Tough but nice, and crazy smart. Before his accident he was a lieutenant in the Emergency Service Unit.
“All Donohue men are cops, Kyle…” Uncle Paul’s words drum in my ears. Every Thanksgiving he starts in on me, worst was the year I decided to switch to Stuyvesant.
“What’s wrong with Brooklyn Tech? Too tough for you? Am I wrong, Tom? Why is my nephew going to a sissy school?”
“It’s a science and math school, Uncle Paul.”
“All pansies, I say! A bunch of freaks and geeks and nerds.”
This November, if we all live that long, I’m sure he’ll be at it again.
Honestly, I’m used to it, but it makes me miss the old Uncle Matt even more. He’d always defend me, put Uncle Paul in his place.
Uncle Matt. I should check on him again. Wake him up. Tell him what’s happened, and about the girl.
For a second, I think about leaving the last part out, my brain plotting some ridiculous sketch comedy routine instead. Like from some old sitcom or movie. For the next twenty-four hours, I wheel an oblivious Uncle Matt around the apartment, to any place the girl isn’t, never letting him see her in the halls. She goes along with the scheme, ducking behind couches and potted plants (cue canned laughter), tiptoeing past as I wheel Uncle Matt in circles to avoid spotting her. Finally, we slip her out the front door, Uncle Matt never the wiser that she was ever here (cue cheesy music).
As I’m about to go, I notice I put the wedding photo back up crooked and walk to straighten it, wishing I would get an update from Mom.
She’s been in LA since July. She and Kerri should have been back last week, but then Kerri got some sort of callback for an audition. My dad had balked about her missing the start of school, but Mom had won the fight, as always, saying it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
I think Uncle Matt not doing better is the main reason Mom went to California in the first place, agreeing to accompany Kerri so she could attend some dumb acting camp there all summer. She couldn’t watch Uncle Matt waste away any longer, so she hired Karina full-time and pays her with her money, at least whatever amount the NYPD doesn’t cover. Either way, I’m not naive, I know Mom is the one who wanted Uncle Matt to stay here with us, and she’s the one with the money. A trust-fund baby. Which is how we live in a four-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights with a view of the East River. Not exactly affordable on a cop’s salary.
Before she left, I heard Dad telling her that we’d need to move Uncle Matt out of here by the end of the year. “It’s not practical, Alyse. We’re not properly equipped, Karina or not. You know it’s not good for him, or us, to keep him here.”
As if hearing my thoughts, Uncle Matt calls out—“Ky-uh!”—some sad, pathetic grunt that may be my name, or may be Karina’s, or may not even be a real word.
I lie down,
stare up at old-teeth stars,
then
close my eyes, and
try to sleep.
On a stage, a heavy curtain rises,
revealing a
shimmering lake.
Cautiously, I
wade in
and glide across its smooth surface.
Water ripples where I pass,
swirls into eddies that
widen into deeper,
bottomless
circles.
I stop, adrift.
A bottle appears in my hand.
I open it,
tip it over, and
spill out the pills.
White dots spin and disappear
into the vortex.
I cup my hands to the water and drink,
waiting for everything to go numb.
Sated, I watch for you
on the far shore.
“Here!” you call, and I smile,
move through the water to
where you are.
But, thunder crashes,
a cacophony of cymbals
and the sky darkens.
Rain falls in sheets,
filling my mouth, and
the lake sucks me under.
I crack the guest room door open. Uncle Matt is sitting upright. Well, a little more upright than before. He’s watching the news.
“Uncle Matt,” I say softly, trying not to startle him. “You saw…”
“Ky-uh.” I move closer. “Jes-uh … fugh-ing … Christ…”
“I know.” His head twitches toward the television. He doesn’t turn to see me, because he can’t.
“I know,” I repeat. “It’s … crazy.” I have no words strong enough for what it is.
I squat in front of him so he can see my face. Beyond his bed, the room is a mess of physical-therapy equipment: bands and balls and straps and other torture devices, all courtesy of the NYPD and Mom. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I came in here and checked on you earlier, but you were still sleeping, and, well, Karina didn’t make it in.”
