After I Wake (15 page)

“…final award of the night,” I hear as I focus, “is the Walt Whitman Award for Poetic Excellence. Well-known and often considered the father of free verse poetry, Walt Whitman lived an interesting life, writing through unique metaphors and openly exploring the darker parts of humanity, of death, and decay. His poem ‘Song of Myself' explored all that it is to be human, and for that we present this award to a talented young poet whose recent life has been significantly documented in the poetry community, though she tends to be a more private person. Carter Rogers, for your poems and experiences with the essence of life itself, the National Poetry Accolades present to you the Walt Whitman Award for your poem, titled ‘An Experiment in Verse.'”

There is applause as I stand up slowly and approach the stage, walking carefully and determinedly. I step up to the large podium and shake Alexander Brown's hand and take the small award he hands me, a golden quill, and smile. I put it down on the podium and face the audience, which seems to have doubled in size since I got to the small stage, and so I close my eyes for what feels like forever and take a deep breath, feeling cold adrenaline flowing through me, and I know it's only been a second since I closed my eyes, so I open them again.

“Um, thank you so much,” I start. “I was going to write a speech, but then I forgot, and I wasn't sure what to say, so I guess that worked out. Anyways….” I bark out a silent laugh as I search my dress pockets for the poem I'm supposed to read while the audience chuckles lightly. Pulling it out, I awkwardly pat the paper until it's flat and readable, and I clear my throat.

“Okay, so, this is ‘An Experiment in Verse.' Here goes:

An experiment in verse

Her face has slowly faded from the streets. Thoughts of her are ebbing from their minds. And the missing woman is ceasing to exist.

Her screams are hoarser. Her fingernails are growing back in. Her blood is fading to a dull brown against the stones. She has stopped fighting her bonds. She is subdued.

I see them reporting nothing new, as they grow weary of the glowing girl in the faded photo. My thoughts flicker to the girl. Her ribs poke through her skin.

I want her to love me. I love her. Stop, I tell her, stop dreaming.

Imagine instead the things that already are.

And so I see her and she sees me. My baby curled up in her tattered red dress. And I feel proud when I see it, the light gone from her dull eyes.
”

I look up at the audience, seeing a few faces looking shocked, some bored, some impressed, and one asleep, but I ignore that one because the kid's, like, six, and he can be forgiven for it.

“I'd just like to thank my mom for all of her support and also for bringing me here to accept this, and I'd also like to thank the Poetry Accolades, because you guys are pretty cool and also my amazing friend Emmett, because when I gave up on a lot of things you wouldn't let me, and you have no idea how much you've done, so thank you very much.”

I step back from the podium, clutching the poem and award as the room fills with more applause, and I retreat to my table, gulping down air in huge sighs of relief. It's over, I'm done, and we can go home now. My mom puts her hand on my shoulder and grins.

“You rushed a little, but I think they all got the gist of it.” I nod acknowledgement. I felt myself rushing, but there isn't really much I can do about it now.

“You know, that was a very interesting poem.” Dottie leans over to be seen around my mom. “Very interesting. Where'd you come up with it?”

“I'm not sure,” I reply honestly, “because I write poems by writing down random lines and ideas and then putting them together, and I was holding this image in my mind of a red dress getting shredded, so the poem kind of developed around that ideal.” Dottie nods, fascinated.

“Well, I'm sure my inspiration was a little obvious, bird-watching can sure get boring if you don't distract yourself,” she replies, despite my not asking and my awkwardly inching to the door while pointedly looking at my mom. I nod politely before looking at the award in my hands. It's really beautiful, a golden quill, the word “poet” etched on the side. It's who I am at my core. I'm a poet, and this whole night has reinforced that, and I am honored to have been a part of this because it means that people think I'm good. This feels good, I feel content. But I got the last award, the event is over, and I'd really like to be home.

