is exceptional—and move on to
the perfectly seasoned steaks.
I keep stealing glances at Jonah,
who cuts his meat delicately.
Gracefully. Some might find it
borderline feminine, but he is all
man. Enigmatic, because despite
a definite hippie gene influence,
he maintains the self-assurance
of a soldier. Nurture, nature, or
both. He is utterly fascinating.
Teacher. Wine connoisseur.
Rider of the Banzai Pipeline.
“So, where did you learn to surf?”
He takes the time to swallow.
In Hawaii. My dad was stationed
at Fort Shafter when I was in high
school. It was the first place I really
felt at home. Like I belonged there.
I went to a public high school, and
pretty much everyone surfed. Not
only did I pick it up right away, but
when I discovered riding, I found
myself. Right there in the ocean.
Riding big water? That liberated
me. It’s something my brothers
would never do. And it takes almost
as much courage as facing bullets.
LIBERATED
I like the sound of that. I think
I need to ride bigger water.
We finish dinner. Turn down
dessert in favor of getting to
the theater a little earlier.
The poetry slam is similar to
the spoken word competition,
except the poets perform their
own original work. Some of it
is funny. Some of it is sexy.
Some of it reflects the time—
unemployment, foreclosure.
War. Depression. Loss. A couple
of times as people take the stage
Jonah lets me know they were
in his classes at some point.
See that guy there? he whispers.
He actually gets paid to teach
performance poetry at schools.
Pretty cool gig, don’t you think?
I do, actually. Making a living
doing something creative, not
to mention something you love,
has immense appeal. It’s a great
evening, topping off a fabulous day.
On the way home, I find myself
happy. Why does that strike
me as strange? How long has it
been since I’ve felt content?
What’s even more interesting
is this feeling has nothing to do
with alcohol—two glasses of wine
at dinner, and that was hours ago—
or pills. It’s all about the activity,
and the company, and the idea
that life brims with possibility.
When we get to the apartment,
Jonah walks me to the door.
“Thanks so much for today.”
Suddenly, I’m afraid to go inside,
back to the isolation I’ve created
for myself. I put my key in the lock,
wishing I could invite him in for
a nightcap. But that could go all
kinds of wrong. Jonah smiles.
Reading my mind again? Thanks
for helping out today, and for your
company tonight. I really enjoyed
the day. See you in class Monday.
Before he can turn away, I give
him a quick hug, more thank you
than invitation. He looks surprised,
but pleasantly so. “Night.” I go inside,
surprised by myself. In many ways.
INSIDE, ALONE
I find myself wishing I had
taken Jonah’s hand, coaxed
him in for that nightcap.
Sometimes it’s just so tiresome
playing the martyr role.
Before I really understood
what sex could be, it was
easy enough to convince myself
I didn’t need it. I mean, if you
don’t enjoy it, shun it! Cole taught
me how to love it. And I do,
with him. But every now and then
I wonder if it’s only because
I’m with Cole, or if the lessons
he’s taught me could make me
love it as much, or more, with someone
else. Is an orgasm the same with
every partner? Sitting here, buzzed,
My hand slips down between my legs
where fantasy has made me wet.
When I finish, I write it as a pantoum.
GHOSTS
by Ashley Patterson
Even a small bed is too big, alone.
She lies half-awake, draws stuttered breath,
listens to memory’s bittersweet drone,
wonders if silence comes cloaked in death.
Not quite awake, she draws stuttered breath,
promises shattering on her pillow.
She wonders if silence comes cloaked in death,
as her storm clouds begin to billow.
Promises shattering on her pillow,
she conjures the image she cannot dismiss,
seeding her storm clouds. They billow
with the black remembrance of his kiss.
She conjures the image she cannot dismiss,
summons the heat of his skin on her skin,
the black remembrance of his kiss,
desire, abandoned somewhere within.
She summons the heat of his skin on her skin,
opens herself to herself, in disguise,
recovers desire, abandoned within.
Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes
And opens herself to herself, in disguise,
listens to memory’s bittersweet drone.
Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes,
knowing her small bed is too big, alone.
