I pulled up a chair and just laid my head next to his body, stroking his hand, looking up at his face, wishing he could speak. He was unconscious. The last time we’d spoken I had been telling him how he should have been living his life. I’d called him a failure. I said he wasn’t like the brother I used to know anymore. And now, I couldn’t take it back.

Both of his eyes were swollen shut, his lips purple and puffy, matching a dark gash running down the side of his face. I wanted to kill whoever had done this to him. I had never seen my brother like this before, and it was frightening. His neck was strapped into a brace, and his legs were a mangled mess. He couldn’t breathe on his own, and the sound of the air flowing through those tubes sounded so vulnerable that I had to look away.

April walked in with a cup of water in her hand and a Snickers candy bar. Her face was red and blotchy, mascara stained on her cheeks. She stopped when she saw me, and gave me one of those looks that said she needed someone desperately right now, and that everything we’d said to each other was in the past. I rose from the chair and folded her in a tight embrace. She offered me some water. April said the doctors told her he could go at any minute, and that it was a miracle he was still there at all.

Across the hall a baby started to cry hysterically. A group of nurses walked by talking about this and that. The hum of the hospital became overwhelming. The smell made me suddenly want to vomit, and I excused myself and ran out, needing to find fresh air. I paced around in the cold for a few minutes, wondering how he had gotten here, and why any of this had happened. I wished I had been there. I wished I could have done something to stop it. I took a few long deep breaths and decided that April needed me inside.

I walked slowly back to the room, taking time to look around me a little, wanting secretly to avoid seeing my brother look so defeated. When I rounded the last bend, I heard a faint commotion coming his room. I quickened my pace and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. In the room, April was clinging to his body, hysterical. There were nurses trying to calm her and pull her off, but she fought them back. I looked at my mother, still frozen in the corner of the room. I hated the blank look on her face. I backed up, tripping over a bin by the door. I leaned against the wall and slumped into a heap on the floor. I wished I could have said something nice before he’d gone.

Buried in Boxes.

The moonlight makes the dust come to life. It swirls and dances in the air as she gently blows it from the tops of the old, cardboard boxes. It has taken her months to simply drag them out of the closet and look at them in the open room. Now, against a backdrop of contemporary fixtures and clean surfaces, they look decrepit and out of place. She sits in front of them for what seems like hours. The silence bites at her eardrums, and that old paper smell stings her nostrils. Her legs start cramping up, begging her to just look inside and go back to bed, but she keeps sitting and staring, letting years of emptiness laugh in her face because she just can’t let the contents of those boxes go. Moving from city to city, town to town, it seems the past really does have a knack for haunting people.

Taking a deep breath, she pulls the smallest one towards her, lifts the lid, and sets it gently on the carpet beside her. She reaches into the box and pulls out a dress; so tiny it would fit a doll. It’s white, with yellow rubber ducks bobbing across the bottom. She rubs the cotton against her cheek, and sets it beside the box lid. She reaches in again, pulling out a pair of white slippers, made to match the dress. She sets them down, too, letting her fingers run across the lace bow stitched to the top of the right slipper. The rest of the box is full of more clothing, and a few cards and letters. She pulls out one of the cards: bright pink with a glittery bubble that says, “Congratulations!” across the top. She opens the card reads the short message inside, written in her sister’s precise cursive. “We’re so excited for you, Emily and David! We send all of our love!” Little droplets start to make the ink run, so she tosses the card back into the box with the dress and slippers, slams the lid on top, and rocks back and forth with her arms hugging her knees to her chest. Her mind starts flashing back to that winter. She remembers him putting his hand on her belly, smiling wide, and kissing the tip of her nose.

“My girls,” he’d said. “You two are my world.”

As if it were only yesterday, she feels him putting her arms through the sleeves of her heavy jacket, and she hears him laughing as he struggles to zip it up over her stomach. She hugs her knees tighter to her chest as she remembers how he’d helped her hobble through the snow to the car and carefully held her hand as she’d hoisted herself into the seat. He’d raced around to the other side, slipping a little, and hopped in to start the engine so they’d be warm. The last thing she remembers from that night is the sound of a woman’s voice on the radio sending “warm wishes for the holiday season.” From that point, until when she woke up, dazed, in the hospital bed, is a blur. She didn’t believe them when they told her she’d “lost” the baby. It wasn’t possible. She’d even started yelling at the doctor when she was told that she’d “lost” David, too. At times, she feels like she died with them that night.

