We were laughing,
not noticing
until he turned blue
and Mom swore
yanking him from his high chair
throwing him on the couch
ripping the emergency trach from where we leave it
taped to the wall.
I held him down,
she swapped out the trachs,
suctioned and suctioned and suctioned
gave him oxygen puffs from the big tank
until his eyes cleared
his smile woke up
his little hands signed more more more.
And that is the story of Levi’s first birthday.
I think, actually, it is kind of perfect.
We need more help.
The words slip out between my teeth
like mud dripping from fingers.
Slow. Uncontrolled.
drip
plop
splat
Mrs. B looks up.
She’s trying not to look surprised
but her forehead gives her away.
One line between her eyes
for each word out of my mouth.
She puts down her pen.
Her eyes hold my eyes
like two tractor beams.
What kind of help?
Her voice is very quiet
like maybe I’m a squirrel
and she’s trying to feed me an acorn
from the palm of her hand.
Come closer, little squirrel.
Closer.
Closer.
We need a nurse every day, I say.
Every day and every night.
Mrs. B nods. She writes something down.
She looks up.
Good job, little squirrel.
Good job.
Mrs. B puts her other hand on my hand.
I don’t pull it away.
A soft knock.
Can’t be the mailman.
He bangs.
Can’t be the medical supply delivery guy.
He was here last week.
Another soft knock.
Maybe it’s a million-dollar delivery.
I open the door.
Hi, Timothy.
Hands holding a covered dish
stacked with another covered dish
and a small paper bag on the tippy-top—
black hair shines
black glasses slipping down her nose
she peeks around the pile of food
she smiles and looks away.
My face feels warm.
Hi, Isa.
Mami sent dinner.
But I don’t hear her words.
I only see her fingertips
wrapped around the dishes,
her nails painted with stars.
Little yellow stars.
A whole unknown universe
on each small finger.
Maybe I would ask Dad
for advice about girls
but probably not
though you never know
not like I need advice
about girls
I mean
I’m just saying.
Never mind.
At school today
I caught myself,
like actually stopped in my tracks
in the hallway outside of gym,
and put both hands over my mouth.
I was humming the theme song to
Baby Signing Adventure
and I was liking it.
WEEK 21
How big are your feet?
I thought you were speaking in code, James.
That’s why I didn’t answer.
Not at first.
I was deciphering your code.
How big are your feet?
You mean for running from crimes committed?
How big are your feet?
You mean, will I be tall enough
to beat you up one day?
How big are your feet?
For stomping and pitching fits?
But you meant it just like you asked it.
How big are my feet.
Then you plopped down the sneakers.
Not new, but almost new.
Check out these kicks.
And you thought you were so cool
saying kicks instead of sneakers.
James. James. James.
But you got the size exactly right.
Did you used to work at a carnival?
Now that would be cool.
(Thanks for the sneakers.)
(I mean kicks.)
(Well, no, I don’t. I mean sneakers.)
(Ha.)
What do you think about
when you think about your father?
Mrs. B sounds so formal
when she asks questions like that.
What do I think about?
I look at the phone on Mrs. B’s desk.
It’s rectangular and flat,
shiny and smooth,
sometimes it vibrates or beeps
and she ignores it because we’re talking
or, really, she’s talking.
But Dad never ignored his phone
that was also rectangular and flat,
shiny and smooth,
and never far from his hand.
It had games on it
and beeps from doctors and people at work,
and reminders for Levi’s appointments.
This is kind of like the heart of the family,
he said once
holding it up
as it chirped with messages.
Everything circulates through this phone.
Cool, huh?
And I said, Cool.
And I was so stupid
on the rainy day when he went to the pharmacy
to pick up Levi’s meds.
So stupid.
Because I noticed he’d left his phone
right there on the kitchen counter
black and smooth.
He’d left the heart of the family
right there in the open
with nothing but a dying battery.
And I should have known it was a clue.
I should have known
if he could leave the heart of the family
he could leave us, too.
That’s what I think about
when I think about my father.
