Phoenix Rising (9 page)

I tried to talk to Lucas about Dad the other night. He got so mad. He said, “Why do you always take his side?”

“I don't take anybody's side,” I said. “We're supposed to be a family.”

“That doesn't mean we are.” He stomped out. In a while he came back and played some of my favorite songs on his guitar. Lucas never apologizes. Instead, he sends musical flowers
.

He's being especially sweet to me lately. Quick: Be nice to your sister; she's dying. He doesn't need to worry; I know he loves me. He can't help it if he's such a grouch
.

Living with Lucas is like living with a boarder; we know little about him except what he eats. Mom says he'll be married with three kids in college before she even finds out he's engaged
.

It's hard to picture Lucas married. He hates his aloneness but he's proud of it, too. Who could pierce his fierceness? Who would dare to walk through the hurricane to its watchful eye
?

I hope I live to meet that woman. I hope I live long enough to do something useful, to write a poem or a story that's so true it will still be alive when I'm gone
.

O Bloomfield, I wanted to find the words that would unlock the love inside of you
.

All I do is talk to myself on paper. I wonder if all writers are crazy. I am not a real writer. I am just a person. There's a stranger in the mirror with fat cheeks and no hair. Ugly ugly ugly, with a pooched out belly because my damn kidneys are screwing up
.

I hear the front door slam. It sounds like Lucas's Impala is tearing up the front lawn. My father stops shouting. The TV goes on; one of those loud, unfunny comedies
.

Jessie just came to the bedroom door and shook the handle. (It's locked.) I told her I was finishing some writing. My eyes are puffy. I cannot stop crying. When I think of Bloomfield, my heart twists inside me, like an injured animal lying on the road. Finish it off. Don't let it suffer. Pain is not the same thing as love
.

O Bloomfield! I love you! I'm sorry I'm so ugly! Kiss me again! Breathe your life into my body! Heal me with your love
!

I'm such a joke
.

Look at me. God. Why can't I turn back the clock? Let me try, in my mind, going back to the time when we walked on the beach and he held me in his arms and he told me: Helen, you're so special
.

Turn down the light so it glows, not glares. The curtains are drawn; no one is staring. If I stand just so in front of the mirror, my face is hidden. I see only my body, my hideous body, my faithless flesh, my naked belly that blossoms like an egg. I pretend I am pregnant. There is a baby inside me. O Lord, for one second give me peace, give me hope. Let me dream that I am full of life
.

12

Today was Helen's birthday. December tenth, she would've been nineteen.

We went out to dinner. We're so conspicuous; Lucas and Dad arguing about everything and nothing, constantly.

The first thing they argued about was where to eat. Lucas wanted Mexican food, Dad wanted Italian. Mom suggested the International Kitchen.

We went to Ming's. Chinese food was Helen's favorite. Dad ordered a Shirley Temple for me and asked Lucas if he wanted one too.

“I'm twenty, Dad, not ten!” Lucas ordered coffee.

“Isn't this nice?” Mom said, trying to make it that way. “The first time we brought you children here—” She launched into a beloved family fable. When the waiter filled twelve-year-old Helen's water glass, she drank it all down, so he refilled it. So she drank that glass, and the next one, and the next one, until my parents intervened. She didn't want to hurt the waiter's feelings, she'd explained.

My mother's eyes danced as she told that story, but Dad's face had gotten sad. He interrupted Mom when she started to talk about how cute Helen was as a baby.

“How's school, Jess?”

“Fine.” He doesn't need to know I'm flunking math.

“That's good. School's so important, honey. I know you don't realize that now, but someday when you're all grown up.”

He thinks I'm a baby. He did the same thing with Helen. It drove her crazy. He didn't want her to date. He didn't want her to drive. On the rare occasions when she had a guy over, Dad managed to be lurking in the background, reading the newspaper, tinkering with the car.

He got worse as Helen did. So did the arguments with Lucas. They fought about the chemotherapy. Dad thought it was Helen's only hope; Lucas thought it was just another way to die.