She stays like that, curled up in a tight ball, until the sun starts to creep out from behind the trees and peer through her window. When she finally picks herself up off of the floor, she takes another long look at the boxes, and pushes them back into her closet. She’ll do something with them another day.

Cassie

My mother used to have a thing for backpack purses. I think it was not only because she didn’t want to hurt her back by putting a bunch of weight on one side of her body, but also so that her hands would be free to hold a clipboard with weeks worth of Sudoku clipped on it that she had printed off of the Internet. She never bought the little booklets because they were all too easy for her, and she didn’t want to waste money. When we’d go shopping, she would stand in the same vicinity as me with her big glasses on, which she’d let dangle around her neck when not in use, and spend the whole time filling out her Sudoku puzzles. It made me feel extremely boring, like I wasn’t good enough company to keep her entertained for a couple of hours. It was kind of embarrassing, too, having her peek out occasionally from behind her clipboard and wave.

She always carried around a lot more stuff than she needed in those backpack purses, which is no doubt why she’d been through so many. They’d get so heavy that they’d gradually start to die on her. The largest thing she carried in her purse was always her wallet. That thing was stuffed so full of cash, receipts, change, discount cards she didn’t even use, credit cards, and who knows what else, that the zippers would start to tear out and she’d have to get another one. She went through new wallets every few years. Prospective replacements needed to have a million different pockets and zipper pouches. It was hard as hell to shop with/for her, so I never tried to get her a new wallet. Second largest thing? Her damn keys. I don’t know how many doors that woman had to unlock throughout her life, but there is no way that she used everything on that mass of metal in my lifetime. She could have used those things as a weapon if ever mugged. It took hours to find the house key in the jumble, and when I was little, I used to hate how she had so many keys because waiting for her to unlock the door during the winter really blew.

My mother also used to have a bunch of “food allergies” (I think she just had irrational phobias) that kept her from eating pretty much everything: wheat, sugar, tomatoes, carrots, beef, chicken, cheese, oranges, apples, pineapple—I could go on forever. It would probably be easier to list what she could eat: broccoli, rice pasta, olive oil, turkey, lamb, blueberries, cream, rice crackers, and potato chips. She had hypoglycemia, too, which she brought upon herself through a long process of gorging on donuts and candy when she was younger. I heard on the news the other night that sugar is the strongest addictive substance in the world, and the hardest to break. It’s harder to kick than heroine. Anyway, the point is that my mother sucked at cooking. How can anyone not suck at cooking when he or she is making food that can’t be tasted? I used to feel terrible, though, thinking about what it must have been like for her, having to watch everyone eat food that she couldn’t. I asked her about it once, and she said that she was used to it. She was always a pretty strong woman. I could go on and on about all of the crazy things my mother used to do. I guess having an unconventional mother gives you lots of stories to tell about your childhood.

But who am I kidding? Everything looks wrong. My ankles are swollen, my eyes are red, I’m bloated, and are those bags under my eyes? I used to hate the girls who wore little flowery dresses like this, and I can’t believe he’s asking me to wear one. What kind of woman let’s her fiancé tell her what to wear? I bet John thinks they won’t like me if dress like I normally do. He’s probably right. Baggy, paint-splattered jeans and wife-beaters aren’t exactly afternoon tea wear. I should cut the tag off before I go.

I wish I could cover up my tattoos, but I guess it’s too hot outside for that. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to get a Johnny Chimpo tattoo, anyway. I hate that little monkey. He mocks me everyday when I look in the mirror, calling me an idiot. That was one hell of a day, though, that’s for sure. I think I must have eaten twelve tacos lying on the beach drinking piña coladas. A few too many, actually. But seriously, some friends I have, dragging me shitfaced to get a tattoo in Mexico. I’m lucky I don’t have any diseases from that place, not that I remember much about it…

Flowery dress or not, John’s parents are going to think I’m just after his money. He said that they’re “skilled in the art of snobbery” and extremely hard to impress. I’m not supposed to talk about politics, because that will piss them off. I’m not supposed to talk about my family, because that will freak them out. I’m not supposed to talk about my job, because that will lead to awkward questions. So what the hell am I supposed to talk about?

