Far From You (3 page)

I got my guitar.

We played.

We kissed.

We danced.

We kissed.

We talked.

We kissed.

We sang.

We kissed.

I almost forgot

everything else.

Almost.

Finally

I told him.

“I think I’m a sister today.”

“You think?”

“Dad called.

I didn’t answer.”

He looked at me

with his

chocolate brown eyes

and it’s like

his love

radiated through me

so strongly,

I started

to sweat.

“Want me to listen for you?” he asked.

That is why I have

more love

than my heart

can possibly hold

for Blaze.

He is

better than warm fall colors,

better than beautiful music,

better than doughnuts and coffee.

At that moment,

I couldn’t think of one single thing

better

than Blaze.

We went to his room.

He listened to the message.

When he was done,

he kissed me softly,

with such tenderness,

it almost brought me

to tears.

Then he wrapped

his strong arms

around me

and whispered in my ear,

“Her name is Ivy.

And she has the best big sister ever.”

Blaze and his mom

were going out to dinner

with Blaze’s older brother and his brother’s wife.

I wanted to go too.

But Ginger didn’t invite me.

It was hard to for me to leave,

because I knew

it’d be a while

before I’d see Blaze again.

We don’t go to the same school,

and I’m so jealous of the girls

who kiss their boyfriends

before every class.

Lucky girls.

So, after we said good-bye,

I headed home,

thinking it would just be

me and Cobain

eating mac ’n’ cheese.

But Dad was there.

He looked happier

than I’d ever

seen him.

“I thought you could come to the hospital,” he said.

“We can all spend the evening together.

You can meet your baby sister.

She’s adorable, Al.”

Perfect.

The kid wasn’t even a day old

and the one big, happy family thing

had already begun.

“I have homework, Dad.

I can’t.”

He tried to convince me

I could skip it,

or bring it with me,

or do it in the morning before school,

but I played the part of

concerned student,

and finally

he let up.

“You want something to eat?” he asked me,

and suddenly

it was like it was before.

Before
she
came along.

“Yeah.

I’m hungry.”

I had visions of us

at the counter,

making dinner

together.

We’d boil the noodles

and mix up the sauce,

throwing in a little bit of this

and a whole lot of that.

And then we’d sit down

at the table

together.

Just me

and him.

I thought, Maybe he’ll ask about school.

Maybe he’ll ask about my music.

Maybe he’ll ask about Blaze.

He reached for his wallet.

“Why don’t you have a pizza delivered?

I have to get back to the hospital.”

He handed me a twenty.

“We’ll be home tomorrow.”

And then he left,

taking any hunger

I might have had

right along with him.

When I came home

from school that day

so long ago,

Mom told me to sit down

and she’d get me some

milk and cookies.

She was a morning kindergarten teacher

and was always there

when I came home.

But she was also an artist,

and in the afternoons

she’d usually be in her studio,

painting.

At that time,

she’d been busy

painting pictures

for the owners of

a bed and breakfast

who wanted an

Alice in Wonderland room.

Mom loved the project because

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

was her all-time

favorite book.

She even named me

after Alice.

The snickerdoodles,

fresh from the oven,

were warm

and comforting,

just like

a mother’s love.

She sat and

watched me eat

while I babbled on

about this thing

and that thing.

When I saw

a single,

lonely tear

escape

before she could

reach up

and catch it,

I stopped talking,

suddenly aware

of how the cookies

were made

to soften the blow

of whatever

was coming next.

I don’t remember

much of anything

after she said

the words

“pancreatic cancer,”

but I do know she kept saying,

like, every other sentence,

I’m going to fight this,

I’m going to fight this,

I’m going to fight this.

She had surgery,

and she went through chemo,

and she drank green juice every day,

and she

just

got

sicker.

I know she fought.

She fought hard.

But she didn’t win.

The cancer won.

It didn’t just win,

it basically

beat the shit

out of her.