I did something, and someone looked at it and said “hey, that's good.” And they celebrated me for it. I'm kind of floored, but they think I'm talented, and those words keep circling my head: they like my work, they think it's good, they like my work, they think it's good. I look at my mom, and she is stacking her utensils on her plate so the waiters don't have to, and I do the same, gently stacking everything up and putting my phone and poem back into my magical pockets. Emmett copies our movements and puts his phone away, but I know he just got Johnathon's Twitter or something and probably his number. He flirted heavily for most of the night, pausing only to watch me speak. I'd be very surprised if Emmett didn't weasel out a number because he can be one of the most persistent people in the world, and when he is stubborn about something, it's impressive how effective it is.

We finish packing up and say good-bye to our new table friends and walk out. I look at Emmett.

“You seem very content with this night. I know you got his number.”

“He complimented my bow tie. And just Twitter, he's straight. But he knows a lot about music and stuff.” Emmett's blush reaches to his ears.

“That sounds like fun,” I laugh and look at the exit. My mom has sped up her walk to get to the door, and she is holding it for us. People are mingling in the hall, but I don't have the energy to go talk to them. I want to go to sleep. We walk down the street as it begins to rain.

“Grody,” I mutter, as I distort my face, picturing the makeup that I slathered on before getting all smeared around by the rain. Emmett laughs.

“You look fine. If anyone has to worry, it's me. My hair doesn't like getting gelled back.” He runs his fingers over his slicked-back hair and pokes at it, setting loose the carefully smothered locks. They spring up comically, and I laugh. He grins too, but it fades quickly when his phone rings. He grabs it and looks at it, finger hovering over the answer key before he ignores the call and puts it away.

“Who was that?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles. “Toll-free call, not going to answer.” I want to say more. I don't believe a word he's saying, but I say nothing. His mood has changed on a dime, and it's almost disconcerting. We, or more accurately, my mother, hails a cab, and once I am situated within, I pull out my phone and pick up where I left off during the Accolades, writing down my thoughts from before about being alone.

We arrive at the hotel, and I sneak out and head for the doors while my mom pays for the cab. Emmett speed walks ahead of me and then sprints to catch an elevator, going up alone with his phone in his hand, not letting me follow him.

I wait a moment for my mom, and we walk to the elevator together, going up after I tell her Emmett went ahead of me. We get to our floor, and Emmett is sitting on the floor with his back against the door to our room, tears streaming down his face. I almost trip on his phone, which is a significant distance away from him, so I have to assume he threw it. I pick it up and the screen glows with new voice mails. The screen is shattered, and I am surprised because Emmett loves his phone and is incredibly proud of how he never broke it. It's not unusable, but it's going to make reading anything on the screen difficult. I hold his phone close to me and stand back from him as he continues crying, pulling his knees to his chests and burying his head in his lap, his hair falling around him in awkwardly gelled chunks.

I give him space because I've never seen him sad or mad or even vaguely unhappy and everything seemed so good five minutes ago. But something is wrong, and I do not know how to react. I can feel myself crumbling, and I am worried. I do not know what to do, and I feel so incredibly helpless. I put my arms behind my back, holding the phone with two fingers and digging into my skin with the others, because my fingernails are long again because I have not bitten them in a while, and the nails do not hurt my arm, but I feel myself becoming calmer and more composed in seconds.

Old habits die hard, it seems. I want nothing now, except to cut my skin.

I can't focus on that because I need to focus on Emmett, and he is more important right now, so I carefully sit in front of him, crossing my legs under the dress and placing his phone in my lap before gently placing my left arm and right hand on top of it. It's not folding my hands, but close enough. I stare at him, worried out of my mind, and try to stay calm. I'm still not sure what's going on. My mom disappears into the room, giving us space. I realize that's an incredible display of trust, and I can't help but appreciate it.

After a few minutes of nothing happening, I lick my lips hesitantly and speak softly.

