set off
piss off
anyone who dares say
What about this way?
instead of your way?
How do you pack so much
into a carry-on bag
and a slim briefcase?
This month’s sales targets
right on track.
“It seems such a waste not to be going to university.”
Does it hurt to fill
your data slots
with bottom-line-driven
customer relationship management
tools?
Forget about the mess back home.
Ignore the empty bedrooms
keep forwarding your husband’s mail
ex-husband’s mail
call your daughter
remind her of her duty to succeed
coach her in the ways of the world
No degree? No future.
“You can’t defer your acceptance forever.”
Forever is a very long time, Mom.
Move on without the life
you left behind
the day you hauled your
ass
back to the office and said
I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.
Is she going to deliver the whole “such a waste” lecture? Not going to school is a waste. Me working at a bookstore is a waste. Me not living at home and spending my money on rent is a waste. How dare I waste my life when I, at least, still have one?
“Are you still there, Hannah?”
The shock of hearing her name stops me in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I mean—oh, Tara—I’m sorry. Are you still there?”
“Yes, Mom—I’m here.”
“I guess I was thinking about her. I was moving those boxes in the basement into storage. One of them wasn’t closed properly…”
An empty whiskey bottle stands on top of the newspaper box at the corner. It’s too late and too dark to be here by myself, but my feet won’t move. Now that Mom’s talking about Hannah I want her to stop.
“It was a heavy box—”
“Mom, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I had to repack the stuff into two smaller boxes. One of the things I found was her riding journal. I thought you might want it—as a—as a…”
Souvenir? Could that possibly be the word she’s groping for?
“Something to remind you of Hannah. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. I sent it to you.”
“You what! What’s in it?”
“I—I don’t know. I opened one page and when I saw—when I tried to read— there were photos—I couldn’t—”
At the other end of the line she sucks in a breath. Then she sighs and continues.
“What’s done is done. The package is in the mail. It should arrive in a week or so. I thought I’d better warn you so you didn’t get excited and think it was chocolates or something.”
Chocolates? I’ve been living in Ontario for six months and Mom has never sent me chocolates.
“Mom—I should go. I’ve got to get home.”
“You’re still out? Are you alone?”
“I’m fine. But I should go. You’re okay?”
“Yes, yes of course. Very busy. I’ll call you when I get back from Denver.”
We swap goodbyes and the line goes dead.
Chapter Five
In bed the next morning I lie very still. My head pounds. A brown tabby cat jumps into the flower box outside my window. She looks a lot like Mishka, a cat we once had at home.
The line between here
and nowhere
is a fine one.
Remember Mishka?
One minute a cat crossing a lawn
following something—
How did I get from a cat at the window to a memory? And how did I get from there to a poem? The poem links one death to another. It fills the page in my notebook.
Dead in the middle of the road
thin trickle of blood
oozing out of his delicate nose.
Press his still-warm body
to my nine-year-old chest
Wait for the rise and fall of the living
wait for the stillness to burst back
into flame
wait for the rake of claws across my
arms
let me go let me go let me go.
Nothing moves.
Breathe, I whisper.
Breathe.
On the line
between here and nowhere
I wait for Hannah.
On my side of the line
my sister’s seventeenth birthday
calendar page.
On her side of the line
the first anniversary
of her death.
I never saw my sister’s body.
Never had a chance
to squeeze the breath
back into her.
Never had a chance
to feel the warmth easing away
to whatever place warmth goes
when no longer needed.
That place on her side of the line.
There are so many mysteries about Hannah’s death. The one I cannot wrap my head around is how she pushed her body across the line. Wasn’t there a struggle?
For the next three days I carry around the poem about the cat and the line between life and death. I cross things out, move stuff, and squeeze in new lines and extra words. Then I start to memorize and plan how to deliver it at the next slam.
The crowd at the Xpress Yourself Espresso Bar is silent until the last words are done.
The applause folds around me. I’m still wondering about Hannah’s final moments, how she found the strength to take that last step.
Clarissa, tonight’s emcee, gives me a quick hug. “Good!” she whispers. Then she gently guides me off the stage.
“You’re doing great,” Maddy says. “How are you holding up?”
Maddy and Ebony stand on either side of me in the hallway leading to the bathroom.
“Okay,” I say, though that’s a lie. I am so tired I can hardly stand. Four of us are through into the last round of the evening. The points we earn tonight will keep us all in the running for the team.