Beat the shit

out of all of us.

a song

by Alice Andreeson

It’s not supposed

to happen this way.

You’re supposed to be here

each day and every day.

Like the leaves on the trees,

the stars and the moon;

they may disappear

but they come back soon.

Why’d you have to leave me?

Why’d you have to die?

I’m lost without you,

like the sun without the sky.

Lost without you,

I don’t want to say good-bye.

People around me,

they just don’t understand.

They think time will help,

like it’s a helping hand.

Time just hurts

’cause the memories all fade.

I want to see your face

and your lovely hair grayed.

Why’d you have to leave me?

Why’d you have to die?

I’m lost without you,

like the sun without the sky.

Lost without you,

I don’t want to say good-bye.

I don’t want to say good-bye.

Don’t make me say

good-bye.

I played my music for a while,

and when I stopped,

I sat on my bed

and soaked in

the silence,

realizing that soon

the house would be filled

with the noise

of a baby.

I got up

and stepped

into the hallway.

I closed my eyes

and I could almost see Mom

coming from her bedroom,

on her way to give me

a good-night hug.

Every night,

for as long as I could remember,

she’d hug me

and whisper in my ear,

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

It reminded me…

I turned

and went back

to my room.

Tucked in my closet

was a hidden secret,

underneath

the pants that were too short

and the sweaters that were too tight.

A painting

she gave me

two weeks

before she left us.

I didn’t tell

anyone.

It’s all mine.

Her final gift

to me.

I pulled it out,

and it was like

the day she gave it to me

all over again.

In the painting

the sky is dark,

with twinkling stars

and a glowing moon,

and down below

is a house

with a girl,

her chin resting in her hands,

looking out the window,

up at the sky.

And if you look closely,

the stars

form an outline

of an angel.

The words in the corner

of the painting say,

Find the gift in the little things.

And remember, Alice, I am with you always.

They turned her studio

into the baby’s room.

They didn’t say anything

to me.

They just did it.

I would have taken

that room

on the first floor.

The room

that was so much

like Mom.

But they didn’t

ask me.

I didn’t speak to them

for days

after I found out.

I remember

walking in,

seeing the crib,

the changing table,

and the pink-and-blue

baby quilt

hung on the wall.

It all looked

so different.

Except for the ivy.

Mom had painted

delicate ivy

all around the walls,

just below the ceiling.

Then it hit me.

Is that where they got

the idea

for her name?

Seriously?

When I got home

from school on Monday,

no one seemed to notice

when I walked in the door.

I went to the kitchen

and got myself

a Diet Dr Pepper and

some chips and salsa,

hoping to

spice up my mood.

Newborn cries

came spiraling

down the

stairs.

I checked the label

on the jar.

Extra hot.

Good.

I needed all

the spicy

I could get.

Eventually

they made their way

downstairs

and found me.

Victoria held

a little pink blob

in her arms.

“Do you want to hold her?” Dad asked me.

“I’m coming down with a cold.

I better not.”

I got up,

put the dishes in the sink,

and started to go

to my room.

“She’s your sister, Ali,” Victoria said.

Was a statement like that

supposed to flip a switch

inside of me,

so suddenly

a bunch of sisterly love

would just come

shining through?

I turned around.

“She’s not my sister.

She’s my half sister.

There’s a difference.”

“Ali—”

But I didn’t let him finish.

I left.

Because last time

I checked my math book,

half

does not equal

whole.

The next morning,

I was a sloth,

tired

and

slow.

The baby cried

all

night

long.

I considered staying home

until I realized

at home,

there was a baby.

At school,

there was no baby.

So

I went.

Even at school

I couldn’t get away

from the baby.

At lunch

Claire drilled me.

Is she cute?

Who does she look like?

Does she have hair?

I finally said,

“Claire, just stop, okay?

I don’t know, because I don’t give a crap.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

So she told me

about the latest designs

she was working on,

and showed me

some sketches.

Who knew

I could be so interested

in fashion?