Fallout (3 page)

I'm sure that, after the team's announced, we'll be happy for whoever gets on. For now, it's strange being supported by someone who needs to beat me. It's just as hard to smile and congratulate her after a strong round.

“Which poem are you going to do?” Maddy asks.

“The last supper poem.” They've both heard all my poems in our writing group. If they disagree with my choice, they don't say.

Somehow, when I am back onstage the exhaustion fades away. From some place deep inside I find the words. They are all lined up, ready to march out into the world.

When you are hungry, eat.

Garlic smashed potatoes

peas and mint sauce

roast chicken—rosemary, thyme.

Enjoy every buttered roll

every sprinkle of salt

because you never know when one
supper

becomes the last supper.

The last time we believe

she might actually appear

in time for dessert.

These are the things I wonder aloud:

Should we wait to begin

or start without her?

Did she leave a message?

Wasn't she meeting a friend?

Was she looking for a ride home?

    
—you know how she feels

    
about buses.

These are the things I wonder in
silence:

Where is she?

When will she be back?

Do I lie about hearing the phone
ring?

Is there a reason for this stab of
dread?

or is the stab of dread

something I added later

the something I should have felt.

My father out of his chair, grumbling

   
Telemarketers—they wait until
people are eating.

Hello? Yes—she is my daughter.

Where is she? What happened?

The serving spoon heavy in my
hand

hangs over the bowl of mashed
potatoes.

My mother's face, pale

what? what is it?

my father slaps at his pockets

fumbles for his keys
accident

what kind of accident?

all of us running

the serving spoon still in my hand

as I reach the door

no time to go back

no time to ask questions

no time no time

I drop the spoon

sticky with the last meal

Hannah never shared with us

drop the spoon on the boot tray

scramble out the door

and into the late evening sun

fall into the rolling car

pull the door shut.

After, Maddy and Ebony wrap their arms around me. We wait to hear the results of the judging.

Chapter Six

“We have a six point seven—” Boos from the audience interrupt Clarissa when she tries to read the scores. “Applaud the poet, not the scores, people!” She wags her finger at the crowd. “A seven point five—”

“Higher!” several people yell.

“Eight point six, eight point seven, and another eight point seven.”

The room explodes with cheers and hoots. Maddy's hug tightens. “You're going to make it,” she says, grinning.

“Thanks,” I say.

Ebony punches me lightly in the shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up. The next poet steps up to the microphone.

“Tiff is going to be hard to beat,” Maddy says.

No argument there. Tiffany Hwan writes amazing poems about what it's like to be the child of immigrants.

Tiffany stands up there with a wicked twinkle in her eye. People start smiling before she even opens her mouth. She gets the room laughing within moments of starting. By the end of each poem she touches something in me even though I'm not Korean and my parents didn't come from anywhere exotic.

I'd love to be able to make people laugh, but Hannah won't let me.

Later, I check the website for the team results. Tonight I'm in third place, enough to keep me in the running.

My head aches and I dig in my purse for Tylenol. I have an early shift at the bookstore tomorrow. Rent is due next week. I can't be sick.

Are you all together?

This crisp question from a crisp nurse

at a spotless desk.

Patient privacy? Who needs privacy

when the patient is dead?

I practice in front of my bathroom mirror. A mop handle is my mic. Even though I work every day this week, I'm squeezing rehearsal time into every spare minute. I can't afford to stumble over a line at the next slam.

In the mirror I'm awkward and clumsy. I move my hands in time with the opening line of the hospital poem.

A sweep of one arm shows my family gathered at the emergency room.

Hannah's family?

We nod, a family of bobbleheads.

What about Hannah?

Daughter. Sister. Child.

Where is she? What happened?

We are herded

into the quiet room

lambs to the slaughter.

Where is she?

What happened?

Nurses. Doctor. Priest.

They fill in gaps as best they can

each piece of information

She was hit in a crosswalk

balanced by more questions

Was she alone?

Was the driver drunk?

How badly hurt?

the answers an avalanche of agonies

Alone, she was alone

bus driver, devastated

your daughter

so far beyond hurt

no treatment possible

we did everything we could

a bus is no match

for a determined child.

They throw questions back

Was she depressed?

Did she talk about hurting herself?

My mother shouting

Charge the driver!

Their reply, a question

Was there a note?

My mother asking

Did Hannah have her crutches?

as if crutches

could beat back a bus.

Someone mentions the bottle of

Smirnoff

how the thin skin of the paper bag

must have saved it.

This seems as incredible

as the idea that Hannah's skin

could not hold her together.

When can we see her?

My father's hand touching my
mother's shoulder.

My mother's shoulder sagging
beneath its weight.