One night while Helen was in the hospital, Dad and Lucas started fighting at dinner.

“If she's got to have the chemotherapy, she could at least smoke grass,” Lucas said.

“It's illegal,” my father said flatly.

“For God's sake, Dad! It's medically proven! She wouldn't feel like shit all the time. It relieves the side effects.”

“It's out of the question! I won't have Helen becoming addicted to drugs!”

“She doesn't have time to become addicted!” Lucas shouted.

My father reached across the table and slapped him hard. My mother cried out and put her hands to her face. Lucas sat there, stunned, his eyes filling with tears. Then he ran out of the house.

“Lucas, wait!” Dad ran after him but it was too late. Lucas didn't come home for several days.

The waiter brought our Chinese food; steaming platters heaped on a tray. But as soon as I smelled it, I was full. My father kept talking, talking, talking, filling Helen's empty chair with words.

“How's the band coming, Luke?”

“What band?”

“I thought you were getting a band together.”

“I thought so, too. It fell through.”

People come by our house with drums and guitars and take over the living room. But it never works out; they're into drugs or drinking but not rehearsing. Lucas is too good for his own good.

“Most of them are into club music,” Lucas said.

“Club music,” Dad said. “What's that mean?”

“The kind of music you play in dinner clubs. To make money.”

“There's nothing wrong with making money,” Dad said.

“Depends how you make it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Mmmm, isn't the lemon chicken good!” my mother said.

“It means I'm not into playing Top Forty so a bunch of polyester heads can freak out on Friday night.”

Dad said, “Sometimes you have to give a little. The name of the game is compromise.”

“I don't play games. Or clubs,” Lucas said.

I pushed the food around on my plate.

Home again, Mom brought out a cake she'd made. No candles. We sat around and ate it and talked about everything except what we were thinking. Then Mom got out the home movies: Helen and me on the swings, Helen and me in the May Day parade. Lucas suddenly had to go someplace, and Dad went to bed; he felt real tired.

I sat in the dark with Mom and watched Helen dance and laugh and wave. My mother drank a lot of wine.

Bambi came by and we went up to my room and she showed me her new red and blue tattoo; her boyfriend's initials just above her left breast.

“Promise you won't tell!” she said, as if anybody was interested. Sorry, but I'm going to have to go to the
Enquirer
. This is news. This is big, Bambi, big.

She said, “My boyfriend's asked me to marry him.”

“You're kidding.”

That hurt her feelings. Bambi's built like a tank but she breaks like china.

“I mean,” I said, “you're not pregnant, are you?”

“Of course not. But he loves me a lot, I think.”

“Do you love him?”

She twirled a strand of her limp black hair. She said, “He's nice to me.” She got out a Band-Aid box full of marijuana.

“You can't smoke that here,” I said. “My mother would smell it.” She was downstairs watching all the movies again.

“You could tell her it was incense.”

“I don't want to get stoned.” Dope makes Bambi feel sleepy and happy, but it fine-tunes my pain. I see things too clearly. I remember things I want to forget.

“What's this?” Bambi had picked up Helen's journal. Seeing her touch it upset me. I held out my hand until she gave it to me.

“Helen's journal. I've been reading it,” I said.

“Is there good stuff in it?”

“Like what? Like sex?”

“Yeah, did she and Bloomfield ever do it?”

I'd be damned if I'd let Bambi into Helen's mind.

“If she did, do you think I'd tell you?”

“Why not? I was her friend.”

“Then you know,” I said.

“Come on,” Bambi pouted. “You're holding.”

“It's mostly about her writing. There's some poems and stuff.”

“Maybe you could publish it post … post …” Bambi wracked her brain for the right word. “Maybe you could publish it posthumorously.”

“What?”

“You know; after her death.”

That cracked me up. Helen would've laughed, too.

“You mean posthumously.”

“So? I was close.” Bambi's face was red. “Why do you always make fun of me, Jess?”

“I don't.”

“You do. You're always laughing at me.”

“I can't help it when you say something stupid.”

