by Ria Voros
I can’t even give him
a piece of hope —
I can’t give myself that.
Surfacing
After a while the silence is too strong.
“I’m going up,” I say, touching his cold hand. “I want to know what’s happening. They might have an update from the surgery.”
Dean looks at me slowly. He is past words.
If I push him over, he’ll shatter.
But I can’t stay down here, not breathing.
I backtrack up the stairwell, my hands numb, my mind blinking like a traffic light in a power outage.
How Many Hours
have gone by since I got back?
One? Five? A hundred?
I sit in the ICU waiting room
with a family from Bolivia
waiting to find out about their grandfather.
James’s mother is phoning relatives from the hall —
I focus on the wallpaper so as not to hear
her repeated sobs.
I pull out
my cellphone and dial home,
hang up, then repeat this three times.
Dawn
Not the real one —
a metaphorical one.
The one where I realize,
as I’m about to press call,
that maybe they won’t understand.
Maybe they will yell and scream
and not be sad for me,
for James, for this night
of terrible things.
I’m sorry for sneaking out,
I’m sorry for stepping in the mashed potatoes
and smearing them into the carpet,
I’m sorry for leaving James
when he obviously needed me,
I’m sorry for not calling them
when they most want me to.
And
I think
of paging Constance
to tell her my skin
can’t get warm —
could that be
a health concern
or just a symptom
of the night’s events —
when Dr. Ziola walks in.
Her forehead
is wrinkled with concern.
She asks for James’s mother.
She is found.
The last thing I wonder
before the doctor gives us the news
is if she has concern lines
like the rest of us have
laugh-lines.
James’s Mother
doubles over, punched in the gut.
Her face is pulled tight.
I am frozen to the spot
and she reaches out,
clenches me. Her shirt,
her skin, smell like
cinnamon.
My face is buried in it.
Finally she looks up,
touches my wet face,
says words
only she can hear.
There Are No Words
Haiku: Spring Morning
Lukewarm sun hovers
on frosted tulips in the
hospital courtyard
Haiku: Spring Morning
Someone leaves a worn
blue teddy bear on James’s
silent, still machines.
Haiku: Spring Morning
Sky bright white outside —
muddy black inside my chest.
Clouds cover over.
He Is Gone
He is gone he
is gone he
is gone
he is
gone he
is gone he
is gone he is
gone
he is gone he is gone
he is
gone
he is gone
he is
is
is
gone
Gone Is a Strange Word
if you look at it,
say it,
write it
long enough,
it starts
to change shape,
and sound,
and idea.
To detach
from its meaning.
What is
gone?
gone is being not
The Next Few Hours
are shifting grey, a sandstorm,
a handful of dust in the eyes.
Dean drives me to his place in silence.
I don’t have the strength
or guts
to check my phone for new messages.
I know they’ll think
I’m dead or kidnapped.
I’m too exhausted,
too consumed by the grey
to care.
We fall into Dean’s bed,
cold, smooth, boy-blue sheets,
still in our coats,
and crash.
I Wake
to shifting light through curtains. The clock says 3:17 P.M. We’ve slept for hours — through the whole day. Dean is motionless, slow-breathing beside me. He looks so peaceful, so young. His cheek is pink and pillow-creased. I want to touch the lines, but don’t want to wake him.
I’ve pushed all thoughts from my mind, and this in-between place is nice. It’s calm, it doesn’t hurt. I know when he wakes up, the spell, the grey sand we’re floating in, will dissolve. We’ll have to talk about what happened. Reality will flood everything. I push these thoughts from my brain for one last moment. Get up to find some breakfast.
He Finds Me
in the kitchen, munching dry cereal
out of the box.
“You want a shower?” he asks,
rubbing his eyes.
I consider this, my first shower
at a guy’s house. A boyfriend’s house.
He doesn’t ask to join me,
but he does give me
a big, long kiss in the doorway
that makes me desperate
and sad and want to be close
to him forever. I fight
to stay in the grey place
a little longer.
“I’m out of milk,” he says,
surveying the kitchen.
I squeeze his hand.
