Skyscraping (13 page)

The next day,

high heels in hand,

Dylan’s tux jacket on,

home to find

Mom and Dad

in the living room,

sewing machine out.

Him hunched over it, stitching.

Her in a sea of fabrics

and feathers.

Mom said they decided

to make a costume together.

Just for fun.

I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.

I watch Mom cut.

They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.

Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.

They work for hours.

April helps me make dinner.

When they’re done,

a mask of petals,

tail of stems,

Dad says it isn’t their finest work.

Mom agrees.

But I think it is.

June

SESSION EIGHT

Okay, Dad, it’s almost graduation.

Seven whole weeks past—

Doomsday.

Yeah.

So time for some real serious questions.

Uh-oh.

What’s the best meal you ever ate?

(Laughs)

Probably one I had in Italy one summer with your mother before you were born. It was the kind of meal that went on for hours.

What about your happiest childhood memory?

My mama teaching me to sew.

The time you felt most proud of yourself?

The day I was accepted to college.

And it’s almost your turn now.

No rush.

Not yet.

Nope—first you have to walk the stage.

(Long pause)

Dad, why are you crying?

Don’t worry, honey. These are happy tears.

I stand in a sea of black,

a group of graduates,

of smiles and sweat,

lining up,

marching forward, under

the brightest lights.

Chloe salutes me, flashes her Vans.

Dylan half smiles at me, I smile back.

We, the class of 1994,

face

the crowd.

A big-deal news reporter talks

about the opportunity

to go forth unafraid, follow your future,

trust your path, make

your way,

look back on this time and remember it was special.

Her voice floats away like

a drifting log

and all I can see is him:

smiling large,

bright blue eyes

focused right on me.

Dad Is Here.

I exhale deep as

he lifts his long, thin arm

and waves.

A few nights later,

Chloe and I

meet up with some other

girls from our class.

She wants us to try

to get into a dance club

to celebrate our independence.

Skirt flowing,

letting Chloe put toffee lipstick on me

when the phone rings.

Mom:

Dad

back in the hospital.

Chloe

forgets the club,

hails the cab,

comes to the hospital

and even though we aren’t dancing

she never lets go of my hand.

April meets me in the lobby,

face wet, says he’s in Intensive Care,

I tell Chloe to go,

I’ll call with updates.

The fluorescent light

coats us, Dad back in tubes,

all of us in masks.

The monitor beeps.

Mom puts her hand on my back.

Pneumonia,

she says.

Home for a few hours,

then in the morning,

back at the hospital.

James steps out,

gives April and me some time.

Mom spent the night last night,

asks if I want a turn.

Dad’s moved from Intensive Care

to a private room.

If it weren’t for his diaper, the IVs,

it could almost seem like a hotel.

I place an amethyst on his chest,

he smiles,

curls his fingers around it.

Says when he dies, he wants a party.

Nothing sad, he says, a celebration of life.

I tell him
shhh,

ask if he wants to watch TV.

Hoarsely, he whispers

put on something brilliant.

Lucky for us,

Amadeus
is on.

Mozart’s hands speeding

over the piano keys

as Salieri seethes

with jealousy.

Dad tries to conduct

a few times with his hands

but they are attached to

too many things.

A nurse comes in,

asks him to not move around

so much.

The credits roll as Mozart

releases his last

high-pitched cackle

over the screen’s darkness.

Dad laughs too.

I imagine the sound echoing

through the hospital hallways,

shaking the pill bottles

right off that nurse’s tray.

The doctor says

there’s nothing more anyone can do.

He made it longer than they expected.

She’s sending him home
to be comfortable,
she says.

Though none of us say it,

his wheezing, coughing, skeletal body

shows us

what she really means.

Back in my parents’ bedroom.

Dad asks me to promise

I will take a road trip someday.

Drive it all by myself.

That I will learn to play chess.

I say I promise;

he closes his eyes.

I lie down next to him.

For this moment,

we are both

still and

breathing.

April and I take turns

spooning Dad broth

from a blue ceramic bowl.

No more herbs.

No more custard apple.

Crystals just sitting

on the windowsill,

blinking their light.

No more Gloria,

just hospice workers.

Other teens at the beach,

tanning, flipping magazines.

April and I home,

feeding Dad:

The only sun

on our faces

sliced in

through

half-open

windows.

We all go to him.

His eyes move from dull

to light

when I tell him

we made something

all of us—together—

for him.

I press play.

What do you love about Dad?
I ask.

Mom answers:

His generosity. His belief in second chances.