“How am I supposed to know how to pronounce it? I'm not a big brain like you! Helen was smart too, but she was real nice!” Bambi made a tearful exit.

“Helen was a saint!” I roared down the stairs. “What a shame I didn't die instead of her! Helen was everybody's favorite favorite!”

She was my favorite favorite too.

I look for her everywhere; in strangers' faces, seeking that warm, shy smile. I go to Foothill Park and climb our hill to the top. To the south, north, and east, miles of civilization; to the west, mountains rolling to the silver ocean. The wind makes my eyes tear and I think of Helen, her brown hair kiting in the breeze. “Jess,” she would say with a happy sigh. “It's so beautiful here. Let's never come down.”

I haven't been there lately. Riding in the car scares me. I almost caused an accident the other day. Thinking a bus was going to hit us, I grabbed Mom's arm. My legs shake badly and my foot keeps pumping an imaginary brake.

Life is full of risks, Jessie, Dr. Shubert says. You mustn't let fear overtake you.

Week after week I visit her office. We are making a study of each other. Her stylish clothes and manicured nails reflect a polished professional. She means well, but we're not making progress. Instead of becoming closer, I am moving away. She is running along shouting beside my window while the train is leaving the station.

Dr. Shubert says I'm trying to punish myself because I'm still alive and Helen isn't.

She says that I am idealizing Helen, as often happens when a loved one dies. Remembering the good times and burying the bad.

No, I remember. Especially the mood swings. That happened right around the end. I'd walk into the room and Helen would land on me, raving about something I'd done.

“Well, why don't you have a fit about it, Helen? I'm sorry I wore your stupid blouse!”

“My stupid blouse!” She grabbed it from me and tore it apart. “My stupid blouse doesn't fit anymore because my stupid stomach sticks out! Stupid, stupid—” She ripped her clothes out of the closet. She tipped over the bookcase. I begged her to stop. I'm so sick of myself! I'm sorry!” she cried, collapsing, exhausted. “I'm sorry, Jessie! I'm sorry!”

Listen to me, Jessie, Dr. Shubert says, surviving Helen's death doesn't mean you're abandoning her. She wouldn't want you to be sad; she would want you to be happy. Life goes on and so must you.

I have hidden the extent of my guilt from Dr. Shubert. Saying the words aloud would kill me.

I would not let Helen talk to me. When she needed me, I turned away. I didn't want to hear about her pain and her fear. I didn't want to see her changing.

I was too scared and selfish to reach out to my sister.

It is not only Bloomfield who betrayed her.

13

May 7

I'm in the hospital at the moment, awaiting a transfusion. Boy, am I sick of this place. But a batch of new blood should make me feel a lot better. As soon as I'm done, I can go home. Hurray
!

From my window I can see the bright blue sky, with clouds like a herd of white buffaloes. It's one of those blustery spring days when the sun keeps flirting and hiding its face, then popping out, promising summer
.

The little girl in the next bed reminds me of Sara Rose, with the same bright eyes and puckered up mouth, as if she's about to tell a joke. Her name is Darcy. We played a game of Sorry awhile ago (she flattened me) and whenever she'd bump me off the board, she'd shriek, “Sorry, old chum!” giggling like a chimpanzee
.

Her parents visited this morning, trying not to act scared, but you could see the fear in their eyes. After they left, Darcy said, “Some people just can't take it, Helen,” as if she were ninety instead of nine. Her folks wouldn't worry so much if they'd seen her eat lunch, all of hers, then most of mine
.

I am trying to catch up on my schoolwork and journal. I took a nosedive after Bloomfield's departure. Now it seems silly that I got so upset, but breaking up was awful. He'd see me in the halls and nod his head … as if we'd met, once upon a time, and he remembered my face but not my name
.

He's the most frightened person I've ever met, afraid that if he cares about something, he might get hurt. That's why he acts so blasé, so cool
.

I feel sorry for him. (I am such a fool.) He reminds me of Lucas. They both go around in a self-imposed fury, faces frozen in a scowl as if telling the world: I don't care if you love me! I don't love you first
!