by Gae Polisner
“What about your name?” I finally ask.
She shrugs.
“Your family? Anything?”
She shakes her head, and neither of us says anything after that.
With the room so quiet, I hear the lurch and crank of the elevator whirring up through the walls of our building. It’s a sound you get used to and forget until you hear it in the middle of the night. Until you realize that your dad might be coming home, which would be a good thing—a great thing—except for the girl. Because I failed to tell him about her, and he’ll be pissed that I didn’t take her to the precinct or the hospital more than twelve hours ago in case she was hurt or someone was looking for her.
Then again, he told me not to go out.
Then again, I didn’t mention there was a girl.
Besides, she doesn’t seem to need a hospital. She seems to need company. She seems to need to be here with me.
I pause, bracing for the elevator doors to open, for Dad’s footsteps in the hall, for his key to scratch in the lock and for him to turn the knob of our apartment door. But the elevator stops a floor short, then cranks and lurches again, and the sound disappears down into the walls.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll call him first thing in the morning and tell him she’s here. Or better yet, I’ll take her to the precinct early, and he’ll never have to know.
“No,” she says, making me wrack my brain for what we were talking about. “Nothing like that. And I know this sounds weird, Kyle, but I have this feeling … like I’m not sure I want to remember.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I nod and turn up the volume on Cow and Chicken. The second episode is on already, the one where Chicken eats caffeinated cereal and goes berserk, so I can’t help but laugh and try to relax a little.
The girl walks over and sits down. Next to me, on the couch.
“What’s this?” She folds her legs up, crisscrossed, so that her knee in my pajama pants is practically touching my thigh. If Dad walked in now, I could see him totally thinking I’m here with some girl from Stuy, taking advantage of being home alone while the rest of the world is a mess. Then again, if I were, he’d also probably be happy about it and give me a pat on the back. He thinks I’m slow in the girl department. But he doesn’t know. I don’t tell him much, or talk to him the way I talk to Uncle Matt.
Uncle Matt is different. Laid back and funny. He even spotted me a pack of condoms last winter when I told him I was getting kind of serious with some girl. Said he thought I might need them, and was cool enough not to ask if I ever did. Which I didn’t, so they’re still unopened in the back of my underwear drawer.
The girl peers sideways at me. “You don’t want to tell me what this is?” She indicates the TV.
“What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Cow and Chicken.”
“Who and who?”
“Cow and Chicken.” I laugh. “Don’t you know it?”
“I’m not sure. Tell me what it’s about.”
I stare at her knee, filled with an overwhelming desire to kiss her, which I know is totally inappropriate. I don’t even know her name. She doesn’t even know her name.
“Uh, well, Cow and Chicken are sister and brother and, well, they’re not exactly brain surgeons. And there’s this guy, called Red Guy, and he’s always trying to trick them and get them into trouble. And, they may be aliens. That part isn’t so clear…”
“Ah, that makes total sense,” she teases.
“Ha-ha, I know, right? But I swear that’s the premise. It’s weird, but funny, which is what I like about it, I guess. I like weird dumb stuff,” I say.
“I get that,” she says, turning back to the TV, and I’m overcome by the smell of vanilla, or coconut, maybe, or both, which must be our shampoo, but smells so much better in her hair. Or maybe I’m losing it completely.
“I need a drink,” I say, standing up too fast. I’m parched. I’m a man in a desert. “OJ or soda or something, you want some?”
“Sure. I can help.” She starts to stand, but I hold out my hand.
“No, don’t! Stay here, I mean,” I say, bolting from the room.
* * *
In the dark kitchen, the red glow of the baby monitor—the one Mom insists on keeping near Uncle Matt’s bed even though the doctors have said he’s out of the woods—surprises me. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It must’ve been on in here all day.
I walk over to it and listen to Uncle Matt wheeze. Every few seconds it sounds like his breath gets stuck, but then he goes back to wheezing again.
When I was born, Mom almost named me Matthew after him, instead of Kyle after my grandfather. I like Matt better, especially since Mom says I take after him. “Tough enough,” she says, “but more important, smart and very kind. The best way to be.” I don’t know about that, though. I wish I were tougher. Even in the condition he’s in now, Uncle Matt is way tougher than I’ll ever be.
I lean against the counter and wait for my eyes to adjust. I don’t want to turn the lights on. I’m not sure why. Uncle Matt makes a noise in his sleep, and the monitor crackles and the red light blinks frantically before steadying again. I switch it off. Nobody is listening, anyway.
I pull open the fridge for light and grab two glasses from the cabinet, fill them with OJ, tuck a bag of Doritos under my arm, and head back to the living room and the girl.
Out the window,
red lights pulse
(blood inching through a tube
in your
arm).
I shake the image away, grasp for something happier:
(Early morning, a latticework table.
Fruit trees blooming in a courtyard.
A celebration, yes!
A blue Tiffany box and
champagne in flute glasses,
laughter…)
But the red lights haunt me.
(Winter brings snow …
An ambulance flashing its lights,
A hospital room.
