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Authors: Tracie Vaughn Zimmer

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BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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on stroke recovery by ten tonight—

and she’ll talk the talk like a veteran nurse.

But me, I hold Gran’s curled hand

and let my silent tears

drip like the IV.

today’s special: guilt

Mom sends me to the cafeteria

to get some food and bring back coffee.

I stand in the line,

choose a bagel,

an apple juice with a tinfoil top.

Everything is prepackaged, wrapped

in plastic.

It’s not that different from school:

doctors sit together,

and nurses,

and the cafeteria and sanitation workers

wear hairnets.

I shrink into a corner.

The wallpaper, the chairs,

even the landscapes

share the same teal color,

so it’s hard to pretend interest.

My thoughts splintered

and my insides shattered

as broken glass.

Gran.

blurt

I must’ve lost track of time,

because Mom appears in the cafeteria.

When she asks me what happened

I blurt:

“I’ve been skipping the clinic all week.”

My hand covers my mouth.

I didn’t mean for that to come out first—

more like last,

or better yet,

never.

Fire crawls up her face;

she stands with her tray and

just a little past loud she says,

“You what?”

And the hospital hushes;

some doctors turn and stare,

the hairnets freeze in their seats,

looking for invisible insects on walls.

She swallows,

sits down.

Her face matches her hair.

In a voice that doesn’t seem my own

I answer.

“You didn’t bother to
ask
me;

I didn’t bother to
tell
you.”

She shoots up out of her seat like something bit her.

Crosses her arms, starts to speak but then

walks out.

granny’s purse

In the closet at home

hangs Granny’s purse—

brown vinyl, almost as big as my backpack.

Ask her for anything,

she usually has it:

paper clip, safety pin, mint,

emery board, lip balm.

It’s a walking drugstore.

And seeing it

still hanging on its peg

in the hall closet

and her not home

makes this whole nightmare

real.

While Mom calls her friend, a nurse,

I slip into the closet,

pull the purse from the hook,

and stroke it like it’s a small wounded

animal, swallowing sobs.

refusal

In the morning Mom wakes me,

tells me to get ready

for the clinic.

I can’t believe she

expects me

to return.

“No.”

“What did you say to me?”

“No. I won’t go.”

“I’ll just make you.”

“I won’t do what they say

even if you do.”

She stomps out of my room,

slams my door;

in five minutes, she reappears

with a list of two dozen chores.

“You’ll regret it then, Josie.

And don’t you even think

about leaving this yard.”

After work, she won’t even speak

to me.

only the birds

The Morse-code tap of Jordan’s knock,

missing.

The hymns Gran hummed,

silent.

The friendly ring of the phone,

mute.

The soap operas Gran pretended not to watch,

outlawed.

Only the birds,

fat on their feeders,

are happy I’m home—

grounded alone.

i miss

I miss

Jordan’s

questioning brown eyes,

his curly hair,

his busy building hands.

I miss his

strings of facts,

experiments off track,

long days

just knowing he’s there.

tending

Gran’s philodendron’s arms droop

and mourn;

the tips of the violets are crispy around the edge

as if a match were held there;

the lacy green gloves of tomato plants curl back,

hiding from the sun’s angry stare.

Regret,

my only friend,

listens to recordings of my lies

as they play over again in my mind.

Kneeling and tending

I beg the plants:

live

live

live.

empty

The front of the oven looks blank

without Gran’s wide frame

stationed there,

and the flower blooms seem to mock her

absence;

the lace of the hammock curled

like a chrysalis

waits for her return.

Jordan’s experiments

in his three-square plot

lie abandoned,

forgotten,

left behind like me.

For the first time I feel

as broken inside

as everyone must see

on the outside.

choked by kudzu

There’s this vine

called kudzu

someone brought over from

Japan,

trying to make

here

look more like

there.

Thing is,

that vine goes

crazy in this climate,

blanketing whole forests.

No sunlight

or even fresh air

can get under the umbrella

of its leaves

so things can breathe

and grow.

The way Mom and I don’t talk

out what happened

grows between us

until the air

feels

choked

like

those

trees.

awake

After Mom’s long day at the nursery

we head to the ICU,

stuffing our faces with fast food on the way,

which covers up the not talking—nearly.

After three long days,

just when hope

starts to fade,

Gran’s eyes flutter.

She squeezes the doctor’s hand

and pulls the tubes

out of her nose,

but she looks so confused

when what she tries to say

comes out like a mouthful of marshmallows.

The worry lines etched

around Mom’s eyes fade,

and across the tubes

and the high metal bed

our eyes meet

for just a flash

and a smile.

full of lies

A letter from Jordan:

it’s filled with details

about experiments with liquid nitrogen,

helium, and bases.

