Skyscraping (9 page)

A month:

the time it takes

a season to change,

less than half the summer,

the time it takes a baby

to learn day from night.

It’s taken less time than that

for my life to

break.

To think of losing him

feels like losing

the ground.

Here, white bottles

of lost hope

filled with herbs

still sit,

gathering dust,

on the indigo glass

coffee table.

I line them now in a row.

Wipe their dust.

Place them one by one in a bag,

head back to the hospital.

A month is enough time

for the moon to fade

and be remade.

But not long enough

to say I’m sorry or

goodbye.

Hover outside the room with this bag of herbs, a spy.

Fight my own impulse to run the other way, fly.

Dad, broken lips, bruised arms, hospital bed.

A rough white washcloth, James pats his head,

reads to him from his favorite book,
Don Quixote
.

I shift in the doorway.

All of spring break spent catching up on homework,

taking turns caring for Dad,

I’ve been reading him
Alice in Wonderland
,

she almost drowns in a river of her own tears,

lost, confused in an upside-down kingdom,

something he used to read

to us before bed.

James walks out, nods at me,

passes me the rough cloth, a baton,

and, like Alice, given no choice

but to bathe in her own tears,

I take it—

trade places with him,

the cloudy white room of

my own upside-down kingdom,

with cloth,

bag of herbs,

tape recorder

in hand, I wade in.

March

SESSION SIX

Dad, I have what I need for school.

But I’d like to keep asking you questions, just because.

(Coughs)

Okay, let’s keep at it.

What do you have in your sack there?

The herbs.

Maybe April’s right—maybe they could help.

(Pause)

(More coughing)

Okay.

(Pause)

I’ll think about it.

(Pause)

Dad, what would you like to do . . . with your time?

Finish reading
The Byzantine Empire.
Cook. Create.

Spend time with the people I love.

(Pause)

Dad, I’m sorry for—

I know, Miranda. It’s okay. Me too . . .

(Coughs)

Could you pass me a tissue?

Sure.

(Coughs)

Mira, you, you have to—

(Coughs)

make a future you are proud of—

Dad.

Life’s short, Miranda. Make it matter.

Okay.

I know.

(Pause)

I will.

F
ULL
M
OON
, 24 D
AYS
L
EFT

i don’t take a cab

the end of March air coats me

it is cool breezy and my jacket is thin

but after the hospital i just want to walk and

savor time the moon is full follow it down

the city streets one month and almost a week’s

passed already Dad’s words about my future en-

circle me i know i need to use the time left

to grow love from something waning

to something waxing, watered,

bright,   round,   full

Dad home in a few days,

I sit and do homework.

Time seems to slow

if you focus on words, facts, solving problems.

Interrupted by April, crying.

I rub her back, tell her

I brought him all the bottles.

Told him I think he should take them.

She smiles through tears,

goes out to see Gloria.

Mom’s doing laundry, sorting, folding.

Guess we all have our ways of coping.

Wander into the kitchen, wonder what Dad

would cook if he were home.

Pull ingredients: Onions. Tomatoes. Noodles.

Dice onions evenly. Measure. Pour.

Brown the meat. Pink fades,

a nest of oil fills the pan.

Move the cheese along the grater,

Mom walks in.

She asks how Dad was today,

if I’m ready for school tomorrow.

I say he seemed okay, ignore the school question.

Keep grating.

She says she wants to answer the question I asked

months ago:

why she had children.

I pause.

Keep my head down. Continue.

Chop tomatoes, pieces pool in juice,

seeds swim and scatter.

She says she wanted to do things differently than her own mom,

says she fell in love with Dad fast,

wanted him, only him, to be the father of her children.

She says wanting children is different than having them.

I stir the onions in with the tomatoes.

We scared her. Our need. He was better with us, always.

First layer into the pan. Neatly laid.

Noodles, meat, tomatoes, cheese.

I know I’ve made mistakes, missed a lot, but

I’d like to be your mother now, if you’ll let me,

she says, touching my shoulder.

I shift slightly under the weight of her hand, swallow down

the lump in my throat,

don’t say anything, just cook—

she watches, stays by my side,

I add another layer to the clear glass pan.

Lasagna’s perfectly done—

crisp along the edges,

soft center,

but Dad’s not here to eat it.

April’s still out with Gloria.

Mom and I sit at the table,

silent, paralyzed.

We leave the lasagna untouched.

Move to the TV.

60 Minutes
is on.

Giuliani speaks about cleaning up

the crime in the city,

about
the power of individual responsibility,

then a story

on the National Institutes of Health

funding new grants for AIDS research.

Mom murmurs
about time.

They say with new money

they will have a better chance of

finding a cure.

Mom making an effort,

Dad considering the herbs,

April’s hopeful eyes—

I look into the Sunday night sky—

lights blink, planes glide

above boats slowly floating upriver

alongside cars zooming fast, uptown and down,

next to a park holding people—

time moves past me,

so many lives

suspended

inside this one moment,

my heart beating fast, breath shallow,

I can hardly feel

the difference between hope

and fear.

First day back,

April and I march in,

locked arms.