The smell of disinfectant,
filling my nose.)
I wheel away from the window,
look for Kyle.
He’s been gone too long.
I wonder if he wishes I would go.
By the time I get back to the living room, the credits for Cow and Chicken are rolling. Thankfully, another episode comes on. Maybe it’s a marathon. A marathon would be so, so good.
The girl stands at the window. I set the glasses on the coffee table and sit on the chair across from the couch. If she sits next to me again, she might actually hear my heart pounding.
I tear the bag of Doritos open and hold them out to her.
“Kyle.” She says my name the way she did earlier in my sister’s room, a statement, not a question, like she needs to be sure.
“Yeah. Everything okay?”
“Yes.” She walks over and takes a few chips from the bag. A commercial for Frosted Flakes comes on and my sister’s callback flashes through my brain. It was for a cereal commercial, I think.
I try to imagine what it would be like for Kerri’s face to pop up now on the screen, eating Wheaties or Corn Flakes or something, as if she belonged to the fake TV family.
“What?” the girl asks. “You’re shaking your head.”
“Nothing. It’s dumb. I was thinking about my sister.”
“What about her?”
“Well, you know how I said she’s in LA? She wants to act. She went to an acting camp back in July. My mom is chaperoning.” I pause, wondering if she remembers where LA is, which makes it hard to have an easy conversation. And I’m not super-suave at talking to girls in the first place. “Anyway, she’s been auditioning for commercials there. Not that she couldn’t do that here in the city. But there are more opportunities there or something. And it was part of the whole camp thing. After she completed it, they sent her on a guaranteed number of auditions. And my sister got a callback for some cereal one.”
“Oh. I was wondering,” she says.
She wa
s? It seems confusing how she can have so many regular thoughts, but not know basic things about herself.
“So, I was thinking it would be weird if she got the part, and then I was sitting here and she came on the screen, like, right in the middle of Cow and Chicken.”
“That would be weird,” she says.
“Right? I know.”
“Do you miss them?” she asks.
“My mom and sister?” I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so. My mom is cool. My sister’s a pain in the ass.”
She laughs a little. “And, your dad?” I look away. It always makes me uncomfortable to talk about Dad. I don’t know why. Maybe because it reminds me how I disappoint him. “Where did you say he is now?”
“Now, as in, this second? I didn’t. He’s, uh, downtown, Manhattan…” I’m vague because I’m still not sure what I should tell her. What she remembers from the explosions. What might undo her. “He’s working late. Overnight shift. He may not be back tomorrow.” I pause, then add, “Because of what happened this morning.”
She doesn’t react, or ask any more though, just goes back to looking out the window. I walk over and stand next to her, and stare out at the haze of muted lights under the shroud of smoke that hangs over Lower Manhattan. I squint through the darkness, through the thickest concentration of smoke, trying to find the empty spot where the Twin Towers used to be.
“Do you miss them?” I ask, maybe because I’m overwhelmed by it all, and I really want to talk about it with her, with someone. “I mean, I know it’s dumb to say you miss buildings and all, and I get that they’re inanimate objects that don’t really mean anything. But I do. I miss them.”
She turns to me, the strangest look on her face, like for a split second she’s terrified, like she’s about to say something but then stops herself.
“What buildings, Kyle?” she asks.
ILLUSION
I dream of the lake,
of the boy,
of the uncle babbling words.
The lake is blue and clear.
Small silver fish jump,
dragonflies dart and skim on
gossamer wings.
Hover, then
disappear.
Somewhere in the distance, music starts up,
light and cheerful:
a waltz for flute in A major.
A white bird emerges—a heron!
No,
a swan.
From the shore, the boy calls to it,
a quavering oo-ooo sound
and it glides toward him, slow and graceful,
then veers sharply into the
tall grasses.
The boy turns, confused, to the man in the
wheelchair,
who shuffles a deck of cards.
I exclaim at the bird and they turn,
raise champagne glasses
high in the air.
I wade toward them
as the white swan slips away.
Gone.
A whippoorwill calls from the trees,
distracts me, and
a plane hums overhead,
its gray shadow, a bird across the sand.
As I reach the shore, a clap of thunder explodes,
reverberates,
and the gray bird shudders and
plummets
from
the
sky.
A noise wakes me. The elevator in the walls.
The front door opening and closing.
I open my eyes, look at my clock: Barely morning.
The door again. No, not the front door. Maybe the bathroom one.
That, or I’m dreaming.
I go with that and roll over and try to fall back to sleep.
The sky shifts,
navy to slate
to pink at the
horizon.
Restless,
I walk to the sister’s desk.
The shelf above is a clutter of snow globes.
I noticed them yesterday.
I pick them up, one at a time,
shake them, and scatter the snow,
avoiding one in
the back row.
After a while, I sit up. I listen for Dad, but hear nothing.
My brain staggers back to yesterday, to last night, to Cow and Chicken. The girl and I had watched a bunch more episodes before going to bed. When was that? Only an hour or two ago.