The pastor offers solace

A doctor offers Ativan

Dad signs here

initials there

my father's legs

carry him from the room

to identify her body.

Identify. Her. Body.

Though it's much too late

my mother pleads

Please let her be okay.

Please, God, let her be okay
.

Fistfuls of tissue wedged against

a river of tears so wide and so deep

we still have not reached the other
side.

I step back from the mirror and sigh. It's hard to make it clear who is speaking. One more time.

Are you all together?

As my arm swings wide, the phone rings. Crap. Who could that be?

Chapter Seven

“Jesus, Tara. You gave me a fright.”

Dad's words on the phone startle me. It's like he, too, is back in the hospital that day.

You gave me a fright
. Those were his words when I came to after I fainted in the emergency room. The shock of hearing what happened to Hannah, I guess. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. They kept me in overnight.

“I've been trying to reach you for—days.”

My father's voice is worried but calm, just like the day Hannah died.

“Hi, Dad. How are you?”

When I talk to my father I have to pay attention. It's not like with Mom, who yacks on and on whether or not I'm listening. With Dad, if I don't keep things moving forward, the conversation stops.

“Dad?”

“I'm still here.” There's another pause. Does he mean he's still there like a dad, available to offer words of advice and comfort? Hardly. Does he mean he's still there and hasn't blown his head off? He isn't where he is supposed to be, which is at home with his wife. Or rather, with my mother, the woman who used to be his wife.

“Playing lots of golf?” If he catches my snotty tone, he pretends not to.

“A bit.”

A bit.
What does that mean? That he's playing every day but doesn't want me to know? That he hasn't played since last summer, but he's still stuck back on the day his younger daughter died?

There's so much time between our comments that I could write a poem about what he might or might not be thinking. We talk so rarely there's probably a book's worth of stuff going on between phone calls.

“How's David?”

How should I answer? David and I hardly ever talk. “He's fine, I think.”

“Maybe you should call him,” Dad says.

Seriously? Dad's telling me to get off the phone and call my ex-boyfriend?

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Good. Well, I guess that's it, then.”

There's no
goodbye
, no
I love you,
no
I'm so sorry for everything I've put
you through. I should never have left
your mother. I should have been there
for your sister. I should be there for you
now.
Nothing. Just a click, a silence, and a dial tone.

I pull my notebook from my book bag and start to scribble.

My Father Is Not My Father

My father is not my father

in the way he left us

fell into the arms of

a student teacher.

How could he be so predictable

so bald—so middle-aged?

Does it matter

that his heart opening

in hotel rooms

slammed the door on my mother

my sister

on me?

My father is my father

in the way we disappear

backs turned, ears sealed.

Our desires

smother sense.

My father is my father

scotch over ice

as I am the sweet burn

of port wine.

We hold our lovers tight

in the moment before dawn

when those who miss us

ask where we've gone.

My father is not my father

but a man who once lived

in my house—a house where

I once lived

with a dream-torn family

broken and broken again.

Whole members are missing

gone before anyone thought to say—

Hey. Don't go. Stay.

Chapter Eight

On Wednesday night Maddy and Ebony slide into a booth at Antonio's Coffee Bar and Chocolate Shoppe. Ebony and I want to check out the space before the slam on Saturday.

I slide a piece of paper across the table. “I can't get the first part right,” I confess.

“Read it,” Ebony says.

“Now?”

They nod, so I read, trying not to be too loud.

This Is How the World Responds

I fainted when
it sank in what Hannah had done.

When a girl
steps in front of a bus.

Some people phone
leave messages

I heard what happened

I'm so sorry

If there's anything I can do...

Do what?

Hand us fresh tissues

when ours are so wet

they shred?

Do what?

Pat our backs, nod sadly

say, Tomorrow's tomorrow will be
easier.

Or are you thinking of practical
things:

dusting the family photographs

or maybe sorting through my
sister's clothes

to see if something fits your daughter

because obviously Hannah's stuff
won't fit me.

What a shame to waste such pretty
things.

Some bring

food that freezes well

lots of cheese and potato

too many calories

or sweet beyond belief.

Others hide

behind the safe walls

of distance and time.

I heard the news

but thought it best to leave you
alone.

So many people know

our business.

So many forms to sign

payment plans to think about.

How can it cost so much

to put someone in the ground?

Don't you know that sixteen-year-olds

don't have burial plans?

What if we can't pay?

What should we do with her?

Stash her in the basement

until she gets fed up

and moves on?

In the recycling box

a headline

and a photograph:

An ambulance

pulling away from the curb

the empty bus waiting for a
new driver.

I free the newspaper from the blue
plastic box