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Authors: Tracie Vaughn Zimmer

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BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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The red boat

slices the still waters like a knife;

something Jordan says makes Gran throw

her head like a horse

and laugh so it echoes.

I watch the water drip from the tips

of their oars,

diamond necklaces in the sun.

The urge to stomp my feet,

bite somebody,

scream:

He’s
my
friend.

I’m not supposed to be

left out

anymore.

cutting

First real day of summer

and Mom is prodding me

with her “get out of bed” speech:

“We need to leave in twelve minutes.”

“You must eat
some
thing.”

“Are you wearing
that
?”

Yawn.

She’s been like a Chihuahua with

a new toy since she landed that job.

And she’s working hours

that would do Jordan’s dad proud.

I don’t speak to her,

I’m so angry over this.

But she doesn’t even notice.

“I’ll walk you in today,”

she says,

like it’s preschool

registration.

It’s worse

than I even imagined—

I’m the oldest one there, by far.

After a painful session of OT,

and speech when I’m paired with a fourth grader,

I walk out during a break

and head to Jordan’s house.

omission

I tap on Jordan’s back door;

he’s watching cartoons and eating

marshmallow cereal straight out of the box.

When he asks if the clinic was canceled,

I just shrug

and grab a handful of cereal.

Then he’s on to the chemicals

we’ll need to change

the hydrangeas from pink to blue,

and wondering if with new mixtures

we could create our own colored

blooms.

When we arrive in the garden

Granny questions how I’m home so soon.

“It lets out early,” I lie

and walk away,

hoping these few days with Jordan

before he leaves for camp are worth

the bitter taste on my tongue.

liar

For the last three days

when Mom drops me off

at the clinic

I walk through the front

and straight out the back

until I get to Jordan’s door.

I tell Mom

the clinic’s not so bad.

I tell Jordan and Gran

it’s over early.

And it is—

for me anyway.

messages

At home,

I hover near the phone

to answer questions from the clinic

or erase ones that are left

while Gran lingers in the garden.

Each day I race

to check the mail for any letters

with that return address.

I hop on the phone

whenever it rings

though I’ve always hated to answer it.

Each day

my simple plan

gets more and more

complicated.

i can’t name

Mom and I

hit the mall to buy Jordan’s birthday present

(a potato electricity kit)

when we run into him and his dad

shopping for his clothes and camp supplies.

Somehow Mom ends up with

a wad of cash from Jordan’s dad

(who heads back to the office, relieved,

and with an invitation for dinner and cake).

We spend the afternoon

under the fluorescent glow of the mall

helping Jordan shed

his gifted-boy-geek look—

new haircut and clothes.

Waiting outside the dressing room,

I nearly confess that I’ve been skipping

the clinic to Mom.

When I open my mouth to tell her,

Jordan walks out.

I see the words disappear

like a hummingbird

between racks of clothes.

He looks so different:

in athletic jerseys,

jean shorts pushed low,

and cool basketball shoes

that replace his hideous loafers.

When we walk through

the front door,

we see Gran hunched

over the flour-covered table,

rolling out dough,

cutting it into strips to drop

in the bubbly buttery broth.

Jordan’s favorite meal:

chicken and dumplings,

and the sweet smell of

baking chocolate cake

to celebrate his

twelfth birthday.

Later, as we all

sing to him,

the candles light up his dark eyes

and a small flame

of something I can’t name

sparks just beneath my heart.

daring the rain

Dark clouds roll in from the southwest,

ruining a perfect morning.

Blowing hate, she comes

throwing branches in

our tomato and corn rows,

thunder laughing while

crushing our work.

Leaves scatter like confetti

on this party of destruction.

Jordan and I

watch from the covered porch.

Saplings bow to her power,

the leaves of hosta

by the back stoop

throb

like a heartbeat.

Granny braced by the screen door,

fists on her wide hips,

surveying the sky,

daring the rain to

mist her face

with each gust.

Gran always says

“This tantrum can’t last—

but we Wyatt women will.”

swallow a frog

Jordan, Gran, and I are out in the garden

cleaning up debris but

Gran’s face is etched with anger

and determination.

I know she has more on her mind

than just this storm.

Gran feels more like my mom

since Mom was always

busy with part-time jobs

and full-time college.

I can judge Granny’s face faster than anything,

so I’m thinking it’s a good time to

find an escape.

Before I can, she starts:

“You see this mess, Josie?

Well, your lies are going to cause one just

as costly, and not near so easy to clean up.

Tell your mom you’ve been skipping tonight—

or I’m going to do it for you.”

Her eyes are squinted up

and her jaw is slack,

a portrait of disappointment.

Jordan looks like he swallowed a frog.

They both head into the house

and leave me holding

my rusty bucket. The yellow sky casts

an eerie glow of things to come.

god-sized broom

I find Jordan stretched out

in the hammock.

