And find a cheap plastic surgeon.
Can’t go around looking like this.
“You’ll always be beautiful, Pippa.
Oh. Just called my flight. See you soon.”
Hey. One thing before you go. Try
to forgive your dad. Easy to say,
hard to do, I know. But if you don’t,
you’ll beat yourself up forever. Be safe.
“You, too. Have a happy Christmas.”
Who the hell made her so wise?
Squished into a Middle Seat
At the very back of the plane, not
much to do for three and a half hours,
I entertain myself with my laptop
for a while, but after the drink service
and two Jack Daniel’s, I put it away
and sink into an alcohol-enhanced stupor.
I close my eyes, wishing back-row
seats reclined and wondering if
someone might be joining the Mile
High Club in the lavatory behind me,
or if people ever pay random strangers
for the experience. I will myself to nap.
Floating. Floating. Someone taps
my arm and I straighten, ready to let
my seatmate out to go to the bathroom.
Except he’s sleeping, and the seat on
the aisle is empty. So why does it seem
occupied? I extend my hand into
the space, and for just a second, I feel
him there. “Dad?” The barest hint
of fingertips brush my cheek
before vanishing, and I know.
He’s Gone
He didn’t wait for me. Was that by
design, or did he try to hang on?
“No.” It’s not even a whisper. “Why?”
Why did you leave without saying
goodbye? Except, you did, didn’t you?
Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?
“I forgive you, too.” It’s important
I say those words out loud, to steep
them in meaning. The man beside me
stirs, and I swallow the sound of my tears.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was only
a by-product of my buzz. Yeah, that’s it.
So why do I shiver at the skin pluck
of goose bumps? I close my eyes again,
am vaguely aware when the aisle seat
refills with a flesh-and-blood human.
Window-seat man begins to snore.
I want another drink. But now the captain
informs us we’re on our final descent
into Detroit, where the temperature
is five degrees Fahrenheit, under
a light snowfall. The flight attendant
adds an apology for our late start,
reminds us many connections have
also been delayed. Mine was hours
away and even if the Evansville
flight is on time, I’ll have to wait
at least an hour to board it, which
proves to be the case. When we touch
down, out come the cell phones. That
includes mine. The expected message
from Aunt Kate has not yet appeared,
so I text her first. DAD DIDN’T MAKE IT.
The forty-one rows in front of me
deplane first, and I am most of the way
to my connecting gate before the bell
on my phone sounds, signaling her
response: I’M SO SORRY, SETH. HIS
PASSING WAS PEACEFUL. BUT HOW
DID YOU KNOW? How did I know, indeed?
If I tell her, she’ll think I’m crazy.
“Gay” is probably bad enough.
One Word
Keeps surfacing on the ninety-
minute flight to Evansville: lost.
So many things lost to me, and
much too soon. My mother, claimed
by cancer before I could ever even
try to make her understand the “me”
of me. My identity, through the early
years of my childhood, not because
I couldn’t see it, but because of what
was expected of me. My faith, stolen
by one who claimed to stand fast
representing it. One deviated priest,
and my God was taken from me.
And Dad, who deserted this world
in favor of the next where, he believed,
the love of his life awaits him in
eternity. But where lies the key
to heaven’s gate? In dogma or ancient
scripture? Or might it be found within
the creeds of love and forgiveness?
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Deserting This World
Would be easy. The Lady
would make it a gentle ride.
So why has it taken me this
long to recognize that fact?
What’s the point of
fighting
to hold on to solid
footing, when slipping
toward darkness
requires almost no
effort and the struggle
to live
a routine existence
is an uphill battle?
Anyway, how can “average”
be a goal for someone
like me, who is
tempted
by the extraordinary
and drawn toward
the unexpected?
It must be better
to die
a quick death
than to stare at the clock,
as the hours drag you toward
the very same inevitable
conclusion.
Whitney
What Have I Done?
After everything I managed
to live through—barely—before,
eking out a slender escape
from the hands of death, knotted
around my throat, how can
I invite the demon king
back into my life?
I. Am. An. Addict.
There is zero doubt of that,
and not only am I addicted to
the sensuous dance with the poppy,
but I am one hundred percent hooked
on the son of a bitch sleeping
beside me. Why did I call Bryn?
