to
rest
day five
When I wake up,
early in the morning,
the sun barely
visible
and the blackness
disappearing
just enough
so I can see,
I go outside
and look
for the angel I made.
She’s gone,
of course,
covered by
fresh, new snow.
I make another one.
When I’m done,
I don’t get up.
I stay there
and dream of
flying away
to the place
where angels
live happily
ever
after.
a message
And then
the real angel visits again,
her light
illuminating the world
around me.
I try to see her face,
but she appears to be
faceless.
Warmth engulfs
and soothes me,
like a warm bubble bath
on a cold winter’s night.
She whispers my name.
“Alice.”
I can’t make my lips
say her name.
“Don’t give up,” she says so softly,
I can hardly hear her.
“Help is coming.”
Then, as quickly
as she appeared,
she’s gone again.
one last try
After seeing
the angel again,
a surge of energy
fuels me.
Ivy’s cries
pull me up
to face reality
one more time.
I make another fire,
and throw part of my
heart on it
when I break my guitar
against a tree
and place it there.
Heartbroken.
The orange flames
pop and grow,
blazing brightly.
I feel Blaze’s presence
in the fire,
and it gives me strength.
I think back
to when Vic and I
sang campfire songs.
I wish she were here
to sing with me now.
As the fire burns,
wood turning to ash,
death fills my mind,
and I swear to myself
there can be
no more.
When the fire
is big and strong,
I place the floor mats there,
to make more
dark smoke.
It works.
I kneel by the fire,
thinking of Victoria
and all she
must have endured,
and hate myself
for not making her stay.
When the car
runs out of gas
a little while later,
I feed Ivy
the last
of the formula.
And then I strip us down
so I can give her
the heat of my body
in the sleeping bag.
As I hold her
and look
at her little eyes,
her little nose,
her little mouth,
and her little fingers and toes,
I remember my mother’s words.
Find the gift in the little things.
And remember, I am with you always.
I didn’t see the gift.
Just like I didn’t see
the angel made of stars
in the painting at first,
I didn’t see the gift in Ivy.
But I do now.
And I want to enjoy the gift
for years
and years
to come.
at last
Ivy and I
are sleeping,
deep inside
the sleeping bag,
when I hear
something.
Is it the angel?
Has she come back?
Like that morning
weeks ago,
I don’t open my eyes.
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
Every part of me
seems to be
frozen.
“Ali, sweetheart, we’re here.
Hang on, honey.
Just hang on.”
Dad?
Am I dreaming?
up, up, and away
There is lots of noise.
There is the feeling of flying.
There is my body being poked and prodded,
and warmth and tingling.
There is me thinking, I did it.
I made it.
There is also me wondering,
Am I the
only
one?
floating
A warm pillow
holds my head.
A warm hand
holds mine.
A warm voice
speaks to me.
I float
in the warmth.
Like I’m
floating along
on a warm,
soft cloud.
I like
it here.
Safe.
Soft.
Warm.
holding on
She visits me.
She rubs my back.
She kisses my cheek.
My angel.
She is as clear as the sky
on a winter day
when the storm has passed
and all that’s left
is baby blue.
“Did they make it?” I ask.
“Alice, you have to go back.”
“Please tell me. I have to know.”
She pulls me to her,
holds me,
and strokes my hair,
just like I did
with Ivy.
“You were so brave,” she whispers.
Tears spring
from nowhere
and everywhere.
My heart cries the loudest.
I don’t want to face the truth.
I don’t want to go back.
I don’t want to leave
my angel
of a mother.
torn
“I miss you,” I cry.
“I miss you so much.”
She holds me
like she used to
before bedtime.
The words
from her painting
sing in my brain.
I am with you always
But it makes me mad
because it’s
not really
true.
I squeeze her,
wanting to hold on forever,
afraid of what will happen
when I let go.
Finally
she pulls away,
but I clutch
her hand tightly
in mine.
“I don’t want to go,” I tell her.
She cups my chin
with her other hand,
and her soft eyes
hug mine.
“You don’t belong here, honey.”
“But Mom, I’m losing you.
It’s getting harder and harder to find you.”
She kisses my forehead.
“Honey, no matter where you are, I’m with you.
When the breeze brushes your cheek, that’s me.
When the stars sparkle and shine, that’s me.
When the tulips bloom in the spring, that’s me.”
The little things.
She’s there,
in the little things.
Voices
from far away
shake me.
Dad calls
my name.
She squeezes my hand and says,
“It’s time to go.
But I’ll be with you.”
“Mom, what was your favorite part in Alice in
Wonderland?
I can’t remember, and I have to know.”