Groggy, I get out of bed and make my way down the hall. Kerri’s door is closed, so the girl must still be sleeping. I won’t bother her this early. I repeat the rest of the drill, stopping at the guest-room door to check on Uncle Matt. He’s asleep, too.
Dad’s bedroom door is wide open. Bed still made and unslept-in.
I make my way back in the other direction, to the living room. The sky is dark, tinged at the horizon with oranges and grays, lightening quickly. Police boats continue to pepper the East River. Smoke still pours up from Lower Manhattan, but now blankets a wide stretch of the city up toward Midtown.
I turn on the television and mute the sound, staring at the silent images: rescue workers moving through debris, walking over smoking concrete beams, whole sections of the framework of the towers visible like hulking, mutilated skeletons. And American flags hang everywhere now, are tied to equipment, and wrapped around workers’ heads.
Dad must be ready to drop.
I dial his number from the kitchen extension, taking it to my room so I don’t wake anyone. I want to hear his voice, even if I have no idea what to say.
He picks up on the second ring. It’s quiet wherever he is, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Kyle, everything okay?”
“Hey, Dad, yeah. Fine. I’m … Where are you?”
“Catching a brief rest in St. Paul’s. They set up cots here, water, snacks. I’m about to head back to the Pile. You’re up early. Figured you’d be sleeping in.” He sounds different, but I can’t put a finger on how.
“I was,” I say. “But I didn’t sleep well. Did you sleep? When are you coming home?”
“Not really, and I’m not sure. Most of the unit is staying down here. Maybe not today at all. I spoke to your mother, though. She’s doing well.” His voice is definitely strange. Wrong. “Why? Do you need me there?”
“No, not at all. It’s … I guess I just wanted to talk to you about some things.” About the girl.
“Matty all right?”
“Yes…” I waver, searching for the right words to spill the information quickly. I wanted to tell you I brought some girl home. She’s been here all night. I’m pretty sure she was at the explosion. She has no memory. She may be suicidal, I’m not sure. But she’s nice, and she isn’t hurt, and I kind of like her being here.
Yeah, right.
It sounds idiotic and, worse, naïve. Like the exact kind of thing he would get mad at me for. I had no business bringing her here. Or at least keeping her here. I know enough protocol. I should have brought her somewhere official. At least reported her.
But how do you report someone who doesn’t have a name?
“Kyle?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
I’ll take her to Mount Sinai. Or the precinct on Gold Street. As soon as she gets up. Never have to tell him she was here. I don’t need to bother him with this.
“If the rest can wait, I can’t talk here … there are guys sleeping … trying to. We’ll talk when I get home. Figure not for a while, though. I really need to be doing things down here for now. It’s the goddamned apocalypse, kiddo…” The word Marcus used. His voice catches again. “I’ve never seen anything close to this in my life…”
“I know,” I say. “No worries. And, Dad? Be safe.”
“You, too, kiddo. You, too.” He hangs up.
He hasn’t called me kiddo since I was twelve.
SNOW GLOBES
“Eiffel Tower, Paris.”
Shake.
Snow whirls and blankets a girl in a red beret.
“Disneyland, Anaheim,
California.”
Shake.
Gold glitter spirals down over Mickey and Minnie
in front of a magical castle.
A moose on a glacier.
Shake, and
snow drifts down.
“Greetings from Anchorage, Alaska.”
A frost-dusted line of Santa-clad dancers.
“Happy Holidays from Radio City Music Hall.”
My breath hitches as I reach for the one
in the back row.
“Florida, the Sunshine State.”
Shake.
Orange and yellow dots swirl over a citrus grove.
(A courtyard of fruit trees,
your warm fingers touching my
cheek…)
Shove it back on the shelf
before
the dots have
time
to
settle.
I flip on my computer and stare out the window until the screen warms up. The sky is starting to brighten.
I search Yahoo for the New York Times online. The headlines are crazy. TERRORISTS ATTACK NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON … THOUSANDS FEARED DEAD … BUSH SAYS THOSE RESPONSIBLE WILL BE PUNISHED …
I close the window. My dad has been awake in that for nearly twenty-four hours.
I open a new screen and type in mindless things like, Who holds the world record for hours awake? That search takes me to some free, new, research website called Wikipedia, which tells me that a dude named Randy Gardner holds the longest record at 264.4 hours awake. I guess I don’t need to worry about Dad in that department, then.
Outside, the roar of a military jet jolts me. It’s the fourth or fifth time I’ve heard one since yesterday. I hold my breath, waiting to see if we’re being attacked again, but it must be reconnaissance, because after another few seconds, it’s gone.
I type a new search—U2 Slane Castle—into the search engine and scroll through a few early fan photos that have been uploaded from the European leg of the Elevation tour. I’d give anything to have been there.
After a while, Uncle Matt calls out from down the hall. I know he’s just dreaming, because it’s all loci stuff. Card suits and grocery lists and names of movie stars.
Still, I close out of the U2 stuff and do what I’ve done a hundred times since Uncle Matt’s accident: research recovery rates from spinal cord injuries. Not that I’m a doctor and can help him.
