Fallout (7 page)

the loving helpers at hospice

instead of flowers

donations to this charity

in the name of Uncle Jack

we have established a fund.

A celebration of life will be held

on the mountaintop she loved best

at such-and-such a church, funeral
home

pay your respects, share your
memories

we'll scatter the ashes at sea.

What obituaries do not say is

Uncle Edward died by his own hand

unable to see his way clear of debt.

Following a struggle with depression

the demons finally got to Father

the bastards sucked him into the
barrel of a gun.

There is no mention of the broken
brains

drowning in voids so black

the only way out lies at the end of a
noose

or in the path of an oncoming bus.

Where are those deaths?

Where is the S-word

in this public listing of grief?

This collection of acceptable ends

shameful the way it

leaves out those

who just could not go on

twice erased

but never forgotten.

The reason lies in the mothers

sisters fathers holy men who say

there are right ways to die

and then there are sins.

This is true even for non-believers

like my mother

who sweeps the scribbled draft

off the dining room table and
declares

the bus driver a murderer

at least guilty of manslaughter—

A leave of absence in no way

compensates for what he has
done to this family.

Her logic sound because

There was no note.

Except, there is a note

slim and invisible in my underwear
drawer.

What made me

march upstairs

to retrieve that package

slide it across the table

and watch it come to rest in front of
her?

What sense of justice

grow up

get on with it

act like the adult

you are supposed to be

made me spit out the words

There's your note.

By the time you read this

I will be gone.

Don't be sad it's better like
this.

The reading of it

Dropped my mother

carried her out of the room

on a wave of wailing

sobs shaking her body

Someone killed my baby.

Someone should pay.

You won't find any of that

splashed across

the back pages of the paper

no matter how closely you read

between the lines

looking for stories of those

who met an unexpected end.

I finish as we stop at the corner at the north end of the park. Ebony is quiet, and beside me, Rosie's shoulders are hunched. She sniffles. Allergies? In the light of the streetlamp her cheeks glisten.

“Rosie! Are you okay? What's wrong?”

At first I think it's about the competition—that she's upset about maybe being an alternate. But then she starts to sob in earnest.

“I'm sorry,” she gasps. “I'm so sorry.”

Chapter Fourteen

“What's the matter?” Ebony wraps her arms around Rosie and squeezes her tight. A crack of thunder makes us all jump, and then the heavens open up.

“Quick! Beanos is still open—”

We sprint across the street and into Beanos, an all-night coffee shop half a block away. By the time we slide into a booth we are all soaked.

Rosie wipes the rain and tears from her face and mumbles another apology.

“Don't be silly,” Ebony says, giving Rosie's hand a friendly pat. “Tara has this effect on people.”

Rosie won't look at me. Was it my poem that upset her?

“Hey, I'm sorry…I—”

“We never talk about it,” she says.

“Talk about…” Oh. “Oh, Rosie, I had no idea.”

Ebony looks from Rosie to me and back at Rosie.

“It was my aunt. My mother's sister.” Rosie's having trouble getting the words out. “Except she didn't leave a note. So we don't really know for sure…”

Her voice trails off. For once Ebony seems at a loss for words.

“I have to go,” Rosie says. Before we can stop her, she's up and out of her seat, running from the coffee shop.

“Wait! Rosie!” I scramble out of the booth, but before I can chase after her, Ebony catches my wrist.

“Let her go,” she says.

“But—”

“There's nothing you can say. We'll see her again at the team meeting.”

“But—”

“Trust me. Just let her go. She doesn't want us to follow.”

It's so dangerous, making assumptions about what someone else wants or doesn't want. Ebony doesn't understand that.

“I thought I knew what was best for my sister.” The story rushes out as I reluctantly slide back into my seat.

“I thought if I could get my sister back on a horse, she'd snap out of it, stop feeling so miserable. It didn't work.”

“I thought she was paralyzed?”

“You girls want coffee? Menus?” the waitress asks.

“Tea for her,” Ebony says. “Hot chocolate for me, please.”

“Your friend coming back?”

“I don't think so.”

The waitress strides away.

“She was partly paralyzed from the waist down. A horse fell on her and broke her back. But she loved riding more than anything.”

“So you took her riding?”

I nod, remembering. “It was bad. I thought she could ride on our Paralympic team one day. You know, for disabled riders? But it didn't work out…”

I stare down at the table. That's an understatement. The trips to the barn had been a disaster. Hannah had been in a lot of pain and, worse, she'd been terrible at it. Not like before the accident, when it seemed she could ride any horse.

“You were just trying to help.”

“I made things worse.”

Ebony shakes her head. “You don't know that.”

I shrug. She wasn't there to see Hannah crying. And now, doing these Hannah poems, I've made things hard for Rosie. “I shouldn't be doing these poems,” I say.

“You
have
to do these poems,” Ebony counters. “You never know what someone will take away from your work.”

“I know, but still, I should—”

“Should what? Write about puppies? Love? Springtime? This stuff is exactly what you should be writing about.”

The waitress is back with our drinks.

“Rosie's tough. She'll be fine. I mean, it's not like she doesn't know what you write about.”

I nod. But I don't feel like chatting anymore. I drink my tea as quickly as I can without scalding my mouth. “I'm tired. I need to get home.”

How will I apologize? I am sorry that I didn't listen to my gut and keep my mouth shut. I'm sorry that these are the poems that keep coming to me. I'm sorry that Hannah is gone but won't go away.

