Phoenix Rising (7 page)

Bloomfield talked and I listened. If Jessie read that, she'd say, He's such a chauvinist! But he's not; he hardly ever talks. When he does, it's precious as a soap bubble. The moment is that fragile
.

Besides, there's so much I can't talk to him about. Bloomfield's body is hard and strong. He has no patience with patients. He suggested we climb some cliffs, but I pleaded fear of heights. My legs have become undependable
.

Later (here it comes, Ma) we lay down on the blanket and looked into each other's eyes. Or tried to; he had on mirror sunglasses
.

Him: “What's the matter?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Him: “You look kind of strange.”

Me: “I'm staring at myself”

Him: “You mean my glasses?”

He took them off. His eyes looked like chips of the sea
.

He said, “I like you, Helen.”

Me: “I like you, too.”

Him: “You're not like most girls. You're
—
I don't know.”

He kissed me, deeply, sweet and warm. A current was carrying me. We floated away, our arms around each other
.

Bloomfield was on top of me
.

I freaked out. I got scared. He said: “Don't worry; I brought a rubber.”

I said: “That's not it.”

“Is it the place? Is it too public? We can go back to my house.”

“No,” I said
.

“Don't you want to?”

“I do,” I said. “But I'm just not ready.”

Bloomfield looked into my eyes as if he was reading my mind. “Are you a virgin?” he asked, and when I said yes, he got this look on his face that I couldn't name. He sat up and took my hand and said, “Let's walk.”

We walked along the shore, the wind in our faces, and I finally asked him, “Are you mad?”

He stopped and held me, his breath warm on my cheek. He said, “I don't ever want to hurt you, Helen. You're so special.”

“How?” I asked, wanting him to shower me with compliments, but he just kissed me
.

We sat beside a tide pool, holding hands. I pressed my lips to his starfish palm. I wished that we could stay there forever, in a driftwood house with bottle glass windows spilling jewels of light on the polished stone floor. We would fall asleep cradled on the breast of the ocean, knowing that our love, like the breath of the tide, would live on and on
.

Instead, we went back to my house and listened to Lucas and Dad argue. Lucas can be such a mutant. Then Dad said something about Cretins Clearwater.… They're shouting at each other through a thick glass wall. They see the lips move but they don't hear the words
.

Mom asked Bloomfield to stay for dinner. It was excruciating. Dad and Lucas stared at Bloomfield like he was an escaped lunatic. Mom filled the awkward conversational gaps with fascinating facts about my childhood. Meanwhile, Jessie rolled her eyes like a wild horse every time Bloomfield made a joke. She's such a twit lately; always moping around. If I don't do what she wants, she throws a fit. (She wanted me to take her shopping today. Why won't she get her driver's permit?!?)

It's not that I don't want to be close to Jess
—
we just need some breathing room. A lot of people like her but she won't make friends; she keeps to herself or ends up hanging out with Bambi
,
who drives her crazy. It seems like Jessie is jealous of Bloomfield
,
but when I said that, she blew a fuse
.

On the school front: I LOVE my creative writing class. Ms. Tormey is an inspiration. She says I have the talent to make it big, but that perseverance is just as important; that I must develop a thick skin to endure criticism and rejection. (The thick skin I've got; I thought that nurse would never find a vein the other day! What's a little rejection when you're used to being stabbed?)

Sometimes I worry that there won't be enough time; that I'll die before I have a chance to get famous. But it's not really fame that I want. (Sure.) I want to be a good writer. I want to capture life on paper
.

Then I think: Who knows how long their ride will last? You live to old age if you're lucky, and duck the accidents and madmen and floods.… In a world this nuts, it's amazing so many children live to be adults
.

In other words, I try not to worry
.

I've been working on a short story that stinks and a poem that I like pretty well. And I've started making notes for this book I have in mind. I'll call it
How to Survive Your Life,
and it will be full of odds and ends and helpful hints, like: If you don't want people to know you've been crying, apply Preparation H to swollen eyelids. Works like a charm but it makes you squint. Thanks to Bambi Sue Bordtz for this beauty tip
!