In less than five minutes,
he convinced me to leave
the relative safety of the mall
and take a drive to the beach,
despite the fact I understood
there was treachery in his motive.
I’d asked for the heroin,
that wasn’t his fault, and he didn’t
need to twist my arm to make me
take a whiff. Oh, I wanted to visit
the Lady, and she was everything
I remembered. One tiny taste,
every drop of fear melted like candle
wax tongued by flame.
Then Bryn kissed me. Things
are a little hazy this morning,
but I think I asked him to.
I haven’t wanted a man near
me in a very long time,
but Bryn is the man who taught
me what it means to be a woman
(if not a lady), and his practiced
touch rekindled the passion
I’d truly believed died in Vegas.
He laid me back on a pillow
of sand, and though it was cool,
the billowing heat of my body
warmed it soon enough. I closed
my eyes, and didn’t move,
just let him take me all the way
there, listening to the serenade
of surf beneath the steady,
building beat of my heart.
And when he said he loved me,
I stupidly confessed, ?
??Oh God,
I love you, too.” And that was all
I needed for him to convince me
to leave Santa Cruz behind again.
He is a masterful player.
And I have been played.
And I know I’ve been played.
And I invited the game.
The Question Is
Do I really want to keep playing,
knowing this game allows no
winners? I slip out from under
the covers, tiptoe into the little
bathroom, sit on the cracked
toilet seat, pee into the rust-stained
porcelain bowl. The experience
carries me straight back to Vegas,
a place I vowed never to return to.
We’re halfway there now, in
a seedy motel, all Bryn could find
off the freeway, two nights
before Christmas. Or maybe all
he could afford. I go to the sink
to wash my hands and can’t avoid
looking at the girl in the mirror.
She stares back at me with mascara-
stained eyes, still holding vestiges
of the H inside them, and she insists,
You’re better than this. He says
he won’t lock you back in his stable,
that when you were taken from him
he realized that you were the only
girl he loved. But you know it’s a lie.
She’s right. He lies, and the Lady
is a liar, too, but last night, held
in her arms, I finally felt right.
It Would Be So Easy
To go back into the other
room for that little plastic
bag of powdered courage.
Snort myself brave.
Chase the dragon, and
smoke myself fearless.
Send Bryn into a drug-
store for clean needles.
Shoot myself heroic.
How many heroes require
such encouragement
to face their enemies,
conquer them—or not?
Dope or no, you’ll never
be a hero, says Girl-in-
the-Mirror, and your past
is the enemy. Tomorrow
embraces hope. Yesterday
holds despair. It’s not too
late to turn back around.
“Shut up,” I tell her, then
turn the shower faucet
as hot as I can get it, do
my best to steam away
the lingering tendrils of H,
and scrub the scent
of Bryn from my skin.
No Clean Clothes
I put on yesterday’s, then
reach into my purse, past
the plastic bag, to find my
hairbrush. On its way out,
it bumps my cell, which
I’ve tried to avoid, knowing
there’ll be messages from Mom.
I go ahead and check them
as I wrangle the snarls from
my hair. As expected,
she’s left quite a few.
I’M HERE TO PICK YOU UP.
WHERE ARE YOU?
WHITNEY? I’M HERE.
WHERE ARE YOU?
WHITNEY, ARE YOU OKAY?
WHERE ARE YOU?
WHITNEY?
WHERE ARE YOU?
There are voice mails, too,
including one from Dad:
Whitney, your mother called.
She’s worried sick. Where are you?
There’s even one from James.
Hey, Whitney. I was hoping
to see you today. Where are you?
Good question.
Where the fuck am I?
All Sense
Of feeling right dissolves
completely. James. Damn.
I might have had an actual
shot at something like a normal
relationship. That’s gone now.
Bryn stirs in bed, rolls
over and into awareness.
It takes him a minute to
realize where he is and who
he’s with. Whitney. Right.
Morning, babe. He smiles,
lifts back the covers.
How about a little lovin’?
Once upon a time, I would
have been tempted. Instead,
I’m sort of creeped out, and
shake my head. “Not right
now. I already showered.”