Rewind
SLEEP STUDIES
Suggest the belief that someone
is in your room, in your bed, where
you can hear them breathing and
feel their hands at your throat,
even though, in reality, no one
is actually there, can be explained
by coming up out of REM sleep
too quickly. This produces a state
of sleep paralysis. Part of your brain
is aware, the other part is still dreaming.
You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t
chase away the imaginary monster.
There was a time when sleep paralysis
could only be explained through
the paranormal. Some people still
believe it is the presence of evil
and if you only pray hard enough,
God will chase it away, allow you
to wake completely and go about
your day. I’d rather accept science.
The morning I woke up, positive
Cole’s ghost was in my bed, needing
to say good-bye, was the scariest
experience of my life. I deal with fear
by research, and what I learned was
sleep paralysis can be linked to periods
of high anxiety. Anxious? Me? Well, yeah.
COLE WAS IN AFGHANISTAN
Where they were ramping up security
ahead of the coming elections.
A Taliban spokesperson warned,
Everything and everyone affiliated
with the election is our target—
candidates, security forces,
campaigners, election workers,
and voters. All are our targets.
Cole’s unit was one of several
c
harged with keeping those targets
safe, and it would not be easy.
Pre-election, three candidates
and at least eleven campaign
workers were killed, and his unit
lost a soldier. During the voting,
across the country, dozens of bomb
and rocket attacks led to even more
deaths at the polls. But the district
Cole was protecting suffered no
casualties. The official word on
that credited good communication
between the locals and the Marines
who oversaw their safety. According
to Cole, it had more to do with
the accuracy of the sniper squad’s
scopes. I pretty much believed him.
HE TOOK PRIDE IN THAT
But he was not exactly
enthusiastic about it being
his mission. He e-mailed:
WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?
THESE ELECTIONS ARE A FARCE.
THAT FUCKING KARZAI STOLE
THE PRESIDENCY LAST YEAR.
THIS ELECTION IS STINKO, TOO.
ALL WE’RE HERE FOR IS SECURING
THE PLACE FOR MORE FUCKING
FRAUD. PEOPLE ARE AFRAID TO
VOTE. YOU CAN BET THE ONES
WHO DO WILL STUFF THE BOXES.
He was right, of course.
Widespread fraud tainted
the election. A fifth of the ballots
were tossed. Winners eventually
lost, and losers took their seats
in the Afghanistan parliament.
None of that mattered to me.
All I cared about was knowing
Cole was not among the reported
casualties. They continued to swell.
At that point, he was over half-
way through his deployment.
I was counting down the weeks.
Checking them off the calendar.
Obsessing about dates.
CHRISTMAS 2010
Was still up in the air.
Some from his battalion
would be home. Others
would have to wait for
January to take leave.
I started thinking about
holidays and birthdays
and other celebrations,
how the Marine Corps
defined those for us,
and for every military
family. Would their
soldier make it home in
time? And if not this year,
then next? No promises.
As bad as that was for
me, what would that mean
to a child, waiting for Daddy,
only to be told, sorry, he
won’t help you blow out
your birthday candles this
year? You turn four only
once. And what if you turned
five without him there, too?
And what if an insurgent’s
bullet meant you’d never
share another birthday
with your father? And why
did I decide to worry about it?
I HAD ENOUGH
To worry about. Besides Cole, flushing
insurgents, and largely incommunicado,
I was starting grad school, unsure
about the program and the direction
it was pulling me in. My summer hermit
phase had made me uncomfortable
in new situations or around large crowds
of people—like on a university campus.
I was definitely anxious about pretty
much every facet of my life. And sleep
paralysis was only one manifestation.
I also started having mild panic attacks.
Sleep paralysis, only totally awake
and even on my feet. I’d be walking
along, all good, and suddenly it was like
the world began to shrink, everything
closing in around me. Too many people.
Too many voices. Closer. Smaller. Tighter.
Suffocating. I’d freeze in place, unable
to move. My heart would race, crowding
my lungs. All I could manage was shallow,
breaths, ragged and pitiful. A hollow
ringing in my ears disallowed balance.