And I'll include recipes for success, like this one Mrs. Thompson taught us in Home Ec
:

Cinnamon Toast

Carefully Toast Bread. Melt One Cube Of Butter Over Low Heat On Top Of Stove. Add One Teaspoon Cinnamon And One Tablespoon Sugar. Stir Continually, Being Careful Not to Burn. Use Basting Brush To—

Jeez! someone shouted. Make a production out of it! Why not just sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on toast? Mrs. Thompson threw her out
.

The book would contain words that people need to know. Like: Catkin. I love that word. Fuzzy buds on bare branches. Catkin is the name I'll call my daughter
.

And it would offer cheap advice (a penny for my thoughts) like: In the game of tag with Time, you're always it
.

The other night I dreamed I was in surgery, and this doctor I'd never seen before (where was Dr. Yee?) was cutting off my arm, then a leg, etc., examining them, and saying: “This one looks fine.” I tried to protest but I couldn't speak. A phone kept ringing and ringing. The doctor finally answered and held it out to me. I was afraid it was God, but it was Bambi
.

10

My mother tapped on my bedroom door and said, “Jessie, there's someone here to see you.”

“If it's Bambi, tell her I joined the Peace Corps.”

My mother didn't answer. Her footsteps faded down the hall.

I drew back the curtains and looked out my bedroom windows, down to the front door below. Nobody was there. Only Bloomfield.

In a few minutes my mother came back. “Didn't you hear me?” she called through the locked door. “You've got company.”

“Tell him to go away,” I said.

“I'll do no such thing. You open this door.” She rattled the knob until I obeyed. “Now, you listen to me,” she said when we were face to face. “I don't know what's come over you, Jessie, but I will not tolerate rudeness. You spend all your time locked up in this room—”

“I don't feel good. Maybe I'm getting the flu.”

“You're not getting the flu,” my mother said. “Dr. Shubert says—”

“She's been blabbing to you? So much for confidentiality.”

“Jessie.” Mom raised her hand and I flinched. That flinch caused her so much pain. “I wasn't going to hit you!” She cupped my chin. “Jessie,” she crooned, searching my eyes with her own, “what am I going to do with you? Dr. Shubert says you can't accept the fact that Helen's dead.”

“Of course I don't,” I snapped. “Do you?”

My mother shrugged helplessly, her eyes shiny with tears. “Do I have any choice? It's true,” she said. “Honey, you've got to come out of your shell.”

“Shells are good. They protect you. Ask snails,” I said. “Either way, you get stepped on.”

My mother began to cry. She sat down on Helen's bed.

I went to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Momma. Please don't cry.”

“Oh, Jessie,” she sighed. “I'm no good anymore. I used to think I was a pretty great mom. Now I can't help you or Lucas—”

“That's not true! You're a wonderful mother! You help us all the time.”

My mother shook her head. “All I do is cry. But, honey—I feel like you're slipping away. I feel like I'm losing you. I'm sorry. Look at me. I'm such an inspiration.” She smoothed her hair and dried her eyes. “Now, please don't leave your friend standing at the door.”

“He's not my friend.”

“He was a friend of Helen's.”

I could've told her the truth but she didn't need the pain. Helen had protected my parents. They never knew why Bloomfield had faded away. “No big deal,” Helen said, and they'd wanted to believe her. I was the one who heard her crying in the night.

I pretended to be sleeping. I didn't know what to say.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll talk to Bloomfield.”

“Good,” Mom said. “Then I'll stop crying.”

When I opened the front door, Bloomfield looked startled, stepping back as if he thought I might attack him. I leaned against the doorjamb, my arms across my chest.

“My mother said you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, I miss your friendly smile,” he said.

“I wouldn't talk if I were you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“As usual, your mouth is on upside down.”