The next day the package arrives in the mail. Even though Mom warned me it was coming, it's still a shock when I pull Hannah's journal from the thick padded envelope.

It's heavier than I expect and stuffed full of photos, postcards and score sheets.

I flip through the pages. Reading her training notes, I hear Hannah's voice in my head.

Working on steadying strides
through combinations.

Jackie-boy is too fit! He's rushing
and too forward and strong. Rena says
we'll work on that next week.

Hannah filled page after page with notes about everything from the treats she gave her horse (
Crackerjack scarfed
down both apples and asked for more
) to the stretching and strength exercises she did morning and night in her bedroom.

Rena thinks I should get a gym
membership.

Rena says I should sign up for the
Roger Whitcomb clinic.

Excellent dressage test today!
Crackerjack is the BEST HORSE
EVER!!!!!

The night before the horse show where Crackerjack hit the fence and they fell, Hannah had made a list of things to remember to take.

stock pin

jacket

shipping boots from dryer

extra water bucket

The list is a full page long, and beside each item she added a tiny smiley face instead of a tick mark.

I stop reading. The next day, everything changed. If I don't turn the page, I can fill my head with the Hannah who still made lists, had plans and thought Crackerjack was the best horse ever.

Chapter Fifteen

There is no holding back time— not then, not now. I turn the page, not really wanting to know what Hannah had written next, but curious. I thought maybe she would have written about the surgery, her time in intensive care, her move to the rehab hospital. Maybe she did write about that somewhere, but not in this journal. Here, the next entry is dated a little more than three months after the accident. It's all about the day Mom and I took Hannah to the barn for a visit. It had been my idea.

Saw Crackerjack today. Some lady is
riding him.

Hannah was still in a wheelchair. We didn't know if she'd ever walk again. The physiotherapists pushed her hard and Hannah seemed to be up to the challenge. I remember once she said, “Even if I could walk with crutches, I'd be happy.”

She didn't write again until about a year after the accident.

Things I Can't Do

1. Stand. Must hang on to something
or I topple over. Need crutches
and leg braces.

2. Walk. Obvious, if I can't stand.
What I do is way beyond a limp.

She goes on and on, a dark list of loss. My throat tightens. Why did Crackerjack have to fall? Why didn't Hannah sail off, as she had plenty of times before, and suffer nothing more serious than a few cuts and bruises?

I flip to the next page, and it's like Hannah throws acid in my face.

Read this, Tara. You proved that I
am finished as a rider. You helped me
see there really is no point going on.
For that, I thank you.

Oh god. The blood drains from my head so fast the room tilts.

You helped me see there really is no
point going on.

She must have been talking about the few lessons I'd arranged with her old coach, Rena. Rena and I had worked out what horse Hannah would ride, how to get her mounted, how to help her come back to the world she loved. But in the end, everything I had tried to do was so, so wrong.

You helped me see…

How could I have been so stupid?

For the next couple of days I march from place to place like a zombie. At the bookstore I ask the customers, “Bookmark? Did you find everything you were looking for? Bag? Cash, credit or debit?”

I ask myself, Did Mom read what Hannah wrote? Did Hannah mean for me to read her journal? If she didn't, why did she write it? And if it's true what she wrote, and if, say, the police read it, does it somehow make me responsible? If I caused her suicide, then am I a murderer?

At home I cook—lentil soup, three-bean chili, stuffed baked potatoes. I clean the bathroom, sweep off the balcony, dig out my sweaters from the storage locker in the basement. I crank up my mp3 player and try to drown out any words with a roar of music. Hard as I try to shut them out, Hannah's words push through.

You helped me see there really is no
point going on.

What did she want me to do with those words? Apologize? How? She bailed on whatever conversation we might have had.

Screw you, Hannah! I take shower after shower, each one hotter than the one before. What do you want me to do, Hannah? Follow you? I don't know if I can.

Is this how she felt? Desperate? Her guts churning?

I polish the bathroom mirror and stack the spare toilet paper rolls in a neat pyramid. If I follow Hannah, I will not leave a mess behind. I tidy and organize and talk to Hannah, asking her questions she refuses to answer.

I don't answer my phone or check my email. I don't do poetry.

On Friday, the night of the team meeting, I pretend to be sick. Rosie can go. I don't care.

I'm in bed when someone bangs on the door. Ebony's voice is loud out in the hallway. “Open up!”
Bang. Bang.
Bang.

They're all there. The whole team plus Ossie and Maddy. Ebony barges in.

“Welcome to Tara's place,” she says. “Maybe you should get dressed?”

Bare feet, pajama bottoms, baggy T-shirt. Crap! I retreat into my bedroom, smoothing down my hair. Stupid Ebony. What the—?

“Hurry up in there,” she calls. “We're hungry! We want to order something in.”

I think of all the food I've been cooking. “Don't! I'll be right out.”

Fifteen minutes later we're all crowded around my dining room table.

“This is really good,” Karl says, polishing off his second piece of apple pie.

Ebony nods and adds, “We decided to bring the team meeting to you.”

“You know it's almost midnight, right?”

“We won't get rowdy,” Ossie says, grinning.

“They've decided you and Rosie are going to compete at Persephone's on Sunday,” Ebony says. “The winner will take the last spot.”

“Sunday? As in the day after tomorrow?”