My face ignites and words
steam from my mouth before
I can stop them. “And I see
you’re still a supreme bitch.”
She doesn’t even blink. Even
a female dog wants her puppies
clean and wrinkle-free—unless,
of course, she’s a Shar Pei.
Touché.
Tony
Breakfast Is Cold
Well, okay, the eggs
are almost lukewarm,
but the butterlike
substance won’t melt
on the toast. Everything
gags me, trying to go down.
The mood is cool, too.
Too much excitement
yesterday plus a late
med delivery. If everyone
else feels like me, we
all want to go back to bed.
And then, of course,
we have visiting day
to deal with. I guess
a few of these freakazoids
might like seeing their
families come Saturday.
But my hunch is most
of them find themselves
here because of the scene
back home. Someone
had to check them in—
like who would volunteer?
Across the room, Vanessa
picks at her eggs, like she’s
looking for bugs. She’s
sitting alone, like she always
does. Funny, ’cause most
of the girls buddy up like hens.
I wonder what pain she’s
got bottled up inside, what
secrets she refuses to tell.
I wonder if making her
mother “real” is the only
thing she’s afraid of.
I’ve Got My Own
Fears to face in a few
minutes, the main one
being I’ll blow it again.
I didn’t even realize how
pissed I was at my dad
until we were three feet apart.
Anthony, boy, you got
the Ceccarelli temper,
Ma always used to say.
Be careful, or it will
burn you out early,
just like your father.
One of the few things
I do remember about
him, in fact, was his
temper. He’d come
home to Ma’s less-than-
mediocre housekeeping,
throw down his briefcase.
Emma? Turn off the TV
and get your ass out
here. What exactly
do you do all day,
besides soap operas?
That was when he thought
soap operas was all she did.
I knew about her playing
around years before he did.
Came home from school
more than once to hear
bedsprings squeaking,
disgusting human noises.
Once or twice I got brave
enough to crack the door
and peek inside to see
what no kid ever should.
But That’s a Different Story
Than the one I’m going
to tell now, with Dr. Boston
mediating this time.
Please come in, Tony,
she says. Sit right over
there, next to your father.
He doesn’t stand this
time, the “no hug” rule
in effect. “Hello, Dad.”
Hello, Anthony. First,
I want to apologize for
the last time I was here.
I shrug. “No worries.
We both have some
things to work through.”
That’s why we’re here,
chirps the Widow. Let’s
start with you, Tony.
Can you tell us, in one
sentence, why you’re so
angry at your father?
One sentence, to sum
up years of resentment?
I will not cry! Will not!
“Because he chose not
to be part of my life, not even
when I needed him the most.”
Fair enough. Can you
respond to that in one
sentence, Mr. Ceccarelli?
Dad thinks a second.
I stayed away because I
couldn’t stomach the guilt.
Communication.
Vanessa
Breakfast Is Lousy
But even if it were perfect,
I couldn’t taste a thing.
I’m neither up nor down
today, just cruising in shades
of gray—a cold, colorless
place, something like
being dead, I guess.
Maybe I am dead
and just don’t know it yet.
Some people say ghosts
don’t know they’re dead,
so they keep moving
through the same old
buildings, the same old
streets, trying to talk
to people there, to find
out why they can waltz
through plaster walls
like they’re water.
I think that would give
me a pretty good clue.
Far as I know, I can’t
pass through a wall.
Think I should try?
Enough, already. I add
my plate to the “scrape
and rinse” stack, almost
wishing they would give
me kitchen duty—unlikely,
considering my passion
for sharp instruments.
But it would give me something
to concentrate on besides
seeing Grandma in an hour
or so. It makes her so sad
to visit me here.
And that makes me sad.
Sad, and cruising gray.
I Go Back to My Room
Think about trying
to walk through the wall,
opt for the door instead;
dig through my drawers
for my favorite denim
skirt and a light blue cotton
blouse, long-sleeved;
lay them out on the bed,
as if I were in them.
Before I change, there’s
something I have to do.
The bandage is long gone
from my left hand, and my fingers
almost work right again.
There’s a pretty scar,
like little knots, joining
hand to arm. If I cut there,
I’ll ruin the artwork.
I look at my right wrist,
wearing a bracelet
of little scabs. Can’t cut
there. Someone will see.
Through the gray haze,
a cloud of frustration rises.
But I’ve got a new secret
weapon. Yesterday, when
all was in chaos, I noticed
an empty Coke can in a wastepaper
basket. No one
observed as I reached
down, extracted the pull top.
I remove it from its hiding
place beneath my dresser.
Run one finger lightly
over its lovely saw-toothed
edge. Place
it on the fold line inside
my left elbow. Close my
eyes and let it bite. Easy
now, a shallow cut is all
I need to slice through the gray.
Five After Eleven
I walk into Dr. Stair’s office,
dressed in the clean denim skirt
and blue cotton blouse,
smiling at the deception,
wrapped
in toilet paper,
hidden beneath long sleeves.
Grandma comes over,
gives me a hug, and I
hope she doesn’t wonder
why I don’t hug back
with much enthusiasm.
You look so pretty today,
Vanessa. Blue suits you.
Dr. Starr interrupts the syrupy
stuff. Your grandmother
and I have been talking,
Vanessa. Please have a seat.
Now, why haven’t you
told me about your mother?
I feel the smile slip from
my face but don’t know
exactly how to respond.
“Wh-what about her,
exactly?” I bend my left
arm, squeeze tightly, wince
at the beautiful pain.
You never mentioned
her BPD. Bipolar disorder
happens to be genetic.