I met Maddy and Ebony right after I moved here. We’re in a writing group along with three other girls. The other girls don’t always show up. But me, Maddy, and Ebony—we’d have to be in comas before we missed a meeting.
Ebony and I have done a few poems together, like the ringing phone we performed last week. But we’re also competing against each other. Maddy doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body—at least, not for herself. She’s pretty loud when it comes to cheering for us.
It would be so great if both Ebony and I made the team. More likely, one of us won’t survive these early rounds. It would almost be better if neither of us got to go.
I’m sure that, after the team’s announced, we’ll be happy for whoever gets on. For now, it’s strange being supported by someone who needs to beat me. It’s just as hard to smile and congratulate her after a strong round.
“Which poem are you going to do?” Maddy asks.
“The last supper poem.” They’ve both heard all my poems in our writing group. If they disagree with my choice, they don’t say.
Somehow, when I am back onstage the exhaustion fades away. From some place deep inside I find the words. They are all lined up, ready to march out into the world.
When you are hungry, eat.
Garlic smashed potatoes
peas and mint sauce
roast chicken—rosemary, thyme.
Enjoy every buttered roll
every sprinkle of salt
because you never know when one
supper
becomes the last supper.
The last time we believe
she might actually appear
in time for dessert.
These are the things I wonder aloud:
Should we wait to begin
or start without her?
Did she leave a message?
Wasn’t she meeting a friend?
Was she looking for a ride home?
—you know how she feels
about buses.
These are the things I wonder in
silence:
Where is she?
When will she be back?
Do I lie about hearing the phone
ring?
Is there a reason for this stab of
dread?
or is the stab of dread
something I added later
the something I should have felt.
My father out of his chair, grumbling
Telemarketers—they wait until
people are eating.
Hello? Yes—she is my daughter.
Where is she? What happened?
The serving spoon heavy in my
hand
hangs over the bowl of mashed
potatoes.
My mother’s face, pale
what? what is it?
my father slaps at his pockets
fumbles for his keys
accident
what kind of accident?
all of us running
the serving spoon still in my hand
as I reach the door
no time to go back
no time to ask questions
no time no time
I drop the spoon
sticky with the last meal
Hannah never shared with us
drop the spoon on the boot tray
scramble out the door
and into the late evening sun
fall into the rolling car
pull the door shut.
After, Maddy and Ebony wrap their arms around me. We wait to hear the results of the judging.
Chapter Six
“We have a six point seven—” Boos from the audience interrupt Clarissa when she tries to read the scores. “Applaud the poet, not the scores, people!” She wags her finger at the crowd. “A seven point five—”
“Higher!” several people yell.
“Eight point six, eight point seven, and another eight point seven.”
The room explodes with cheers and hoots. Maddy’s hug tightens. “You’re going to make it,” she says, grinning.
“Thanks,” I say.
Ebony punches me lightly in the shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up. The next poet steps up to the microphone.
“Tiff is going to be hard to beat,” Maddy says.
No argument there. Tiffany Hwan writes amazing poems about what it’s like to be the child of immigrants.
Tiffany stands up there with a wicked twinkle in her eye. People start smiling before she even opens her mouth. She gets the room laughing within moments of starting. By the end of each poem she touches something in me even though I’m not Korean and my parents didn’t come from anywhere exotic.
I’d love to be able to make people laugh, but Hannah won’t let me.
Later, I check the website for the team results. Tonight I’m in third place, enough to keep me in the running.
My head aches and I dig in my purse for Tylenol. I have an early shift at the bookstore tomorrow. Rent is due next week. I can’t be sick.
Are you all together?
This crisp question from a crisp nurse
at a spotless desk.
Patient privacy? Who needs privacy
when the patient is dead?
I practice in front of my bathroom mirror. A mop handle is my mic. Even though I work every day this week, I’m squeezing rehearsal time into every spare minute. I can’t afford to stumble over a line at the next slam.
In the mirror I’m awkward and clumsy. I move my hands in time with the opening line of the hospital poem.
A sweep of one arm shows my family gathered at the emergency room.
Hannah’s family?
We nod, a family of bobbleheads.
What about Hannah?
Daughter. Sister. Child.
Where is she? What happened?
We are herded
into the quiet room
lambs to the slaughter.
