by Gae Polisner
Still, it gives me hope. Mostly, I read statistics and stories. But there are plenty of anecdotes about people recovering, walking years after no one thought they could.
I try to picture Uncle Matt healthy again, remember him the way he was five months ago, sitting at his kitchen table practicing his memory drills with me. Like with my music, Dad doesn’t get Uncle Matt’s whole memory thing. He doesn’t get why it’s important, or that it’s really the thing that defines him. That it makes him more than a cop, more than his job, more than what Dad and Uncle Paul are. It makes him special.
All Dad has is his job. He works, he watches sports, he goes to the gym. I’m not criticizing, but I wish he’d understand me better, care more about the things that matter to me, like the music I play. Used to play.
Or maybe he’s right, and I should try harder to be more like him. And, yeah, like Uncle Matt, too. Because, face it, as smart as Uncle Matt is, he lives up to the Donohue legacy, also. Or he did. I think of Uncle Matt before, lean and mean from biking and running again after the cold winter, keeping up the whole badass persona. Dad’s right about this: I could stand to run, lift some weights, maybe. Bulk up a little and make him proud. But I can’t bring myself to do the things that might impress him.
Sometimes I envy Marcus’s relationship with his parents, how he has it easier with them because they support every little thing he does. But then I remember how it must have been before, and I know nothing can begin to make up for that.
I open another screen and type in Ugandan civil war, thinking of my promise to myself last night. I’ve got nothing else to do. I might as well start now.
Wikipedia has links to four different wars in Uganda. I click on the first, the Uganda–Tanzania War, but that’s too early, so I click on the next one, Ugandan Bush War, and I know right away that must be the one.
The Ugandan Bush War (also known as the Luwero War, the Ugandan civil war or the Resistance War) refers to the guerrilla war waged in Uganda between 1981 and 1986 by the National Resistance Army (NRA) against the government of Milton Obote, and later that of Tito Okello.
Obote. Okello. How come we never studied any of this in history class? It seems important, yet I don’t remember learning either of these names.
I read, trying to hold on to the information so I understand, but it’s confusing stuff about a whole bunch of fighting factions after the removal of Idi Amin. A guy named Museveni, who challenged Obote’s election. And names of some group, that I may sort of remember from history class, like the Popular Resistance Army or the Rwandan Patriotic Front.
There’s a whole section about guerilla fighters trying to oust the government run by Obote, and then this:
In early 1983, to eliminate rural support for Museveni’s guerrillas, the area of the then Luwero District, including present-day Kiboga, Kyankwanzi, Nakaseke, among others, was targeted for a massive population removal affecting almost 750,000 people. The resultant refugee camps were subject to military control and human rights abuses. By July 1985, Amnesty International estimated that the Obote regime had been responsible for killing more than 300,000 civilians.
I stare at that last number, and then the date. 1985. The year Marcus and I were born.
Yesterday, Mayor Giuliani said that over three thousand people were killed in the attack here. I can’t begin to wrap my head around that number, so how does Marcus survive knowing his country lost more than a hundred times that number?
I turn off my computer and crawl into bed, close my eyes and try to sleep some more.
I dress in the clean clothes he washed for me:
khaki cargo pants,
gray top,
black combat boots,
and leave the other stuff folded on his sister’s bed.
At the door of the room, I hesitate,
deciding.
I walk back to the bed,
pull the upside-down lemon shirt on again.
Something to remember him by.
III
Wednesday Morning, 9.12.01
ID
The smell of brewed coffee wafts into my room.
I yank on a clean T-shirt and sweats, hoping Dad hasn’t come home unexpectedly while I was sleeping to find the bird girl in Kerri’s room.
I should have brought her to the precinct already.
I should have had Uncle Matt up and dressed.
I stand at my bedroom door, trying to hear if Dad’s in the kitchen—or if she is—but it’s quiet. Too quiet. I don’t hear anyone moving around in there.
Maybe he made coffee and crashed, while he was still waiting for it to brew.
Either way, if he’d seen the girl, he’d for sure have woken me by now. Asked questions, and demanded answers.
Unsteady, I start down the hall.
But he’s not in the kitchen.
No one is.
The coffee pot is off and empty, and I’m imaging things.
100 … 99 … 98 …
Blue pots …
pink peonies …
Focus on the numbers,
and start over.
Kerri’s door is closed. The girl is still sleeping. I continue to Uncle Matt’s room, but he’s asleep, too, so maybe it’s not as late as I thought it was.
I’m discombobulated. I need to wake up fully, and regroup. I need a shower.
When it’s hot the way I like it, I step in, let the water run over me, and try to think. I need to take the girl to the hospital, or to the precinct, but which? She doesn’t seem sick or hurt, and at the hospital they’ll just leave her sitting alone. I picture her stuck waiting in some cold, sterile corridor, strewn with old people dying, or overflow victims from the explosion. Same with the precinct. Until they figure out who she belongs to, she’ll be stuck there, waiting alone.