“You know, that one line I could never fit into a poem? The one about time?” He doesn't look at me, and I plow on. “I feel like time is kind of like a second, and those seconds stretch into a little tiny piece of forever. So….” I am speaking slowly, thinking as I form the words, still not sure what to say that will help.

“You know, this, whatever it is this is, I'm really not sure, is only a second in your forever, and, um, this may feel like forever, but it's only a second. And stuff. And I've never seen you be anything other than happy, and this is really freaking me out, and I'm not sure what to do because this is crazy.” Emmett looks up at me, his eyes disguised by his shaggy hair.

“My dear Carter,” he begins, sounding like his old self. I feel a brief glimmer of hope. “You don't understand,” he continues and then burrows his face back in his arms.

“I don't have to understand. But do you have to do… this… in the hallway like this? I think there are people trying to sleep and stuff.”

“I don't fucking care. I'm hurting inside.” He practically screams it, and I bite my lip in worry because I feel so lost.

“Okay, then, well, I'm going to go into the room, and you come in when you're ready.” I stand up slowly, casually tripping on my dress and trying to not fall over, and go into the hotel room. I answer my mom's inquiring head tilt and raised eyebrows with a shrug and mouth the words “I have no clue” at her. I don't know what's going on at all.

I walk over to my mom and tug on my dress zipper quietly, staying silent and listening to Emmett. She unzips the rest of my dress, and I clutch it to my body and disappear into the bathroom with my pajamas.

I scrub my face slowly, wiping off all the makeup and practically scrubbing every pore clean and angrily rubbing at the baby zits that have not yet erupted. Once I am changed, I slowly migrate into the room and resume my part of the sleeping arrangement of the previous night.

I am curled up on myself, reading on my phone when Emmett slowly shuffles in sometime later. The lights in the room are off except for a lamp in the corner that my mom is using for reading purposes. He disappears into the bathroom and closes the door. He bangs around for a little while, turning the shower on and off, making noise as he does whatever it is he does, and then reemerges.

I have put my phone away and started transitioning into a sleeping state when something jerks me back to alertness. It is Emmett standing over me.

“My mom moved out. She won't talk to my dad or me, and she's just gone, and my dad doesn't know where, and I thought this was coming, but I didn't expect it to happen. My dad is a mess, and I don't know what to feel.” He slinks to his bed, and I follow, sitting by him supportively until he falls asleep, and nothing else is said for the remainder of the night.

 

 

W
E
'
RE
ALL
walking on eggshells when the morning finally arrives. Emmett looks like he hasn't slept, and for all I know he could have been pretending to sleep last night when I sat by his side. I returned to my own sleeping spot shortly after he fell asleep. Or pretended to. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his hair is sticking up in random places. We go to the buffet for food, and Emmett's hands shake as he reaches for some bacon. I look away as I scoop my scrambled eggs into a bowl.

My mom watches, as silent as we are. I think she heard Emmett last night, but she's given no indication of it. She is focusing on me, though, and I think she's watching me because she doesn't want me to get hurt by whatever's coming.

We sit in the corner and eat silently. It is easily the most
awkward I've ever felt. I have absolutely nothing to say and the tense silence only builds. There is an explosion coming, I think. Emmett's holding back and forcing himself to be calm, and I hope I am not there to feel the initial impact of the blast. I want to help, but I'm not sure what would happen, and I think I'd make things worse, which is not what I want to do. I don't know how to help the guy that's spent so much time helping me, and I don't want to lose my friendship, and I am scared.

My mother tries to help, she leans over to Emmett and whispers soothing things into his ear, trying to help, but he slams his hand on the table and ignores her, so she backs off, watching him with her usual hawklike prowess.

I decide to try to lighten the mood, getting up and coming back with a muffin and a banana, and I'm wondering what to say to Emmett as I wrestle the banana open and take a bite.

“Ugh” is what I start with. I wasn't planning on saying that, but the banana is gross. “This banana is completely inadequate.” Emmett looks at me.