Last summer, I tried it once:

tangled for hours,

frightened and helpless,

like a spider’s dinner.

He holds out his hand, helps

me scootch in.

The silence settles;

it’s the perfect kind—

when you don’t have to pretend

to know what to say.

His left arm and leg

warming my right.

For a long time

we watch

the clouds;

they look like they’re

being swept

by a God-sized broom.

He turns his face

to mine

so close, then says:

“If I had a mom,

I wouldn’t lie to her.”

Then he climbs out,

disappears between

the soft green arms

of the forsythia

for the rest of the day.

discovery

When Mom takes off

to meet Aunt Laura in Raleigh

I discover something

I’d rather not know:

it’s even easier to lie

to your mom

on the phone.

a good crop

Jordan leaves in forty-eight hours

and then I’ll be stuck

alone again all summer.

And worse than that,

it feels like that

old boll weevil is back

on the farm

eating my insides—

feasting on lies.

invitation

Just before noon on Saturday,

only hours before Jordan leaves for camp,

I pack up my pride to find

him sitting on his front stoop

with a few test tubes

and some icky greenish liquid.

He tells me about his quest

for a new algae as if nothing

happened between us the other day.

Relieved, I park myself beside him.

Then Natalie appears around the redbrick garage

like a goddess,

lime bikini curving in all the right spots.

“Hey, we’re playing water volley. Want to come?”

Natalie doesn’t even glance my way.

Jordan’s face pinks up.

Unable to talk, he just nods.

good-bye

Natalie shrugs. Her whole body says,

“Whatever.”

Her long legs

cast a troll-like shadow

in the nearly noon sun,

and it follows her back

to her designer world.

I can’t believe Jordan

is going to ditch me

and our last two hours of summer together.

“Do you want me to run and get your suit?”

I just stare at him,

an elephant in the birdbath.

“What? I know you love to swim.”

It wasn’t that long ago

our arms and legs were laced

together in the campground pool.

Doesn’t he realize she didn’t mean
me
?

I’d rather be in the therapies all summer

than in a pool with perfect Natalie.

“Go with her,” I spit.

He bolts off the stoop.

“I’ll see you in a month!” he calls

as he disappears behind

the stained-glass door.

like this

Too chicken to face Gran or Mom

I spend hours moping

by the creek,

plopping pebbles, then rocks,

and finally a big stone

until hunger pulls on me,

sends me home.

An enormous quiet meets me—

no pump ticking,

pans rattling,

even the birds are

on a short vacation

from the feeders.

I find Granny

crumpled

next to the claw-footed dresser,

her white blouse stained down the front,

left hand curled like a

dried fern leaf.

fresh-turned soil

My fingers icy,

I misdial the number twice

as I kneel next to Granny.

She’s breathing—I check—

but her eyes look blank

as fresh-turned soil,

and she can’t answer.

Since I’m upset,

the operator understands only

two words: Grandma hurt.

I’m sure seasons have changed

before the man and woman

rush into the bedroom

with their blue gym bag of equipment

and find me curled up with Granny,

my arm wrapped around her,

and her back soaked

in my tears.

the old lies

They buckle me in the front

with the driver.

Over the screaming siren

she calmly explains—

patting my knee with one hand,

driving with the other—

that they’re doing their best for Gran,

but not the old lies

I think I’d rather hear:

that everything will be just fine.

bald, bent old man

The ER social worker is busy handling

a shaken-baby case

(you can overhear everything in an ER),

so they hand me over

to the hospital chaplain.

I’m expecting some bald, bent old man.

Instead,

a woman about Mom’s age

rolls up in a sporty wheelchair.

Pastor Anne is patient enough to get

all the answers I know to all the questions

for all of the forms.

She hunts Mom down at Aunt Laura’s house,

tells her the story,

and keeps me company—

chatting about movies and Jesus and books,

busy enough to forget my insides have turned

to pudding

for the hours it takes

until Mom arrives

from the city.

two sets of doors

We wait outside the doors

to the intensive-care unit.

Mom lies like it’s an old habit—

telling the nurses I’m the required

fourteen years of age—

and a python of guilt squeezes my heart

when I think of the lies I’ve told

to this point.

They buzz us through two sets of doors.

Before we can go see Gran,

we wash our hands with

a caustic sour soap

and promise not to stay too long.

Mom sucks in her breath when she sees Gran

hooked up to three different bags of solution

drip,

drip,

dripping

into her arm.

Tubes wrap around her face

and up her nose;

the green machine that attaches to it

makes a
whuff, whuff
sound

as it moves.

Her heartbeat bleeps on the monitor,

a soft, slow rhythm.

Mom asks Gran’s nurse a blue-million

questions, taking notes and names.

She’ll have read the same articles

BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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