Then again, I heard on the news that the hospitals are empty. That they waited for the injured, but so far there have only been a few.
The people in the towers? Most of them are dead.
I rub shampoo through my hair and rinse. Hospital or precinct?
The real truth: I want her to stay.
85 … 84 …
… entrechat, quatre relevé, passé …
At the sink, in my towel, I stare at my bleary reflection in the steamed-up mirror.
What was your original face before your mother and father were born?
If buildings fall, but a girl doesn’t remember…?
Knock it the fuck off, Kyle.
I know what I’ll do: I’ll call Marcus. Tell him about the girl. He’s good at problem solving. He’ll tell me how to handle things.
I brush my teeth, then gather up the dirty clothes from the floor. I’ll also do a load of laundry or two, something productive to show for myself when Dad finally gets home.
As I start to put the clothes in the washer, my eye catches on a frayed, white rectangle of paper near the bottom of the machine, stuck to the side of the drum.
The size of a license. It must fit in the plastic sleeve! I must’ve missed it yesterday when I put the load through again. I washed it twice, then.
I pull the knob to stop the water from filling the machine and reach in to peel it off. But the prior washings have already turned it to glue. I get most of it off, but bits of it, white scraps, stay stuck to the drum in places. The side facing out is mostly blank. On the other side: words and what’s left of a photo.
I think it’s her school ID.
I try to scrape off the remaining bits, but they disintegrate in my fingers.
I study what’s left of the ID.
The top is more preserved than the bottom, enough so that, on further inspection, I can actually make out a decent amount of the faded letters:
F re l LaGu a igh ol
of Mu c & rt an P mi g Ar s
Maybe because I’ve walked past it a bunch of times, I’m pretty sure I recognize the name.
Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and the Performing Arts.
&nbs
p; It’s up near Lincoln Center, where Marcus and Bangor and I go to see movies in IMAX 3D all the time. Not that far from Marcus’s apartment.
A photo of the girl looks out at me. It’s badly washed out, half the face gone, and her dark hair is really long. But still, I’m pretty sure.
Jesus, I washed her ID. Not once, but twice, on the hottest setting.
What an idiot I am.
I stand up and hold the paper up under the light. Beneath the photo in tiny font is part of a faded Roman numeral:
4. M CC II
No, not a 4. It’s an A. Or maybe an H. Yes, an H.
H. M CC II
It’s not a number, it’s her name.
76 … 75 …
(the curtain lifts on a lake…)
Head down.
Focus.
Block them from coming.
Keep count.
I slip down the hall with the ID, relieved that Kerri’s bedroom door is still closed.
I rest it on the edge of the keyboard, and type in Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School, click on the link, and wait patiently for it to load. In my desk drawer, I retrieve the plastic sleeve tied to the toe shoe charm. Of course, it fits right in.
On the high school’s home page is a photo of a beige stone building, stairs leading up to the school. I’ve passed it before.
I look back at the ID.
H. M CC II.
How many names start with H? Heather. Hannah. Hillary. Not too many. I try to think of more, but they’re all too cartoony or old-fashioned, like Hildegard or Heidi. Is Hildegard even a real name?
And the other letters. I squint at them some more, but I’m not even really sure.
I click on the Students button on the header at the top of the page, my heart ramping up a little, but that only brings me to a Log in button and there’s no way to do that without a password. It seems like most of the other buttons require that, too.
I try the Programs button, which works without one, so I scan down the list of courses. At Dance Department, I stop:
The Dance Department utilizes a rigorous conservatory approach. All full-time instructors have danced professionally with major companies, including: American Ballet Theatre, Joffrey Ballet, New York City Ballet, New York City Opera, Royal Ballet, Dance Theatre of Harlem, Boston Ballet, Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, Martha Graham Dance Company, Erick Hawkins Dance Company, Merce Cunningham Dance Company, Lar Lubovitch Dance Company, and Twyla Tharp Dance.
I scroll back to the top and click on the button that reads Apply:
Acceptance to Fiorello H. LaGuardia Arts is based on a competitive audition and review of student records to ensure success in both the demanding studio work and the challenging academic programs. Candidates in the 8th or 9th grade are eligible to audition.
I look through some of the promotional photo galleries, but I can’t find anything clear that looks like her.
I close the window, open a search engine, and type Amnesia, and scroll around the results again until I find something that seems new:
Dissociative amnesia is defined by a lack of physical damage to the brain, making treatment difficult. During World War II use of barbiturates and other truth serums were popular. Hypnosis is a popular methodology, but can be viewed as merely lowering the threshold of suggestibility. In many cases, patients were found to spontaneously recover from their amnesia so no treatment was required.
See? She doesn’t need a hospital. She’ll probably get better by herself.
Precinct it is, then, I guess.
I shut down my computer and slip the ID back into my drawer.
73 …
(A cobblestone terrazzo…)
72, 71 …
(You there, in a suit and tie,
yelling, and checking your watch,
a briefcase clutched in your hand.)