He smiles, slowly, as if it’s
not just like breathing, to smile.
The Elephant in the Room
Dean won’t talk about it. I sit with him on the couch, try to reach him with my hands and my voice and finally tears. He won’t talk about it.
As I cry, last night comes clear, the grey cloud evaporating around me, making everything too bright and loud and sharp. The beep of machines, shouts of nurses as they wheeled James down the hall, James’s mother, her eyes, her sobs like tearing fabric in my ear.
We have to call her. It feels like I’m underwater, weighed down by a thousand stones, but I still try to move.
Everything takes so much effort.
But Dean gets up to have a shower.
He hasn’t left the grey place.
Part of Me
wants to go back there too,
to be with him
and forget all the terrible sounds
and flashing pictures.
But I can’t.
I’m here,
we’re still here, and James
isn’t.
Attempt
I spend the next two hours tip-toeing around Dean. He’s trying to pretend nothing happened. I’m not allowed to mention it, and if I look like I’m going to cry, he leaves the room. I cry alone.
I creep into his bedroom to find him reading a sci-fi magazine, a slight frown-line across his forehead.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Uhn,” he answers. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, tell him we should call James’s mother, make sure she’s okay.
His face turns to stone.
“Come on, Dean —”
“No. Just stop.”
I start to explain what I know is true,
what he knows: James is gone, gone, gone. We’re sad, sad, sad. My jaw aches from trying not to cry and for a second I think he’s shifting to hug me —
But Instead
he grabs me by the shoulders, his arms shaking, growls, “Shut up, okay?” He throws me back on the bed. “Just leave me alone.”
I scramble up, adrenaline pulsing in my muscles. I want to run, get out and keep going.
He looks guilty, rubs his face like a little boy.
He holds out his hand, pleading.
I so want to reach for him, but I can’t, I can’t.
I reach for my phone.
Breakfast
Mum comes into my room
with a tray: orange juice,
toast and jam. A piece
of chocolate. She lays it
on the floor because she thinks
I’m sleeping.
Chocolate is not usually
a breakfast food, even
around here. But it’s a new era.
None of us knows the rules yet.
Caution
That feeling
of carefully manoeuvring
around someone so you don’t upset them —
watch what you say,
what you do,
what you don’t say or do.
That’s us. We all have light shields around us
to deflect incoming missiles.
Layla’s afraid to look at me.
My mother talks to her hands, the wall,
my ear, like I’m someone
she’s just met, doesn’t know how to gage.
My dad thinks I’ll run away again,
but he also wants to punish me —
I can see the battle on his face.
I wander aimlessly
trying to get away from the ache
between my shoulder blades.
We have a stalemate. Except it feels
like everyone loses.
Another Strange Word
Funeral.
Sunday.
James’s mother calls, gives details,
tries not to break down
on the phone. I nod to her questions
as if she can see me.
Remember my voice to say goodbye.
Sunday.
Sometime Later
I wake up from a daydream
(daynightmare?)
at the kitchen table,
my Cheerios a soggy beige mush,
and realize I really don’t know
how Dean is.
I haven’t talked to Dean
— in two days?
Why haven’t I thought of him?
Guilt rises in my throat
and I toss the Cheerio mush
down the sink. Grab
the phone.
No Answer
Hey, it’s Gretchen. Sorry I’ve been out of it for a while. I guess you have too. Just call me when you get this, okay? I miss you.
My Parents Try
to get me cornered
and talk about my situation.
My mother stares at my chin
and murmurs words
of forgiveness followed by an if-clause
Dad gets frustrated,
not knowing who I am
and leaves the meeting
early.
I don’t know who I am,
I want to say
but all they do is push words
at me
words that tell me who I should be:
You’re always so responsible,
mature, honest, blah
blah
blah
I don’t have the energy
to speak, argue, breathe
“We’ll drive you to the funeral,”
Mum says as she gets up.
This I didn’t expect.
“Come with me,” I say.
Haiku: Funeral
White fingertips clutch
glossy oak casket, while birds
sing life into spring
Haiku: Funeral
James’s mother lost
in a wide sea of green grass.