I had to sit or fall. I learned to drop
my head between my knees and close
my eyes until the world began to grow
wider again. After the fourth “event,”
I went to my doctor and asked for
chemical help. He prescribed Xanax,
told me to avoid alcohol while taking it.
I thought that was probably a good
idea anyway. I’d been drinking more
than I knew was wise. I needed
an excuse to stop. And I did. Mostly.
I wasn’t an alcoholic. I didn’t drink every
day, didn’t often drink to excess or binge.
And could leave it alone completely
for large swaths of time. But I did drink
to be social. To have fun with friends.
Sometimes, to sleep. Sometimes, to forget.
WITH THE XANAX
School was okay, though I was glad
I had only two classes that semester.
There was a lot of reading. A lot of writing.
A lot of research. I learned more
than I ever wanted to about human
behavior. Unfortunately, it made me
very aware of some very bad things.
Especially at my job. I still loved
taking care of the little ones, teaching
them things that would jump-start
their regular school experience.
Colors. Letters. Numbers. Telling time.
But every now and again, I couldn’t
help but notice signs. Things that
made me uncomfortable. With Soleil,
especially. Over the summer, I’d broken
through the barrier she’d erected
between herself and the rest of the world.
I could even make her laugh once
in a while, chase the thunderheads
from her eyes. And when she finally
conquered a difficult concept,
her face lit and she transformed
into the prettiest child, ever.
But some days she retreated
to a place inside where I couldn’t
reach her. A place she created
where no one could touch her.
I started watching the interaction
with her mother, a stiff young woman
who rarely smiled and seemed to
communicate by snapping and
barking. If Soleil didn’t move
quickly enough, sometimes her
mother would grab her and jerk.
One day, I finally had enough.
I stepped in front of her. “Excuse me,
but do you think that’s an appropriate
way to deal with a child?” When I
looked into the woman’s eyes,
there was something scary there,
and it went beyond how dilated
her pupils were. How I handle
my daughter is really none
of your business, now, is it?
She stepped around me, yanking
Soleil out the door. The little
girl had to run to not get dragged.
A WEEK LATER
Soleil arrived at school dressed
in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
Not so unusual, except it happened
to be unseasonably warm. All
the other kids were in shorts.
I already had my suspicions, so
I decided to set up the easels for
some painting. The kids all slipped
into smocks. When I helped Soleil
into hers, I told her we had to roll
up her sleeves. I’ve never seen
anyone look quite so scared.
I can’t. Mommy will get mad at me.
“But if you get paint on your shirt,
she’ll really get mad,” I coaxed.
“We’ll just turn them up a little.”
She let me, and the finger-shaped
bruises on her arms were apparent
immediately. I prodded one gently.
“Does that hurt?” In answer,
an obvious wince. “Are there more?”
She trusted me enough to give
a small nod. “Can I see, please?”
Fear clung to her like sweat. I soothed
it as best I could. “Soleil, honey,
I don’t want anyone to hurt you.
Ever. I can stop it if you let me see.”
Her eyes, which had been focused
on the floor, turned slowly up
to meet mine. She must have
found what she needed there
because she took my hand, led me
to the bathroom, closed the door.
She turned away from me, lifted
her shirt. The bruising began
in the small of her back, disappeared
beneath the waistband of her jeans.
It was dark. Fresh. “Who did this?”
Her voice was mouse-quiet.
Mommy. She’s very sorry.
Of course she was. “Okay, honey.
You want to go paint now?”
Anger seethed. Red. Frothy. How
could anyone do something like
this to a child? We returned to
the playroom and I gave Soleil
a paintbrush. Then I went to call
Child Protective Services. It was no
more than my duty, but it felt
really good to report what I saw.
Later, however, it hit me that
Soleil’s mother would probably
blame her for the trouble coming
their way. I went home. Popped
a Xanax. Washed it down with tequila.
I NEVER SAW HER AGAIN
Once Child Protective Services
stepped in, it was completely
out of my hands. I knew I’d done
the right thing, but I was concerned
about her safety. Especially as I learned
more about what happened after
someone—like me—reported abuse.
Often the child remained in her home,
if the parents seemed cooperative
and mostly sane. I had a hunch
Soleil’s mom was using some
sort of controlled substance. Crystal