I really don’t want to do this, but I’ll have to meet them sooner or later, with them having to be at the wedding and all. If John thinks that they won’t ever find out who I really am, though, he’s wrong. His parents have him whipped. There’s no way I’m going to put on a show for them after today. The next time I see them, I’ll be telling them about my Johnny Chimpo tattoo.

]]> http://creinhart.umwblogs.org/2012/03/29/burroway-p-55/feed/ 1 http://creinhart.umwblogs.org/2012/03/26/anger/ http://creinhart.umwblogs.org/2012/03/26/anger/#comments Tue, 27 Mar 2012 01:51:44 +0000 cassandra01 http://creinhart.umwblogs.org/?p=73 Journal #1 : Time to rant, rave, and foam at the mouth: the piece of mind you would like to give that old so-and-so. This is about anger.

Asshole #1: Past.

I charmed you when you least expected it. We met, and followed it up with a seven-hour, chain-smoking, bench-seated conversation on Lafayette until the foggy Baltimore sunrise. I went back to your apartment and ate the last of your healthy, Polish cereal. You were new to that place, and I had you hooked. I was a drug that forced you to think about your life. I was addicted to your fascination and how high you were on me. How did you not know that there was time for work and play? That there was time for love? But good things don’t last. You became infatuated with yourself. It’s true, you knew your shit: your photography, your painting, your drawing. The moment you discovered you were good, your ego ate your kindness. You dropped a bomb, and broke my heart. Just like an addict, you came back for more, but it sure as hell doesn’t work like that with me. Fuck second chances. I kicked you out of my life as fast as I’d let you in it, and to tell you the truth, I hated your paintings.

Asshole #2: Present.

Game on. Let’s play. It’s time that someone put you in your goddamn place. So put on you’re expensive Polo sunglasses, your striped Abercrombie button-up shirt, your $200 sheepskin moccasins—let’s not forget one of those $95 ties—and I’ll give it to you straight: you’re arrogant, you’re insensitive, you’re selfish, and you sure as hell aren’t as intelligent as you think you are. A twenty-three year old child and a fifth year college student (with another on the way). You were too good for that old pick-up, the one you called a “mexi-truck,” so you just had to have that Beamer. That truck made you unique, added some flavor to your persona. Now you’re just a stereotype. Coffee, you say? I don’t think so. Why, you ask? Well, maybe it’s because you’re unreliable, or maybe it’s because your company isn’t as good now as it seemed at first. You’re just like that expensive coffee you want to get me, the kind that doesn’t taste as good as it should for how much money you drop on it. But wait, it isn’t your money, is it? Mom and Dad bought your car, pumped it full of gas, gave you a top-of-the-line MacBook Air, and always pay your rent. You hate people, and they sure as hell don’t like you. I hate that after all of this, the game’s a tie, because no matter what I do, I can’t get you out of my head.

Asshole #3: Six years (and counting).

You were so sweet and innocent. Nice to everyone and amazing to me, but they corrupted you, and I hate them for that. When you hurt yourself, it kills me. It’s like a python wraps itself around my heart and squeezes it as tight as it can. You were my boyfriend, and now you’re my closest friend. I broke your heart—twice—and each time you ran to drugs. You ended up in rehab: poly-substance abuse. You’ve been out for a while, so why the hell can’t you talk about anything other than drugs? Why the hell can’t you tell how boring and pathetic that is? You call me your guardian angel, but I’m tired of playing that role. I got you into rehab, and I let you live in my house. You moved out and started using again. I got you out of that apartment, too. You aren’t homeless anymore. You have a home. You have your family. You’re back in school. You have a car. You have a job. So why the hell are you doing it again? Stop dealing. Stop using. Stop lying. I can’t watch you lose it all again. This time, when it all goes to shit, maybe you’ll lose me, too. It really is just like they say: “Once an addict, always an addict.” Find me when you’re clean.

Cassie

I flick the ash from my

cigarette out the window and

little white flakes fly back in

and settle on my jeans, refusing

to go. Rows of corn look like

an army of  golden-haired boys

waving their leaves as I pass.

I smile and take a long drag,

tossing the butt with sparks

on the pavement behind me.

The horizon begins to move

from flat lines to jagged edges.

I watch the countryside leave

in my rear-view mirror, as it

seems my city had only minutes

before. Soon, the crisp orange

sun drifts to sleep in a pink

and  purple sky behind a rusty

mountain. I’m close now, and

my  foot feels heavy on the gas.