Her black heels sink in.
Haiku: Funeral
Dean’s not here. Dean is
nowhere. Dean has forgotten
himself, somewhere else.
Gathering
We get there early,
my parents and I.
I’ll give it to them — they are sad
about James. They don’t know him
but they wear black.
James’s mother
hugs me, greets others,
shakes hands. Ms Long
appears, gives me a shoulder squeeze
and then heads for James’s family.
It’s a gathering for a dead boy, with carnations,
baby’s breath, soft music.
But everything is colourless,
like I’m wearing
black-and-white glasses.
The ache between my shoulders
makes me reach for two Advil.
I swallow them dry,
but the ghost of them sticks
to the back of my throat.
Mourning
Funerals work on different time —
an hour taking a day, an afternoon
lasting a year, all the seasons
going by as you watch
in slow motion.
We wait for the far-flung family
to arrive — cousins and grandparents,
shaking hands, mopping faces,
each saying thank you (for coming),
thank you (for waiting), thank you (for being here),
thank you (for being his friend)
and I want to yell
I’m not his friend — I let him down.
He was my friend
and I let him drive away.
Unexpected
Just as the minister is about to start,
his book open in front of him,
a head bobs into view behind a break
in the crowd.
For a second I think it’s Dean and relief floods through me.
But then another head, and another —
mourners turn and move aside —
and I recognize
a girl from my English class
and another guy who’s a Legwarmer.
They stare at anything but the box
that holds James’s body
and I can’t take my eyes off them.
Then another clump of students dressed in black,
so their cliques are temporarily erased,
come into view from behind the hedge —
some girls already crying,
clutching their boyfriends
so they don’t trip in their high heels.
Pretty soon
a group almost as big as the rest of us mourners
is crowded awkwardly
at one end of the congregation.
Guys stand uncomfortably in wrinkled suits
too big for their shoulders,
whisper to each other
as their girlfriends sob into wads of tissues
beside them.
I Feel Sick
but I’m standing in the front of the crowd,
next to the coffin and across from James’s mother.
I can’t make a scene.
The murmuring stops, the family sends grateful-sad smiles
across the space to the newcomers. Oh good, James’s friends
have come after all.
No, I want to scream. Those tears aren’t real.
Those guys never gave him a second glance —
those girls wouldn’t be caught dead
speaking to him in the hall.
How dare they act sad — or even be sad —
they’re hypocrites, pretenders.
They don’t belong here.
Haiku: Car Ride Home
My fingernails dig
into soft leather as sun
dries my dripping face.
Phone Call from a Previous Life
Ashlyn’s voice disconnects me
from my new normal.
But it’s nice to hear her voice.
She asks suitably compassionate questions.
“I’m okay,” I say automatically. Okay as in empty.
I rearrange the pillows on my bed
and sink into them.
When the socially appropriate amount of time
has elapsed, she starts blabbing about the Spring Fair,
short days away, and how hard everything
will be to pull off. Screw you, I think.
You don’t know hard. Who the hell cares
about a stupid cake stall anyway?
But I listen to her soap opera stories
about batter and fondant. It takes me
out of my black thoughts.
“So, if you think about coming back to school,
it would be great to have your help.”
I pick at a toothpaste blob on my shirt.
“If you feel up to it,” she adds.
I roll onto my back and wish I could melt
inside the mattress.
“Or not — whatever you want.”
I sigh.
Ashlyn pauses. “Look, I’m here, Gretchen. Call me
if you want to talk.”
I wait until I know my voice won’t waver,
say, “Thanks, Ashlyn,”
but I’ve already hung up the phone.
The Next Two Days
sleeping, staring, waiting, thinking, not thinking, not eating, crying, closing the curtains after Mum opened them, trying not to listen to Mum and Dad discuss me, my mental state, my academic state, my nutritional state. Layla’s whines about going shopping and Mum’s whispered response, Stop it — can’t you see it’s not about you right now? Wondering about Dean, worrying about Dean, battling myself not to call him ten times a day.