Can I use the computer now?
She thought she was being sneaky,
that I wouldn’t notice the picture
back on the wall.
The one with me
and Dad
and a football in the air
frozen in a moment of time
so long ago.
But I noticed.
When she got home from work
and saw the picture,
saw the newly drawn devil horns
and evildoer mustache
and vampire teeth
all on Dad’s face . . .
She noticed.
But all she said was
Fair enough.
And then we ate dinner
smiling into our spaghetti.
Who is in charge of that Carnival thing?
The Carnival of Giving?
Why does it have such a dumb name?
Why can’t it be the
Secretly Put Money in This Envelope Celebration
or the
Congrats, You Won the Fake Lottery Party
or the
Shut Up and Take the Money Fiesta?
I’ve been to the Carnival before.
The people who are getting the money give speeches
on a stage,
a stage filled with balloons.
They smile and wave
and take all the money back to their
homeless dogs or
nonexistent skate park or
library with not enough books.
I’ve never seen a family make those speeches.
I’ve never seen just three people get the money.
I mean, we’re not a charity,
so it’s not even possible.
I should throw this flyer away.
They’ve found us more hours.
At first I didn’t know what Mom meant.
They’ve found us more hours?
Who?
Wizards?
Scientists?
A secret group of time-pausing elves?
Do we really need more hours?
Aren’t the days long enough?
Won’t we get older faster?
Won’t we be more tired?
Who actually needs more hours?
More nursing hours, Timothy.
I smiled, said:
Maybe Marisol could just move in.
It was a joke.
But Mom’s face crumpled.
It just caved in on itself.
Marisol can’t work full time.
The nursing agency will send someone new.
Wait.
What?
No more Marisol?
Just like that?
Is this from the conversation I had with Mrs. B?
Could she have called the nursing people?
Changed things up just like that?
What have I done?
I really do need a time machine now,
so I can go back in time and never open
my big mouth.
WEEK 22
and ran so fast
no one could catch me.
It was because of these kicks, James.
These shoes you got me.
They were like hurricane-force winds,
blowing me through the streets.
And I even let some of the money
driiiiift behind me
like those streams of exhaust
crisscrossing the sky
when airplanes zoom off to faraway places.
I wanted to say thank you to the police for
being sooooo sloooooow.
I wanted to say thank you to the people for
cheering as I ran past.
I wanted to say thank you to you, James,
for giving me the world’s fastest shoes.
Good thing you can’t go to juvie for a dream, right?
You know I’m twelve, right?
Seventh grade?
I change trachs in my spare time?
Rob banks in my dreams?
Mom just laughed.
Shook her head.
She rang the doorbell.
I don’t need a babysitter.
Mom’s eyebrows went up.
Tell that to the judge, T-man.
Don’t call me T-man.
José’s mom answered the door,
just like always, her smile showing first.
Hola, mijo.
Her voice smooth,
like a hand on my cheek.
She pulled me into a hug.
I couldn’t pull away, so I gave in.
Melted a little, I guess,
feeling her bigness surround me,
her softness protecting me
like those heavy pillows Mrs. B uses,
keeping me still
keeping me calm.
Thank you, Carmen.
Mom’s voice sounded smiley but tight.
Levi’s clinic appointments can go really long,
three doctors,
physical therapy,
occupational therapy,
speech therapy . . .
José’s mom held up her hand.
I’ll drop him at school and pick him up after.
No te preocupes.
Mom’s hand reached out,
squeezed José’s mom’s hand.
You’re a lifesaver, Carmen.
I can tell by Mom’s voice, though,
she’s going to be preocupes
by a lot of things.
Levi doesn’t understand.
He squirms.
He fusses.
Marisol is holding him to her chest.
Squeezing him.
Smelling his baby hair.
A tear falls down her cheek.
I look away.
This is all my fault.
Something that seemed so good.
Has turned out terrible.
Yet again.
Keep me updated.
Mom nods.
She has on her I Am Brave and Will Not Cry face.
I’ll be back to visit.
