Fallout (2 page)

“Ready?” Amy says. “You guys are up next.”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” I like the way Ebony and I have worked this poem out. Ebony only has one word to say. She repeats it over and over. That creates a kind of rhythm, the beat for my story. We step onto the stage.

My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. We have up to three minutes. Three minutes can feel like forever, especially when things aren't going well.

And if you go overtime? Well, the audience lets loose with a chant of:

You rat bastard—you're ruining it
for everyone…

But it was weeeelll worth it.

I push my palms into the folds of my skirt and step up to the microphone. Ebony does the same thing a few feet away.

Ebony starts.

Ring. Ring.

Her voice is clear, beautiful. I speak next.

Sister, where were you when you
called?

The words take over. I move in ways I do not move unless I am in the grip of a poem.

Right on time, Ebony's voice comes in again.

Ring. Ring.

Sister, where were you when you
called?

What would you have said if...

Ring.

If I had answered the phone

turned away from the easy heat of
summer

the splash of water against

the how-much-fun-is-this slide?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

If I had answered

would you have told me

your current location?

Coffee shop?

Street corner?

Parking lot outside the liquor
store

where you smiled—actually
smiled—

at that young man whose name

you probably never knew

though I know

and can never forget

Kenyon.

Ring. Ring.

Kenyon who had no idea

the fragile glass

the Smirnoff in the brown paper bag

would somehow survive the impact.

Kenyon. An innocent guilty young
man

saw a thirsty girl

balanced on crutches

alone, a little sad. Nothing a drink

couldn't help. Nothing a favor for
a stranger

or a kind word

couldn't fix.

Here, we begin to speak together. Ebony's
Ring Ring
overlaps with my own.

The phone rings and rings.

Ring. Ring
…

Her ringing gets louder and louder until, at the end of the next section, we are speaking together. Our voices are loud and harsh and ugly.

If you had told me where you were

would I have left behind

my beach bag, sunshine, hot dog

loud music, playground of

The Now and come to you?

Rings and rings and rings and
rings.

And if I had found you,

would you have told me what you
were about to do?

Ring. Ring.

If you had spoken

would I have believed you?

Ring.

If I had believed you

could I have stopped you?

Ring.

Even now, three hundred and
sixty-five

days later

and counting

that phone rings

Ring.

and rings

day and night

Ring.

rings through my dreams

Ring.

rings in my morning

Ring ring ring

ringsringsringsrings

Will it ever stop, sister?

The applause is loud when we step back from the microphones. Ebony wraps me in a tight hug.

“Good job!” she says in my ear. “Perfect.”

Chapter Four

“Will you be okay, walking home alone?”

“I'll be fine.” I wait with Ebony until her bus comes.

Ebony and I both did well tonight— she was third and I took fourth out of ten competing poets. The scores we got for the poem we did together don't help us against each other since we both got the same number of points. But the judges usually like good teamwork, so the higher scores are helpful against the other poets.

There were a lot of good things about tonight.

Licking whipped cream from my upper lip.

Giggling at a poem about cats and dogs running big banks.

Ebony whispering “Perfect” in my ear.

My good mood should have carried me all the way home. Instead, my phone rings somewhere deep in my purse. It's so late!

I've changed the ringtone at least twenty times in the last year but it doesn't help. If I hear the phone, something in my gut squeezes tight. No matter whose number flashes on the display, if I hear the ring I must answer.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Honey—hi. How are you doing?”

She sounds like she's out of breath.

“Fine. Busy.”

“How is work?” she asks.

“Fine. Busy. How about you?”

“I'm leaving for a conference in Denver tomorrow. I wanted to make sure we—talked—before I leave. I'm taking two of the senior sales guys…”

I tune out while she goes on about work. Then she switches to how she had an offer on the house that fell through. “The wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Such a shame.”

I hold the phone a little away from my ear and keep moving through the dark streets of my neighborhood. She keeps blabbing.

She has no clue she has ruined the end of my evening. Will she say something about Hannah? She almost never does. How can she go along with her oh-so-important life and never mention her other daughter? You know, the one who died? Doesn't she miss her?

“Are you still doing your poetry?”

“Hm.” Mom doesn't care about poetry. She and Dad never went to my slams back when I lived at home. Mom said it gave her a headache to listen to people yelling about all the terrible things that happen in the world. “None of it rhymes!” she complained. Except for the rappers. She hated them too. They talked so fast she couldn't keep up.

After Hannah died, I knew Mom wouldn't want to hear what I had to say. I stopped inviting her and she never invited herself. Then I moved to Ontario.

She'd probably kill me if she heard the poem I performed a couple of weeks ago. Then she'd have two dead daughters she wouldn't talk about.

I can say this because you aren't here
you're in San Francisco, New York
Saskatoon, God-knows-where

with your Yes, boss

how high, boss?

yes-men

standing at attention by your side.

“I worry about you, Tara.”

I bet you do.

Does it make you feel better

taller?

smarter?

to jet off

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

appears with the turn of the
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.