And April:

The way he used to tuck me in.

Made me feel safe.

Me:

How he hums while he cooks.

And James:

His laugh. So deep and contagious.

Mom:

His creative spirit.

April:

How he’ll talk to anyone on the street.

Me:

How he always knows his opinion.

James:

He lectures and people listen.

Mom:

His creations.

April:

How excited he gets about what he loves.

Me:

How he’s always been there for me.

What will you miss most about Dad?

April:

I will miss his hugs.

Mom:

I will miss his smile.

James:

I will miss his eyes.

Me:

I will miss his voice.

I shut off the tape.

All of us crying,

Dad telling us

not to worry,

all four of us

at once.

We take turns sitting with him,

the next few days.

Doped up on morphine,

his words cut

from a collage of dreams:

Stir the gravy—quick!

Your mother, with wings.

Marching, lights from sequins.

She was born with her arms open.

Red to purple to white.

A party in the street.

Class, turn to page 35.

Wondrous creatures—

In Astronomy,

a coma is the glowing gas cloud

around

the comet’s nucleus.

At home,

a coma is something Dad has

fallen into.

Holding his cold hand

watching his

heavy shell of a body

drag breaths

wondering

James says his goodbye first.

He carries
Don Quixote.

He blasts
La Traviata.

April and I watch a
90210
repeat,

try not to listen.

When he comes out,

April says

she’s so sorry

the herbs,

the plan

didn’t work.

James says,

through tears,

It worked—

as much as anything could have.

He takes something from his pocket,

pours some water.

Moves hand to mouth quickly.

Swallows.

Selenium.

Flip off the TV.

Listen:

April’s goodbye.

Look out the window

at all that new green life.

She tells him in English,

then in Spanish,

she won’t give up fighting.

When she leaves the room,

I gather her in my arms,

limb over limb,

run my hand through

her new short hair,

realize that

when I wasn’t looking

she sprouted inches

taller than me.

Linger in the doorway,

listen:

Mom’s goodbye.

She holds their flower costume

like a child and her blankie.

Talks about their Bermuda vacation,

white sands, turquoise water,

how they held each other on that beach

for hours. How tall he was, strong.

She says:

I will do my best to take care of these girls—

our girls—

the way you did, Dale.

Then, she says—

through gasps—

she will think of him

and try harder.

Dad’s raspy breath

uneven now.

I walk back through the hall,

sign my name with my finger

on the cold, white wall.

White sheets contain his coma.

I hold his legs, cry into them

until there’s nothing left of me,

let out all that I’ve been keeping in.

Match his dragging breaths.

In a spinning cloud of light

I promise him:

I will create something

of meaning.

I will add to the story.

I will ask for help when I need it.

I will not stay silent.

I say goodbye.

Candlelight floats over the bed.

New Jersey skyline blinks

out the window.

Dad lets out his last breath.

I kneel at his body.

Mom and James

decide to keep him all night.

A thin strip

of white moon

hides behind a building.

April and I sleep—

curled into each other

like puppies.

The next day

we stare at

Dazed and Confused
,

Sixteen Candles.

The undertakers go in and out

of my parents’ bedroom.

They speak softly,

finally

carry him out

in a black body bag.

I think about

the hallway mirror,

a silent, sturdy witness:

It’s seen

Dad making costumes,

helping us with our homework,

me sneaking in late,

fighting,

now

the mirror—

reflecting, empty—

watches

him go.

I dream.

I enter the bus.

I see him.

He’s in my regular seat,

wrapped in a brown, fur-lined coat.

Thin blond hair matted against his head.

He could have been somebody, I think.

I sit next to him,

feel him shiver.

His head bent forward.

I can see now, he’s hiding something.

I ask him what he has.

He shakes his head no.

Bites his chapped lips.

Whole body starts to tremble.

I think about pulling the emergency cord—

no one else notices he’s shaking.

There’s a man in a suit. A baby on a lap.

Preteen girls playing MASH.

Someone listening to a Walkman loudly.

Why can’t they see him?

His body shakes, I try and hold him still.

But he’s too big. Too long. Items fall

from his coat.

A diploma.

A poem.

A chess piece.

A feather.

I pick them up, stuff them into

my backpack. His whole body now

shaking, trembling, dying.

There’s nothing to do but

collect what’s falling.

A tie.

A bead.

A slotted spoon.

A sandwich.

I say loudly,

to deaf ears:

He could have been someone.

I yell until the bus stops.

I wake up screaming.