Little gremlins in the pit of my

stomach thrash about, filling

my head with “What if’s”

I spot the black Subaru parked in

front  of the Waffle House and

choke on the air, wanting to run,

but she hops out of the car

beaming, and all of my gremlins

hush…

I gaze at her and my mind is

wiped clean from ages of dirt

and clouded thoughts. I’m

pressed hard to her breast and

smell honey, grass, and a spice

I can’t quite name. All of the

words I’d collected and saved

for her over these years erase

themselves, and the shadows

that had gripped me cower in

her angellight.

If I could, I’d put the beams

of my mother’s smile in a

little jar. When darkness

haunts my lucid dreams, I’d

take it out  and let my mother’s

glow cradle me to sleep.

I sifted through old pictures of

A summer spent away.

On white sand he called “el mar,”

A young boy holds my waist.

I slumped down in a chair to dream,

And clear as glass I saw his

Eyes. With calloused hands upon

My face, we would kiss.

He’d stroll with me down narrow streets

With yellow houses on each side,

Old men and dogs in tiny cars

Would whistle passing by.

One night he climbed a mango tree,

And promised that we’d meet again,

Then placed a letter in my hand,

He’d wait for me till then.

Sometimes I still wonder how,

In that quaint village out of reach,

My sweet Tico’s living now,

And if he ever thinks of me.

We would lie under the moon and

Spit in a can while we laughed

At the wild stories folks told about us,

Thinkin’ how great everything was.

I was a better gunman, and Jesse always

Got the finest women, but

We both knew how to make dirt

Shine like gold.

We’d been runnin’ for years when

I heard the crack of the bullet

Leavin’ the barrel, and turned to see

Jesse on his knees, a blood rose

Bloomin’ on his cotton waistcoat.

He hit the pavement facedown, shot

In the back for a prize.

It was like fallin’ through fragile

Ice into sharp water that laughs as

You turn blue and forget to breathe.

It holds you under and leaves you

Numb and asphyxiated.

I kept the image of him in mind—

Jesse’s silky straight-combed hair

That he always parted to the left,

Our father’s gold pocket watch

Cracked on the pavement under his arm,

His empty eyes, and the hot panic

Frozen on his blood-speckled face—

As I stepped into the office.

A man with thinnin’ white hair and

A ring of fat ‘round his neck

Had concern smeared thick across his face

When he saw me walkin’ up to his high desk.

“You’re Frank James,” he told me.

I put on a wily smile like Jesse’s and nodded.

“Governor Crittenden,” I said,

Placin’ my pistol in his hand,

“I surrender.”

- Cassandra Reinhart

His arm like a crutch.

As we walk up to the house,

I twist to untangle a silver

Cat from my ankles,

But he holds my hand.

“Don’t pet him,” he says,

“We don’t have any soap…”

He smiles and tells me his mother buys it,

Though I’ve never seen her there.

I push past green Indian beads

Strung like heavy rain.

They clatter against a door

That shuts with a hook-and-eye lock.

He lays the sketchbook on the mattress

And goes to call his mother.

He says she isn’t well.

No surface in the room is naked…

Objects strewn with color and care echo

Kandinsky. Clay pots shaped like toads,

A drum set without snares, a hole in the wall

Looks like a Christmas stocking.

Coffee rings glue bits of paper to his desk,

Jars of cigarette butts line shelves,

Books and records form a cityscape

Against a window with foggy panes.

I leave the room’s greatest mystery

Closed on his bed.

He calls me on a mild afternoon,

And I sprint past the eager cat,

Rip through the beads of rain,

And crash into a tower

Of cardboard boxes labeled “Junk.”

The room is white and clean,

Empty, except for his sketchbook.

Flipping through its worn pages,

I see his mother for the first time.

She’s holding a cup of tea,

Steaming with graphite swirls.

She’s in a blue sequin flapper dress,

That shines in the paper light.

She’s in bed under fluorescents

Wearing hard-drawn bags under

Her fading gray eyes.

I see him through her, and I see her

Through him.

I find him out back, and kiss

His salty cheek. I walk into the

Bathroom to grab a towel and stop.

A brand new bar of Dove soap rests by the sink.

On the porch we sit by a cherry birdhouse

While I hold the silver cat.

-Cassandra Reinhart, Section 4