About a half-dozen kids’ names

litter the letter.

I decide not to tell him

about Gran—

not because

I’m a good friend

and don’t want to ruin his summer,

‘cause I kind of do.

I write replies I’ll never send—

about a new neighbor who loves

insects,

the science festival downtown,

weekends spent camping

with Mom and Gran in the mountains—

all lies

about the summer I wish

I was having.

changes

The chores

Mom leaves each day

as punishment

have me falling asleep

almost after dinner:

weeding the gardens,

watering them too,

washing and scrubbing

under sinks, between tiles,

behind the refrigerator.

So when a cramp knocks

between my hip bones

again and again,

I’m sure it’s from the work.

Instead I’m surprised to find

my first blood stain.

I stand

on my bed, in just my panties,

to see myself full on in the mirror

and my hands follow curves

where once there were none.

visiting hours

At Lazy Acres I slip back into

old routines:

painting Mrs. Courtney’s

yellowing fingernails shell pink,

brushing Miss Ollie’s thinning

white hair.

Then Mr. Jakobs and I

sort out his baseball cards

by team and year.

I wheel Gran

down to rehabilitation—

those old tormentors of my own.

A cruel knot tied around my throat

to see her a patient here

instead of serving

her old friends.

small gifts

All morning I gather

every container

I can find—

vases, buckets, even large cups

from the convenience store.

I fill them with cool water from the hose.

I use both my hands, which ache

from the exercise, but I still manage

to cut every stem

of every bloom in the garden:

roses,

asters,

bee balm,

iris,

lilies,

Russian sage,

bachelor’s buttons,

coneflower,

coral bells.

Mom’s eyes well up when she sees

what I’ve done, but she still won’t cry.

She coughs, blinks, and starts loading

the Jeep full.

Tonight

Gran will sleep

in her garden.

a body can’t afford

Our old red Formica kitchen table

stands guard

out by the mailbox

each summer.

It’s usually loaded with our crop

of tomatoes

cucumbers, sweet corn, squash,

a scale sheltered

by a Tupperware lid,

plus my faded pink piggy bank.

Granny says

it’s an honor system.

She’s not one of those old people

who expects the worst

and sees it.

Nope, she hopes for the best

and usually gets it.

Besides, she always says,

if a body can’t afford the thirty-five cents

a pound,

they probably need the vegetables

more than we need the coins

for our dishwasher fund.

I watch people slow down,

looking for the table of Gran’s organic bounty,

but the vegetables Gran’s hands produced

this year we won’t share.

paroled

Paroled.

It takes me hours,

but I finally write,

tell Jordan about Gran,

and close with hopes

that he has a good final week

and mean it—

like a real friend

would.

like sun

Gran’s coming home! Home!

It feels like the first butterfly

or the golden notes of cardinals

or a whole bed of poppies ablaze.

We can bring her home.

Mom needs to drop off a design

at the nursery. Her office,

not much bigger than a closet,

but I’m impressed to see her name on the door

with manager and designer under it.

It’s all she wanted for those

years of school and waiting tables.

On the corner of her messy desk

a photo of me, a baby.

I pick it up, stare,

trying to find myself in

the drooling grin.

Mom plucks it, says:

“I really need a new picture.”

Then she looks me

straight in the eye for the first time

since she grounded me and says:

“I know you’re not a baby anymore.”

“How would you know?

I acted just like one.

I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I’m sorry too, Josie-bug.” I roll

my eyes at her silly nickname.

I promise Mom I’ll exercise and

wear my brace more, but

squeezing my courage, I add:

“But I don’t want to take

speech or OT at school anymore.”

She sorts papers silently. Finally answers:

“All right, Josie, but I’m hiring a private tutor

for one day after school.”

That’s fair, I guess.

“But then no more flash card sessions.

I’ll study by myself. Deal?”

Mom agrees and then tells me

about a plan for Edna to

come stay with Gran

one night a week so I can work

at the nursery with her.

Just the two of us.

And she asks me what I think.

“I’d like that, Mom.”

She pulls me to her

and I feel that old kudzu vine

ripped away between us

and the truth

like sun on my face.

everything looks greener

Summer’s nearly over,

but Granny’s home,

dragging her left foot,

her left hand

more useless than mine,

dangling by her hip.

Even her left eye and lip

look wilted.

Words crumble

in her mouth

before she can speak them.

Winded

just watering

the house plants,

she sits:

on the benches,

at the kitchen table,

across the daybed,

on the covered porch

that has never held her shadow

very long.

She’s home though,

and everything looks

greener with her in it.

soap and syrup

The Morse-code knock on

BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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