“You … dah…?” He’s not mincing words, then.
“In there, in the mess, I’m guessing. I heard from him earlier, but not since the second tower went down.”
“Ih … bah…” he says, head bobbing.
It’s bad.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How … bou … you … mah?”
“She’s okay, I think. She and Kerri are stuck at the airport in LA. Or were. They never got on the plane…” My voice breaks, but I can’t lose it right now, not in front of Uncle Matt. “They’re safe, though. She called and said they’ll call again when they find a hotel. But I’m worried about Dad.” I nod at the television. “They keep saying there may be more planes…” Uncle Matt makes an unintelligible sound. “They’ve grounded all flights. Said they’ll shoot them down,” I add.
“Gah … dayh … fuh-ghurs…” he says.
I close my eyes for a second, dizzy. I still have to tell him about the girl. But then what? “Dad said in his message to stay here. To stay put. And to take care of you until he gets home.” I’m about to mention the girl but quickly change my mind, kick up the lock on his wheelchair, and roll him backward to maneuver him out. It’s too much. I can’t do it yet, unload about some suicidal amnesiac bird girl that I brought here, to our home. Now. In the middle of all this.
“Wai … Ky-uh…” He nods with effort back toward the television.
He wants to watch the breaking news. Onscreen a reporter stands in a field in front of a plane, nose down, jutting up from the ground like a crashed missile. Behind it: a smoking crater in the grass, burnt metal parts, a whole wing. The news crawl reads: SHANKSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA … UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 93 …
“They hit the Pentagon, too,” I say. “They think that one was headed toward the White House, but they don’t know for sure.”
“You … dah…” he says again. He’s worried, and I am, too.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m trying to reach him, Uncle Matt, I promise. I don’t know what else to do. It’s either busy or rings and rings. If he’s in there … Well, you know. If he’s in there, he’s working. Even if he’s okay, there’s no way he’s going to pick up.”
The reporter disappears, and the screen returns to the image of people running from the barreling wall of white smoke. I move Uncle Matt out now, and he doesn’t argue. He must have to use the bathroom pretty bad.
I wheel him down the hall, past Kerri’s closed door, wishing I could just blurt it out about the girl. Get it over with. It’s the least of our problems right now. But, I don’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t.
At the end of the hall, I veer to my parents’ bedroom, toward the master bathroom with the special rails. I’m nervous—I’ve never done this alone—but what choice do I have? I haul Uncle Matt out of his chair, get his sweats down, and heave him onto the toilet seat, securing the rails.
It’s no easy feat, and I’m sweating by the time I’m done.
“You okay?” He nods, and I avert my eyes. “I’ll give you some privacy, then. I’ll come back and get you in a few.”
“… Je … su … fugh-ghers…” I hear him mutter as I close the door.
The lake grows quiet and calm.
The sky lightens,
though a few drops of mist still fall.
They break the water’s surface with a
delicate plink plink
(the drip of an intravenous…)
leaving ripples as they
disappear.
The sun swells from behind a cloud,
and the lake
evaporates,
leaving the stage
empty
and
silent.
Nothing but air
(wings
and
bone).
ZEN KOANS
The washer has stopped, and the bathroom smells of clean laundry. There is something so soothing about the scent.
Since Mom left for LA, laundry’s pretty much been my job. I don’t mind doing it. It’s one thing I kind of do well.
I pull the girl’s things out one by one. A long-sleeved gray shirt with pinprick holes in the fabric. Khaki cargo pants. A navy blue hooded sweatshirt. A pair of black bikini underwear with little blue bows on the sides. A white lace bra.
My ears burn red as I lay the bra on top of the dryer. I place the other pieces inside. I try not to think of the girl in my sister’s bed, nothing between my clothing and her skin. I try not to think of her this morning, leaning out over the bridge.
Was she really going to jump?