Where is she?
What happened?
Nurses. Doctor. Priest.
They fill in gaps as best they can
each piece of information
She was hit in a crosswalk
balanced by more questions
Was she alone?
Was the driver drunk?
How badly hurt?
the answers an avalanche of agonies
Alone, she was alone
bus driver, devastated
your daughter
so far beyond hurt
no treatment possible
we did everything we could
a bus is no match
for a determined child.
They throw questions back
Was she depressed?
Did she talk about hurting herself?
My mother shouting
Charge the driver!
Their reply, a question
Was there a note?
My mother asking
Did Hannah have her crutches?
as if crutches
could beat back a bus.
Someone mentions the bottle of
Smirnoff
how the thin skin of the paper bag
must have saved it.
This seems as incredible
as the idea that Hannah’s skin
could not hold her together.
When can we see her?
My father’s hand touching my
mother’s shoulder.
My mother’s shoulder sagging
beneath its weight.
The pastor offers solace
A doctor offers Ativan
Dad signs here
initials there
my father’s legs
carry him from the room
to identify her body.
Identify. Her. Body.
Though it’s much too late
my mother pleads
Please let her be okay.
Please, God, let her be okay.
Fistfuls of tissue wedged against
a river of tears so wide and so deep
we still have not reached the other
side.
I step back from the mirror and sigh. It’s hard to make it clear who is speaking. One more time.
Are you all together?
As my arm swings wide, the phone rings. Crap. Who could that be?
Chapter Seven
“Jesus, Tara. You gave me a fright.”
Dad’s words on the phone startle me. It’s like he, too, is back in the hospital that day.
You gave me a fright. Those were his words when I came to after I fainted in the emergency room. The shock of hearing what happened to Hannah, I guess. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. They kept me in overnight.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for—days.”
My father’s voice is worried but calm, just like the day Hannah died.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?”
When I talk to my father I have to pay attention. It’s not like with Mom, who yacks on and on whether or not I’m listening. With Dad, if I don’t keep things moving forward, the conversation stops.
“Dad?”
“I’m still here.” There’s another pause. Does he mean he’s still there like a dad, available to offer words of advice and comfort? Hardly. Does he mean he’s still there and hasn’t blown his head off? He isn’t where he is supposed to be, which is at home with his wife. Or rather, with my mother, the woman who used to be his wife.
“Playing lots of golf?” If he catches my snotty tone, he pretends not to.
“A bit.”
A bit. What does that mean? That he’s playing every day but doesn’t wan
t me to know? That he hasn’t played since last summer, but he’s still stuck back on the day his younger daughter died?
There’s so much time between our comments that I could write a poem about what he might or might not be thinking. We talk so rarely there’s probably a book’s worth of stuff going on between phone calls.
“How’s David?”
How should I answer? David and I hardly ever talk. “He’s fine, I think.”
“Maybe you should call him,” Dad says.
Seriously? Dad’s telling me to get off the phone and call my ex-boyfriend?
“Maybe.”
“Okay. Good. Well, I guess that’s it, then.”
There’s no goodbye, no I love you, no I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I should never have left your mother. I should have been there for your sister. I should be there for you now. Nothing. Just a click, a silence, and a dial tone.
I pull my notebook from my book bag and start to scribble.
My Father Is Not My Father
My father is not my father
in the way he left us
fell into the arms of
a student teacher.
How could he be so predictable
so bald—so middle-aged?
Does it matter
that his heart opening
in hotel rooms
slammed the door on my mother
my sister
on me?
My father is my father
in the way we disappear
backs turned, ears sealed.
Our desires
smother sense.
My father is my father
scotch over ice
as I am the sweet burn
of port wine.
We hold our lovers tight
in the moment before dawn
when those who miss us
ask where we’ve gone.
My father is not my father
but a man who once lived
in my house—a house where
I once lived
with a dream-torn family
broken and broken again.
Whole members are missing
gone before anyone thought to say—
Hey. Don’t go. Stay.
Chapter Eight
On Wednesday night Maddy and Ebony slide into a booth at Antonio’s Coffee Bar and Chocolate Shoppe. Ebony and I want to check out the space before the slam on Saturday.
I slide a piece of paper across the table. “I can’t get the first part right,” I confess.
“Read it,” Ebony says.
“Now?”
They nod, so I read, trying not to be too loud.