Did you know that?
She waits for me to nod.
It’s also very treatable.
So why haven’t you
said anything?
I smile at the throb
in the crook of my
left arm. “You never
asked.”
Conner
Postcards from Home
That’s what my parents’ visit
reminded me of. Dad talked
about my straight-A status,
my goal of a law degree.
He must maintain his GPA,
agreed Mom. I expect you’ll
see to it, Dr. Starr. I feel
the need to underline that.
That was funny—Mom
made the bulldog blink.
That will be up to Conner,
I’m afraid, Mrs. Sykes.
Dad talked about sports.
He’s a star running back.
I hope this experience
won’t bar him from playing.
Conner will have to remain
on medication for some
time. His coach will drug-test—
that’s a foregone conclusion.
And that made Mom blink.
Medication? What do you
mean? Surely you have no
expectation we’ll allow
him to use drugs? That
goes against everything
we stand for as parents.
Who knows how he’d end up?
Dr. Starr cleared her throat.
Conner is suffering from
severe depression. Prescription
medication is his best hope.
Did They Even Know
I was in the room? Did
they care? “Hello, everyone.
Conner to Earth. Are any
of you even aware
that I’m sitting right here?
Quit talking about me like
I don’t belong in this
conversation. Don’t you get
that in the space of just
a few months I’ll be all
by myself, out on my own,
and none of you will matter?”
Well spoken, if maybe
a bit blunt. But it wasn’t
a touchdown. More like
an ineffectual punt.
Mom picked up the ball at
a hard sprint. I just don’t
understand how you could
treat us with so little regard.
We have standing in this
community, a reputation
to protect. Did you expect
to act with impunity?
“I’m sure you can’t understand
this, Mom, but everything
isn’t about you.” I looked her
in the eye, willed myself calm.
“What I did had nothing to do
with you. It was about letting
myself feel—desire, pain, fear.
Emotions you don’t permit.”
Totally Straightforward
In fact, maybe as honest
as I’ve ever been, but did
they get it? No frigging way.
They’ll never understand.
At least the bulldog was cool.
Let’s all relax, shall we?
Assigning blame and laying
guilt won’t change the facts.
Conner seems to be doing
well. He has opened up
in therapy and I believe
he will excel in the classroom.
What we need to work on
now is the family dynamic.
But without your cooperation,
I don’t see how that’s possible.
Mom reacted about as
expected. We’re here, aren’t
we? Don’t you dare say that we have
neglected to cooperate.
What I mean, Mrs. Sykes,
is that we must tone down
the rhetoric. It’s the only
way to mitigate confrontation.
No more, no less, time was up.
Dad reached for my hand, shook
it good-bye, just like a client.
I’m glad you’re making progress.
Mom refused to look at me,
so I took the high road. “Bye,
Mom.” And as I turned to
go, Dr. Starr said, “Conner? Level
Three.”
Tony
Guess My Level Three Status
Is safe for now. It
was good to hear
from Dad’s lips that he
took some blame
for the things that have
happened in my life.
God knows there’s
enough blame to go
around, Anthony,
he said. But it breaks
my heart to know
that maybe I could
have made things
easier, saved you
pain. I had it all
wrong last time,
Anthony, when I said
I could forgive you.
See, I asked the Man
Upstairs for forgiveness.
He told me I had to
ask you first. Forgive
me, son, for not
being a father to you.
It was like he dropped
a half ton of bricks,
straight into my belly.
If God really had something
to do with this, how
could I say no? On the other
hand, how could I be
sure, 1. God did have
something to do with
it and, 2. Dad really
meant what he said?
“I need to think it over.”
We Left It at That
Better than how we
left things last time,
for sure. I even let
him give me a hug
good-bye. It felt really
weird, uncomfortable
for both of us. I think
I even held my breath,
and when he let go, I
felt numb, like he’d squeezed
me too hard. Three
hours later I’m still numb.
I don’t know if I can
step forward, let go
of a decade of hard
feelings, even if God
does want me to.
It’s a damn hard test.
Part of me says, What
the hell, give him a chance.
It’s not so much to ask.
Another part screams,
Another chance to what?
Screw you over again?
This totally sucks. I mean
I’ve been given something
I dreamed about for too
many years—the chance
to know my father again.
So why can’t I embrace him?
Things were so much
> easier when I was just
Tony, who nobody
cared about. Maybe
not better, but for real—
a whole lot simpler.
Think I’ll Wander
Down to the rec room.
See who else has been
shredded today.
Carmella waves as I
walk through the door.
Hey, Tony. What’s shaking?
“Nothing can shake
quite like you, dear.
Love your blouse.”
She glances down at
the flawless turquoise
silk. This ol’ thing? Thanks!
Carmella is great—a
part-time house mother
at age twenty-three.
My hunch is she won’t
last long. She cares
much too much about us.
In fact, from what
I’ve heard, the burnout
rate for staff at places
like this is exactly
three years. Seems
optimistic to me.
I can’t even imagine
dealing with a bunch
of emotional cripples,
not to mention a few
total wackos, day in,
day out, for three years.
And so, Tony, calls sweet
Carmella, come here,
tell me about your day.
Why not? Who knows?
Maybe she’s got a
personal line to the Man
Upstairs.
Vanessa
The Cat’s Out of the Bag
Grandma told Dr. Starr
all about Mama’s gear
shifting, and how she
ended up—minus my
relatively major part
in the soap opera, of course.
Glad Grandma doesn’t
know all my secrets.
Vanessa is very protective