Love Rewards The Brave (3 page)

13.

That night Ms. Francine's friends show up

like they do once a month

and they sit with

cups of green tea in their hands

and plates of complicated food in their laps

and they talk about all the things

I have never heard adults care about.

Things like:

Women's Rights

Freedom Fights

Liberty

Poverty

Justice

Equality

Same-Sex Anything

And Where Men Fit Into This Thing Called Love.

I’m sitting in my bedroom

at the desk trying to read

The Scarlet Letter

and all I can do

is eavesdrop

on this group of Ms. Francine's

sitting one floor below

and wonder

why my mom

never had any friends

or complicated food

or green tea anything.

14.

My mom wasn't always sick.

Sick in the head

lying in bed.

Hating me for being everything

she was

not.

The weeks before my sixth birthday

I made this magic plan.

It involved a tea party and pink balloons

and cupcakes made by hand.

I told my mom about it

one afternoon

while she was sitting on the couch

smoking, billowing fumes.

I told her about my dreams for the day

wanted her to hear me out.

Back then she was sometimes happy.

You had to catch her in the right mood.

Usually cigarettes and the TV on

meant she'd be able to listen.

Dishes in the sink

dinner being made

“Daddy” coming home

made her scream at you

if you looked at her

or she'd slap your cheek if you laughed too loud

or she'd say mean things about

the way you brushed your hair

or the way you chewed your food.

But now on the couch she had her feet up high

Benji was fussing beside her

crying because he needed someone to

mother

him.

But quiet now, don't you dare say that out loud

or she’ll make you go to your room

where you’ll sit

until the middle of the night

and then when the house is quiet

you’ll tiptoe to the kitchen

looking for a piece of bread.

Your stomach so hungry you’d give anything

for it to be big and round like

Mom’s was.

But here she is, smoking her cigarette

and I knew the moment when I saw it

so I walked right up to her

and told her about the

party

and cake

and pretty dresses and make believe friends

and she laughed at me

and said "You ain't got nobody who will come for you."

That was the truth in her eyes

and so I made it my own

which is why having Jess

means so much

to my six-year-old heart.

15.

At school, dressing down in the locker room.

P.E.–– always the perfect opportunity

to remember who has what

and who's not there quite yet.

And as much as we swear we don't care

we all know what we   

wish we had.

I am middle of the line.

Average in

height

weight

looks.

Pretty eyes.

But a nose that is

permanently

crooked from that one fall

that one time

when my mom made me swear it was an accident.

A trip and fall mistake.

I wish the Dr. had a bit more time

to look in my eyes

(the pretty ones)

and see that the mistake wasn't mine.

I undress and put on gray shorts and a blue shirt––

the kind of clothes that are supposed

to make

that line a bit more even.

So the playing field on the basketball court

will seem a little less

Divided.

Decided.

A little more like we’re all the same

and not so much like we’re

beating ourselves into the ground

for the million different ways

we don't

add up.

I look in the mirror and

see the bruises that are no longer there

see the faded scar under my chin

and the stitches

that used to

wrap around my skin.

The stitches now lining

my soul

trying to hold the pieces in the right places.

Wishing for a deepdownhealing

and that it will all look okay

or at least

look like everyone else's

in the end.

So that
the line that divides

my insides

will look like my outsides.

Middle of the line.

16.

There are a lot of things I wish I could do:

Play the banjo

ride a horse

swim with dolphins

speak only in French

and smoke cigarettes

without coughing.

Terry, my counselor,

asks me in her calm and quiet way

to write these things down.

An assignment that will

suddenly

apparently

make me want to open up and

tell her all

the deep

dark

secrets of my past.

As if the meaning behind my desire

to play a three-stringed instrument

is somehow telling her about

the broken home

or why I feel all-alone

or why I can't quite put words

to the reason for my lack of

eye contact.

She should know by now

I consider locked eyes a contact sport.

I don't play contact

anything.

That was my childhood

everything.

17.

But I want to humor her,

remember those good girl vibes I got going on?

Gotta ride 'em strong.

You never know what this

late afternoon

counseling appointment might bring.

Relief?

Answers?

A little sense to these mixed up days?

So I tell Terry my list

and she listens.

Trying so hard to make it mean more

than the fact that I saw

a PBS special

with people swimming with dolphins

in Florida

and thought it seemed really cool.

"Do you want to be like a dolphin, free in the water, free to do what you want?"

Her sincerity nearly breaks me.

But I know that that's not how this game is played.

"Yeah, I just want to swim away, Terry."

She sees it as a break through

a better view

suddenly seeing me as a person with a heart,  mind, and soul.

Like during the months that I sat here rolling my eyes

I was just

really wanting to tell her

about my dream of swimming

with a big, gray fish.

She hugs me as I go

part of me wants her to know

that I was just going along

putting on an act,

but the other part

knows that

it doesn't really make a difference.

More people are happy

when you say what they want to hear

and

maybe that's okay.

18.

“There is documented evidence,” she had said to me

in the waiting room.

Benji and me, knowing everything

we worked so hard to hide

was now in the open.

The one hundredth and one phone call

from the neighbor was

the final straw that broke the camel’s back

the wind blowing down our house of cards

the huff and puff from the big bad wolf.

What were we waiting for?

A new life?

A new family?

A new way of living out our humanity?

They had proof.

I get it.

But why make us leave so fast?

With no boxes packed.

Our history now two hours away

left in an abandoned apartment

gonna start to decay.

My faceheartsoul streaked

with the knowledge that

my journals

were left

on the mattress of a

freezing cold

hellhole of a home.

This lady

whoever she is, made me get in her car

and we drove so far.

One hour.

Two hours.

More.

To get to this waiting room.

To sit in cold chairs.

To be handed hot chocolate 

as she paces, waiting for her phone to ring.

As she paces, waiting for me

to speak.

The policemen had them in cuffs

minutes after they’d arrived.

They came into our house

after a few knocks on the door.

I was standing in the kitchen

sweeping the floor.

“Child abuse is happening here, and worse,” the policeman said.

I looked around

and grabbed the only thing

I could think of:

Benji.

I kept him close to me

in the waiting room.

Scared to look in his eyes.

They’ve always been darker than mine

inside and out

and my brown eyes were

filled to the brim on account

of leaving so fast

of my mom screaming as she got in the police car

screaming she was innocent.

As if somehow that is relevant.

Because the only two people who

are innocent

were sitting in a cold waiting room

until a stranger came to pick them up

to take them somewhere.

“Safe,” she’d said.

“Clean,” she’d said.

“Warm,” she’d said.

But those words felt like

I was being locked up

from everything

I'd known

every single day.

And

That

Feels

Like

I

Am

The

One

Leaving

In

A

Police

Car.