Kerri’s door is still closed, but I’m restless. A few more minutes, and I’ll wake her.
I walk to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal and turn on the small TV on the counter.
Updates crawl along the bottom of the screen. Two men, Port Authority police officers, have been pulled alive from the rubble. President Bush is “confident” that the attacks are the work of Osama bin Laden. Rescue workers have remained at the site overnight. Three hundred firefighters are presumed dead. At least twenty police officers are dead.
Mayor Giuliani has declared all New York City schools closed until further notice. Now I really need to call Marcus. And Kristen. And—Jesus—Bangor, and Jenny Lynch.
I turn off the TV, pour myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk, and take that to my room. I’m about to call Mom but it’s barely 6 A.M. there, and it’s still too early to call any of my friends here, so I pick up the Salinger book instead.
Nine Stories.
I flip through pages. The story I’m up to is called “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor.”
I read, finishing that and the beginning of a second story, before Uncle Matt calls out from down the hall.
57 … 56 …
(… voices, shouting, and
glassrainingdown.)
“Sorry … Ky-uh. Need … take a … piss. And … wan … see … tee … vee…”
Uncle Matt tries to nod toward his chair.
“Yeah, sorry! No problem.” I switch on his television, pull his chair to the bed, and work to maneuver him into it. “I was up earlier and checked on you, but you were still sleeping. So, I did some school work,” I say, wanting him to know that I’m trying to be responsible. “And, I’m going to take the girl down to the precinct as soon as she gets up.”
“Guh … i-dea…” he says. He manages to give me a look of disapproval.
“What?” I say. “I swear, I know I need to. I am. Right now. Even though Dad said not to go out.”
I wheel him into the master bathroom, trying not to think about how bad the thought of getting rid of her feels.
I set the rails, leaving Uncle Matt on the toilet, and walk down the hall. I have to do the right thing or Dad will kill me.
I knock softly on my sister’s door.
49 … 48 …
Alone is alone
is alone.
I knock again. She doesn’t answer.
I crack the door open and whisper, “Hello?”
47 … 46 … 45 …
The bed is made up, my pajama pants folded neatly on the pillow.
My T-shirt is gone.
The wings are gone.
I run down the hall to the bathroom, though it’s clear right away she’s not in there. The door is wide open, the green toothbrush I gave her last night still resting on the sink.
Why would she leave without telling me?
I sit on the toilet to think, then figure, screw it. If she’s gone, she’s gone. I can’t do anything about it now. It’s her problem, right? Not mine.
Fuck.
I lean back against the toilet tank, and stare up at the ceiling. I can’t shake the image of the way I first found her:
On the bridge, in those wings. Covered in ash.
Then, leaning out like she was going to fly.
No, like she wanted to fall.
I sit up straight again and look helplessly around the bathroom, wondering if she left me some clue.
My eyes scan the sink again: green toothbrush, wet washcloth, the hand towel I left on the edge. To the left of the sink, the magazine basket! It juts out of place, just a little from where it normally is wedged against the base of the cabinet.
I drag it over. On top is a June issue of the New York Insider with a photo of Washington Square Park on the cover. Stone archway, pink trees in massive bloom. A photo inset of those three asshole prep-school boys who they claim raped that exchange student this past summer.
Was that only a few weeks ago? It was such a huge story back then.
I thumb through the rest of the stack. The usual People magazines that Kerri insists on having, a stash of clothing catalogues, and the monthly subs
cription to New York magazine.
I shove the basket back with my foot and stand up. Why can’t I be an uncaring asshole like those prep-school jerks? Seriously, why do I have to care about some amnesiac bird girl who doesn’t even want to be helped?
It’s great news that she’s gone, right? She’s not my problem anymore. And my dad will never have to know.
I’m relieved, in fact. Good riddance.
So why do I feel so lousy?
37 … 36 … 35 …
Almost to the bridge,
so close.
The glistening water
awaits.
I run down the hall and dress, then get Uncle Matt from the bathroom. As quickly as I can, I move him back to his chair and down the hall to the living room.
“I have to go out for a minute, Uncle Matt.”
My mind races. Should I lie and tell him I’m taking her to the precinct? That way, if I can’t find her, he’ll never know? Jesus, Kyle. You’ve already made a mess. Tell him the truth, and find her. Get her, and then figure out what to do.
“The girl is gone!” I say, rushing. “I don’t know where she went, but I have a hunch. I’ll be careful, I swear. I’ve seen other people out there, Uncle Matt. I need to see if I can find her.”
“Ky-uh … don … go … far.”
I kiss the top of his head. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Stop counting.
Breathe.
Here in the shadow of the stairs.
Here, where it seems familiar.
The stone wall,
cool on my back,
soothes.
I pull the snow globe from my pocket and hold it up into a ray of sunlight,
shake it and watch
the
little red apples
fall.
Shake it again,
make them whirl,
over
taxis,
and tall
silver