Quick hugs from Dylan, Chloe.

They ask me what happened, is everything okay,

I say not really,

I’ll tell them more after school.

I focus on my classes.

After school, surprise:

Adam’s there.

I find Chloe and Dylan,

tell them I’ll catch up with them tomorrow.

They give me a look,

turn, leave.

Guilt flickers,

but Adam’s smiling big at me,

holding a container of ice cream.

Looking at him’s like looking into the past.

A reverse crystal ball.

For a minute,

so easy to forget

everything that’s happened.

Adam used to be something solid,

maybe if I let him,

he can be that for me again.

He whispers in my ear

how much he missed me,

he brought me mint chocolate chip—

my favorite.

Ask him why he’s here.

He says he has some exams,

studies better at home.

Says he felt bad

he missed my birthday,

asks what I did to celebrate.

I mumble
nothing really
as

he hands me the ice cream.

I cup it till

it frosts

my already chilled hands.

We sit on the steps

of the Museum of Natural History,

eating ice cream in the cold.

A spring day that feels like winter.

A toddler runs up the stairs,

his mother carries a stroller.

Her eyes squint up

like they might catch him.

A guy with a plaid ski hat

sells pretzels from a street cart.

Taxis speed down the avenue.

A bit of early moon, purpling the sky.

The moon’s still a crescent,

soon it will be new.

Adam asks if I want to go to the gem room,

teasing me, we kissed there once,

he said I had lapis eyes.

I start to tell him

things have been really hard.

I want to talk

but—

He stops me then, kisses me,

takes a second too long for our lips to align.

Says

he’s sorry,

he has felt bad

about that winter night.

Says

he wants another chance,

he’ll be home for the summer.

I pull away.

But I can’t find the words for:

My broken family.

My dying father.

Can’t find a way to tell Adam that:

I almost destroyed the yearbook.

They kicked me out.

His knee shakes,

eyes flit to a girl

across the street.

Instead of any of those truths,

I say the only thing that wants to come—

Ask Adam if he’ll be my date to prom.

He kisses me again, harder, rough,

presses my back into the steps,

says yes.

That evening, I go to Adam’s.

Mom says okay even though it’s a school night.

Feathered sunset clouds float me down

the city streets.

Says his parents are gone,

leads me to his room.

He used to be my North Star.

Always there,

giving direction.

Lighting me up.

Now when he kisses me

it feels all wrong.

I tell him

we need to talk,

I’ve been keeping something from him.

He nods.

I tell him

I’m no longer editor

of the yearbook.

His brow folds in confusion,

considering my words.

I tell him how stressful Senior year has been.

It was too much,

I had to let something go.

He says that doesn’t sound like the Mira he knows.

I nod my head,

tell him I’ve changed a bit.

One truth at a time.

Then he smiles at me,

says he’s glad I told him.

Says he feels like he’s changed too.

College is harder than he thought it would be.

We lie down together.

Eyes locked.

Our bodies move together.

This time, I’m ready.

Adam slides the condom on,

says he loves me.

A siren wails outside.

A phone rings.

I breathe in his Tide sheets.

Stretch my neck to find

the sky,

those feather clouds.

Look into his eyes, my past,

let him sink

all the way in.

Sex hurt just a little

but it was also so short,

hard to imagine

why I waited so long

for something that

felt so much lighter

than the weight

it carries.

Staring now

into Adam’s eyes,

I know this is it.

As close as we are now,

there’s an inner-distance

where my truth should fit.

My naked body curls into his.

His arms big, circling me.

I tell him I wasn’t

being completely honest before.

He says okay,

uneasily.

I tell him:

I got kicked out of Yearbook.

Stopped doing my job,

my world

turned upside down,

what was important before

didn’t seem that way

anymore.

I tell him:

My dad has AIDS. He’s dying.

He moves his arm out

from underneath me.

Asks if he had a transfusion

or something.

I tell him no—

my parents have an open marriage.

They both have lovers, men, women.

He asks

what the hell is an open marriage,

stands up, backs away,

says isn’t that a contradiction in terms.

I cover myself with a sheet.

He puts his underwear on.

Says that’s crazy.

A sprinkle of his spit lands on my cheek.

I wipe it away.

Look at myself in his spotless mirror,

cheeks flushed, hair messy.

He says:

I can’t believe you kept this from me.

All this time, and—

I can’t trust you, Mira.

Asks how I could let us be intimate, without telling him.

I say I don’t have it,

he doesn’t have to be scared.

He says he’s not scared.

He’s disgusted.

That AIDS is a deserved disease.

Something people bring on themselves.

I get up,

dress quickly.

Ask how dare he say that about my dad.

He tells me I should get out of his room.

Tells me I can forget about prom.

I can forget about him.

I can still feel him inside of me

as he pulls his sheets off his bed.

I tell him I’m sorry

for hiding the truth,

but it wasn’t like he’d been there for me.

And he doesn’t have to be so nasty.

I’m still me.

He asks me how dare I say that,

I’m the one who betrayed him,

whoever I am

is someone he doesn’t recognize.