I remember Uncle Matt telling a story once about some distraught guy they rescued off the Brooklyn Bridge. That’s the kind of stuff his unit does. It was broad daylight, and people were just walking by him. They said he had stood there so long, nobody thought he was serious. Finally someone called the cops, and they saved him. But, a week later, they found him dead somewhere else. On the West Side Highway, I think. Uncle Matt had said that if you ever wanted to off yourself, the Brooklyn Bridge was the best place to do it, that only one person had ever survived that jump. Some guy a long time ago who had practiced the right way to fall.
I shift the bra again so it lies flat, knowing not to dry it from when Kerri got her first real bra last winter. Daily announcements had ensued about its care and handling, as if a little shrinkage wouldn’t have helped things.
I’m about to turn the dryer on but decide to double check that the stuff is really clean. I pull the girl’s shirt out and hold it, damp, to my nose. Sure enough, below the Tide fresh ocean scent, the faint smell of smoke lingers. Maybe I should put it all back through again, or maybe it doesn’t matter how many times I wash it.
I toss the shirt back in, set the knob to permanent press, and wait for the motion to start, then stand listening to the dryer’s rhythmic hum. Wet pieces slump against the metal walls. A faint metallic sound pings every third rotation or so. I yank the door open and reach around to see what’s making the sound, but I don’t find anything, so it must be a button or a zipper. Still, I change my mind anyway, pull everything out, and switch it back into the washer again. I add another scoop of detergent and set it on the longest, hottest cycle.
After I shut the empty dryer, I sit and stare at my reflection in its glass. The face that looks back is my dad’s. How can I look so much like him and not feel at all like we’re the same?
What was your original face before your mother and father were born?
One of Mrs. Bright’s Zen koans pops into my brain. Zen koans are riddles that don’t have any right answers. Like the famous one about one hand clapping, or the tree that falls in the forest when no one is around. We’ve been discussing them in class, together with J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories.
But the one in my head, about your original face, I kind of get, suddenly. It’s like wondering if you exist at all outside of how your parents view you, without their expectations of how you’ll turn out.
I get up and head out of the bathroom, but then I see the girl’s combat boots by the door. Black leather, under a thick white layer of ash.
She must have been right there at the towers because, only a few blocks away, I wasn’t covered nearly this bad.
I wipe them down with a wet soapy washcloth at the sink, walk to my sister’s room, and listen for noise inside. When I don’t hear any, I leave the boots outside her door.
I sit up, drenched in sweat.
(RUN! Go now!)
But go where?
I don’t know where I am
or where I belong.
&nbs
p; I close my eyes,
grip the bottle in my pocket,
and try to sleep some more.
Before I get Uncle Matt from the bathroom, I dial Dad again.
“Don’t do anything dumb,” he had said, and yet, too late. I already have. There’s a suicidal, amnesiac bird girl down the hall.
On Gold Street, not too far from here, there’s a precinct. If it’s safe to go out later, maybe I’ll bring her over there.
I get the rapid busy signal and redial, and this time his voice mail answers.
Hearing his voice on the recording makes me choke up again, and I have to work hard to keep my voice strong.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me, Kyle. Checking in like you said. Trying to check in. It’s been impossible to get through. Everything here is okay. Uncle Matt … I’ve got that all under control. And, I heard from Mom. She’s okay, too. They left the airport and are finding a hotel.” I pause so I can manage this last part. “Call when you can. I know you probably can’t, but Uncle Matt and me, we’re seriously worried about you.”
The boy opens the door.
Kyle?
He smiles, hopeful. “Yeah?”
Could I please get a glass of water?
I head to the kitchen for the water, but realize Uncle Matt is still in the bathroom. I need to get him first.
I’ll get him cleaned up and settled, then tell him about the girl, then maybe make us all some food.
Shelves.
Bookcases.
Desk.
Chair.
Wings with fluttering white feathers.
I try to pinpoint myself here.
In this apartment,
in this room,
in this bed.
(Citrus trees in blue glazed pots,