“Well, you're not exactly the Welcome Wagon Lady.”

“You're not exactly welcome,” I replied.

“I didn't come over here to be insulted.” Bloomfield's scowl spread to his eyes.

“Why did you come over here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Bloomfield.” A lie. I could've screamed at him for hours, for days. I would've said,
“You bastard. Helen loved you best.”

What was the point? Helen was dead. Life goes on. But not for everyone.

Bloomfield stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look, I want to apologize,” he said.

“For what? You didn't do anything wrong. Remember?”

“I'm trying to talk but you won't listen—”

“There's nothing to talk about, so just—”

A shove cut me off in midsentence. My mother had pushed me outside and locked the door. “Why don't you two take a walk?” she called sweetly.

I couldn't believe what she'd done. “Let me in, Mom.”

“I can't; I'm waxing the floors.”

“I'll break a window.”

“Take a hike!” she roared.

Bloomfield tucked a snicker inside a cough.

“Sure,” I said. “Let's take a walk. Why not?” I would let Bloomfield make his speech of repentance and then he would leave me alone. That's what I wanted.

The sun was a topaz in the bright blue sky. Kids flew by on their bikes on the way home from school. At the corner of Harker and Winston we passed Mrs. Jensen, who was waiting for the school bus to arrive. Her little boy was run over as he got off the bus on the first day of first grade. She waits with the other mothers every afternoon, her face smooth; she never cries. If her son got off the bus today, he could be driving it. He would be twenty-five.

The breeze was brisk. Bloomfield held out his jacket. He didn't need it, he said; he had a sweater. He chucked it at me. I let it fall to the sidewalk. But after another block, I ran back and got it. The fleecy sleeves still held the warmth of his arms.

Bloomfield said, “I know what you think of me.”

“If you did,” I said, “you wouldn't come around.”

“I was an asshole.”

“On good days.”

He shot me a look. “You're not supposed to agree with me.”

“I can't help it; for once you're right.”

He frowned. He shoved his hands in his back pockets. He looked up at the sky. “I got scared,” he said finally.

“You weren't the one who was dying.”

“I blew it. I was an idiot, all right? Is that what you want me to say?”

“It doesn't matter what you say now. Helen's dead.”

He grabbed my arms and shouted into my face. “Did I kill her, Jess? Did I take a gun and shoot her?”

“You might as well have! She loved you!”

“Helen loved everybody!”

“Not like she loved you!”

“I didn't ask her to love me! I never told her I loved her! I liked her a lot,” Bloomfield said. “I cared about Helen but—”

“—not enough to stick around!”

“Was I supposed to marry her?”

“Let go of my arms.”

“Was I supposed to save her? I'm not Prince Charming! Nobody could save her, Jess!”

An army of white knights could not save Helen. They turned their backs on the field of battle and hid in the forest of her veins. No, those aren't veins; those are serpents, those are snakes, devouring strength, squeezing the life from Helen's body—

Bloomfield had to run to catch up with me, by the maze of monkey bars in the park where Helen and I had played. On the swing set children laughed and pumped their legs, climbing higher and higher into the sky.

I couldn't breathe. I had to sit down. Bloomfield collapsed on the grass beside me.

“You never mentioned you were part gazelle,” he gasped. I plucked and shredded spears of grass. I had to get home. I was afraid. Of what? he would ask, if he could read my mind. I would be too ashamed to answer:
Of everything
. I'm afraid the sandbox will swallow me up. Afraid the sun will fall on me. Afraid to sleep and afraid to wake up.

There is no safe place for me.

“Jessie,” Bloomfield said, “I'm sorry Helen died.”

“That's nice of you.”

“She was a whole lot nicer than you! Shit. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I'm sorry about everything!” Bloomfield was crying. It sounded so painful. He fell back on the grass, clutching his chest, covering his eyes. Tears slid down his face. I stroked his hair.