Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,11
me,
he was talking about himself,
telling me not to be reckless
like him.
And I realize,
every moment until now has masked this truth:
Dad was sick when he helped me with science projects,
essays on King Lear,
the Odyssey.
Dad was sick when we made eggs benedict,
black-eyed peas, angel hair.
Dad and James fell in love while sickness stirred inside them.
All this time Dad was one thing; I thought he was another.
Things can shift so quickly,
like the flick of a light.
Or maybe they’ve been changing longer, steadier,
like a sunset,
colors dragging, day left behind,
a long fade into night.
Crossing the avenue,
the light goes yellow.
A warning.
I dare myself.
Run.
CLOUDY GLASS
Hours later,
after wandering the park,
up and down Broadway,
I duck into a phone booth.
The cloudy glass
surrounds me on
three sides.
Through the front pane
I see a little girl with her dad,
holding tight to his hand.
A pang of jealousy nips me.
I fiddle with the quarter in my pocket.
Call Chloe.
She says Nonna called my parents,
told them all about New Year’s,
asks where am I anyway,
she’s been trying to reach me for hours.
I tell her I went to the movies,
better get home now,
thanks for the warning.
Hang up quick,
keep walking,
home.
TOGETHERNESS
This time when I come in,
April’s not waiting at the door.
She’s still on the couch,
watching TV, tissues all around.
They sit me down again.
This time, at the dining room table,
by myself.
Mom says how dare I
walk out on our family,
on something
so serious.
I almost laugh in her face:
Were we not serious enough?
Is that why you walked out on us?
Mom says what’s done is done,
now is the time
for truth, family togetherness.
She says they know I went to Massachusetts,
they’ve decided that between that and running away just now,
I’m grounded again.
Suddenly she’s a disciplinarian. A real parent.
Dad says he knows I’m upset,
I have a right to be,
but he has lots of time left, don’t worry.
As if it’s possible not to.
I mumble sorry,
ask him how he’s feeling.
He says he’s been better, but he’s okay.
I say that’s good,
though I know he’s lying.
An awkward silence,
the air hangs heavy,
I head to my room,
leave them there,
her, him
all masks off,
no more lying or hiding
their brand of togetherness,
the signs and marks
of who they really are.
KINDLING
I take that ridiculous drawing
of my dream of a family
out from under my pillow,
rip it to shreds,
like kindling.
I open the window,
throw the pieces into the wind,
tossing my own dream
into the raging
firestorm
of trash.
COUNTING STARS
April knocks,
drags in a bag of Doritos.
Tells me she’s scared.
I nod me too from my windowseat,
she comes and sits,
we munch chips.
Just like we used to,
we pretend apartment lights are stars.
Count them,
tap the glass with our nails.
Maybe he’ll live so long they’ll find a cure,
she says.
Maybe we can help,
she says.
I say
How? Find a DeLorean?
Go back in time?
That night April sleeps in my bed,
and for one brief moment,
like the steady light
of this ever-glowing city,
it feels like
nothing has changed.
RECORDING SESSION
January
SESSION FOUR
I’ll try to keep this short today. I know you need to rest.
Question eight:
Do you have any advice for me as a Peer Mentor?
Teach by example.
Okay, and question nine:
What’s the hardest part of being a mentor?
Watching people fail and not being able to help them.
Just like being a parent. Watching your kids make dangerous choices and not being able to prevent them.
(Pause)
What about when parents make dangerous choices?
Miranda, I know you’re scared. We all are. But we will get through this . . . day by day. All of us, as a family. Okay?
Okay.
CRYSTALS DANGLING
Last day, winter break:
April and I, Celestial Treasures,
Dad said I could accompany her,
even though I’m still grounded.
Gloria, behind the glass counter,
huge silver hoops swinging from her ears.
April palms an Animal Spirit book.
I trace Andromeda on the map.
Suddenly, I overhear: April telling Gloria Dad’s HIV Positive,
asking if there’s anything she has in her store to help him.
I yell her name. Tell her no.
But Gloria’s already there,
arm around April, tears sparkling, earrings twinkling.
She starts naming funny-sounding pills and herbs:
selenium, St. John’s wort, astragalus.
She says this is what they do for their HIV patients
in the Netherlands, India.
Says our dad is one of millions of cases worldwide.
That we need to give him the strength to endure these tragic times.
Shows us crystals, talks of Reiki, acupuncture, homeopathy.
Can’t listen to
these impossible remedies,
this invasion of privacy.
I leave. Wait for April outside.
Finally, she emerges, bundles of herbs in her arms,
crystals dangling around her neck.
I ask her how she could do this to us,
tell a total stranger something so personal,
so private,
April says this is our DeLorean,
this is our chance to save Dad.
She walks quickly home.
I walk twenty feet behind.
STARLESSNESS
That night, I cocoon.
April slides a piece of paper under my door:
Homeopathic medicine is a form of alternative medicine that uses very small amounts of natural substances, which in