Mom nods again.
Timothy.
Marisol puts Levi down.
She turns to me.
Does she hate me?
Does she know this is my fault?
Marisol signs brother.
She sniffs. She smiles.
Keep teaching him, OK?
I sign OK
because now it’s my throat that’s too tight to talk.
Feelings, feelings, feelings.
How is it that
I can have so many feelings
that they all swirl together
until I feel so much all at one time
that it’s almost like I feel
nothing at all?
I’m not making sense.
Sorry.
Can I still use your computer?
Mrs. B?
Please?
Tiny curls all over her head.
Gray. Like dishwater.
Her face
like someone with giant fingers
pinched her mouth, nose, eyes
into a point.
Her scrubs
covered in clowns.
Clowns.
Really.
Yes.
Clowns.
And her voice?
Fake, high-pitched.
She talks to Levi like he’s a dog.
An especially stupid dog.
Mary.
That’s her name.
So close to Marisol, but so different.
I hate her so much
What have I done?
WEEK 23
All I’m saying is
you haven’t met her
have you, James?
No.
So you can say hate is a strong word
and I will hear your words
like Mrs. B says.
I will digest your words
like a chicken leg
bouncing in my stomach.
I will let your words
move through my blood vessels
infiltrate my brain
leave deposits of word vitamins
through my whole self.
But I won’t stop saying hate
because I do hate her.
Also, I do not think Mrs. B agrees with you.
She likes feeling words, James.
They are her sunshine.
So don’t tell me all these things you know.
You don’t know anything.
Dear James,
Mrs. B is making me write this.
You are right and I am wrong.
Mrs. B does, in fact, hate the word hate.
Well, I guess she dislikes the word hate.
Very much.
Feeling words can be strong.
They can have muscles
and meat on their bones.
They can express your spinning guts,
they can shout your insides to the outside
(but different than throwing up
which you can call shouting groceries
if you want
because I read it somewhere
so that’s a thing I am not making up).
But feeling words should also be meaningful.
That’s what Mrs. B says.
Hate is not meaningful.
Hate is not productive.
H
ate shouts groceries all over more complex emotions.
You know, writing this letter is making me want to
shout groceries.
Mary makes me want to
shout groceries.
A lot of times, James, YOU make me want to
shout groceries.
And Mrs. B.
Oh, you are the queen.
The queen of spinning my guts.
So I’m sorry, James,
for saying you don’t know anything.
Because you know everything.
JAMES KNOWS ALL OF THE THINGS.
JAMES IS THE KING OF EVERYTHING.
Mrs. B is reading over my shoulder.
Her cheeks are so red.
Hahaha.
She is really ma—
Levi was wearing cloth trach ties
instead of the chains.
Thick, damp ties
smelling of sour milk,
baby cheese.
What are these?
My voice was loud.
Mary just looked at me
with cow eyes.
Where did the chains go?
More cow eyes.
Then, her high-pitched voice:
The chains are against regulation.
My loud voice just kept coming:
The chains keep him happy.
The chains keep him dry.
The chains prevent infections on his neck.
My face is hot, my breathing hard.
Mom comes in, takes my hand,
pulls me away
and while I stand in the kitchen
hating Mary
(Yes, James. Yes, Mrs. B. Hating her.)
I hear Mom say,
He’s just a boy, yes,
but he loves his brother very much.
Are we back to Levi being a screaming burrito
so many many many times a day?
Erasing Marisol’s smart idea of the chains?
That’s when I thought about punching the wall
right there in the kitchen.
Pow.
But I didn’t.
I just walked out.
I walked out
and went to the only place I can go,
even though technically
I should have told Mom
where I was going,
and even though technically
I should have told José’s mom
that I was coming.
But here I am.
I won’t stay long.
I just need to catch my breath.
Only ten minutes
ticktock ticktock
until Sofia needed to start writing her paper,
until I needed to go back home.
Isa leaned over my shoulder,
her hair as the curtain next to my face
instead of Mrs. B’s curtain.