Hey, that’s okay. I’ve got
nothing against a clean
woman, although raunchy
is usually better. He laughs
at his own stupid joke,
very much resembling a hyena.
I’ve a made a huge mistake.
But how do I rectify that?
The Direct Approach
Is the only way. “Hey, Bryn.
I’ve been thinking. As much
as I’ve missed you, I can’t go
back to Vegas. I really don’t
want to be in the life again
and I know that’s where I’ll
end up. I’m so, so sorry, but
will you please take me home?”
All signs of humor vanish
from his face. He sits up,
swings his feet over the side
of the bed to the floor. Home?
I do hope you’re kidding, bitch.
His voice drips menace like
venom. Surely you wouldn’t
have asked me to drive all
the way to Santa Cruz just to
deliver some dope, would you?
Every nerve in my body
jumps to attention. This
is a royal fuckup. “I . . .
uh . . . okay, listen. You
don’t have to take me back.
I’ll call my parents to come
pick me up or I’ll take a bus
or something. Look. I was
in a bad place, and you came
to mind, and I just wanted
to hear your voice, and—”
And you called and begged
me to come to you. He stands,
starts toward me. Because
you can’t forget how good
I was to you, and you know
you’ll never find anyone else
who’ll love you the way I do.
I watch his approach, half
hypnotized by his confident
motion, not to mention
the way he can make me
believe that he really does
love me. But now that he’s
close enough to look into
his eyes, the predator rises,
and I understand that I’m
in major trouble unless I
play this hand well. “I know
you love me, Bryn, and I
love you, too. I always will.”
I take a small backward
step, and Bryn counters,
reaching out for me. “Stop.”
Stop? Oh, I can’t stop now,
pretty Whitney. You’re mine,
and that means I can do whatever
I please with you, whore.
He Lunges at Me
I manage to sidestep, but
he’s between me and the door,
no way out but past him.
“Please, Bryn. I won’t bother
you again.” I try to circle
him, but he lunges for me
again. This time he catches
hold of my shirt, jerks and
I am in his grasp. I’ll never
let you go again. The first
thing I’m going to do is fuck
you dirty. I actually hate clean.
He pushes me facedown
on the bed, ignoring my weak
plea to leave me a
lone. Just
as he starts to rip at my clothes,
there’s pounding on the door.
What the fuck? Who is it?
Bryn yells, then he hisses
at me, Keep your mouth shut
or I’ll kick your ass, hear?
Police. Open the door.
“Help me!” I scream, ready
for Bryn’s blows. Unbelievably,
he chooses defeat, backs away,
and I have, once again, been rescued.
I’ll Never Forget
This Christmas Eve—the one
I spend in custody of the Kern
County Sheriff’s Office
waiting for my parents to come
pick me up. Bryn was arrested,
charged with rape and kidnapping
with the intent of trafficking
a child under the age of seventeen.
With all the crazy commotion,
I managed to sneak the heroin
out of my purse and toss it
under a car in the parking lot
without being spotted. I swear
I will never touch that shit
again. This time I’ll work
the programs, choose a sponsor,
quit relying on substances
to see me through tough times.
Probably. I hope. I have to.
The cops are nice. After all,
it’s Christmas Eve and I’m a heisted
teenager who was on her way
to market. I don’t confess
that I called the alleged broker,
invited his advances, though
surely my mom and dad suspect
that’s the way it went down.
Neither do I ask how they found me.
My Parents Pick Me Up
The two, together, as if they
actually need each other to lean on.
So weird. After wading through
the paperwork, it’s late afternoon
by the time we start the four-hour
drive home. The first sixty or
so miles are mostly silent. Finally,
I say, “I know you’re pissed, and
I don’t blame you. I’m really, truly
sorry. Guess I’m not fixed yet, but
I want to be, and I need your help.”
Now comes the barrage:
Who is he? Where did you meet
him? When? And most of all, Why?
I answer them fairly honestly,
right up until the last one
because I don’t know why.
“I was really scared I’d never
see you again. I tried to get
away, but he was too strong.
Please, Mom. Please, Dad.
I want to get well, I want