“It’s a famous line of Alice’s.
About going back to yesterday.
You’ll find it. When you get home.”
Home.
Where I belong.
With Dad.
With Blaze.
With Claire.
With Ivy (I hope).
Home.
And then
I’m floating again.
Falling
and floating
through a sky
filled with love.
So much love.
Everywhere.
I land softly
next to Dad,
where he whispers in my ear,
“Don’t leave me, Ali.
Please.
I can’t lose you, too.”
part 3
family keeps us warm
gone but not forgotten
The light lingers,
but then
begins
to
fade.
Lighter
and lighter,
softer
and softer,
until
it disappears
completely.
baby, oh baby
My eyes
flutter open
and meet his.
Tears
of joy
pour
forth.
“Ali,” he whispers.
“Is she—?” I croak.
“What, honey?
What do you need?”
“Ivy,” I say.
A kiss
on my forehead,
his stubble
tickling
my skin.
“She’s fine,” he tells me,
tears still falling
from his face to my pillow.
“You kept her safe.
And I’m so proud of you.”
My eyes close
as I try to keep
my own tears
contained.
But there is one more question
that lingers.
I start to say it.
I start to say
the other name
I’m thinking of.
But I can’t
because I know
his tears of joy
will quickly turn
to tears of grief.
And I have already
seen enough of those
to last
ten lifetimes.
wishing
Dad puts a straw
into my mouth
and I sip.
The cool water
soothes my throat.
But not the pain I feel.
I wish I hadn’t had a fight with Claire.
I wish I hadn’t broken my phone.
I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep while we drove.
I wish I’d found the lighter sooner.
I wish I’d made her stay.
I wish
I wish
I wish…
She probably
took a thousand
painful steps
for a baby
who will never know
her mother.
A thousand
painful steps
for me.
I wish I’d
taken those steps
instead.
what did you say?
I close my eyes,
tighter this time,
like that morning
so long ago
when they left
for the hospital.
Who was that person
so angry at Dad
for loving again?
Dad reaches over,
says to me,
“And Ali,
Victoria—”
“No,” I gasp,
my voice hoarse.
Another
forehead kiss,
and a smoothing
of my hair
by his strong hand.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers,
“she’s okay.”
My eyes
pop open,
needing to see
his lips
speak the
words I thought
I heard.
“What?
What did you say?”
“She’s alive.
She found help.
And she helped us find you.”
This time
I don’t try
to contain
my tears.
I
just
let
them
f
a
l
l
like
order, please
The IV
pumps fluids
through my veins.
The longer I am awake,
the hungrier I get.
The nurse asks me
to choose from the menu.
I ask her,
“Can I have it all?”
Dad laughs at that,
and then he says,
“I guess she’s going to be just fine.”
melting
When Blaze walks in,
any coldness
that remains
melts completely
away.
Nothing
has ever looked
so good,
so perfect,
so absolutely
hot.
The nurse
is checking my vitals,
so he waits
for her to finish.
I want to ask her
if my heart rate
shot up
at the sight
of my boyfriend,
but I don’t.
I don’t have to ask anyway.
I know it did.
He does that to me.
He’s always done that to me.
After she leaves,
he is there,
on my bed,
holding me and
kissing
every inch
of my face.
“God, Ali.
I thought I’d lost you.”
“Shhhhhh,” I tell him.
“Don’t talk.
Not yet.
Just hold me.
Please.
Just hold me.”
And so
he does.
Because
that
is what I missed
most of all.
answered prayers
After lots of holding,
I tell him
about our days
in the car,
about chips and ketchup,
which kept us nourished,
and the sleeping bag
that kept us warm,
and the guitar I burned
that kept us hopeful,
and the story of Alice
that kept us company,
and how it’s all of that
and so much more
that kept us
alive.
He shivers
at times,
like he’s in the car
with us.
I shiver
at times,
because it’s hard
reliving it all again.
When I’m finished,
he tells me
how search teams were formed,
how he begged to go and help,
but his mom
/>
wouldn’t let him go,
so he walked around in a daze,
unable to eat or sleep or work.
We’re quiet for a minute,
mentally walking
in the other one’s
shoes.
He kisses me.
A long,
warm,
soft
kiss
that reminds me
of watching
a pink-and-orange sunset
as the fireflies appear.
When we’re done,
he pulls out the key chain.
“Ali, every day,
I held this,
and I prayed you’d come back to me.”
“Really?”
He shrugs.
“Who else could I turn to?”
I smile, and ask him,
“So does that mean you’ll go to church with me
sometime?”
He laughs and says,
“You know what? Maybe I will.”