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Identical

Page 4

by Ellen Hopkins


  seen anyone flip from flirt to viper

  so quickly. Totally scary!

  She didn’t budge as we backed out

  of the parking space. Just stood

  there, boiling, not a word escaping

  her lips. But her eyes said plenty:

  I’ll get you back. Wait and see.

  I smiled, moved even closer to Mick,

  making steering problematic. Could

  you give me an inch or two, please?

  he said. I gave him a lot more than that.

  In fact, once we were well beyond

  Madison’s sight, I scooted clear over

  by the opposite door, clamped my mouth

  shut before I said something I’d regret.

  C’mon. Not my fault she’s still hot for me.

  He reached across the seat, grabbed

  hold of my arm. Pulled. When I resisted,

  he yanked harder. Hard enough to hurt.

  Hard enough to leave purple bruises.

  Someone smart would have screamed.

  Someone sane would have waited

  for a stop sign, thrown themselves free.

  Someone whole would have said no.

  Get the fuck over here and don’t give me shit.

  I did as instructed. Worse, I liked that he told

  me what to do. It meant he cared, really cared.

  Right? Whatever. “Did you score some bud?”

  I asked, more to change the subject than anything.

  Under the seat. Twist one up, okay? We headed

  out Happy Canyon Road, only horses and cattle

  to mind our business. We could have gone home—

  no one there—but I was still too mad for sex.

  You know you want me. You’d take slimy seconds.

  Gross. “Yeah, right. Like your pimply butt

  is such a turn-on.” It isn’t too pimply, and it’s

  kind of a turn-on, but that was beside the point.

  His hand brushed my left nipple. You love it.

  “Not while wondering who you’re thinking

  about, Madison or me.” I took a deep drag,

  held it. Took another without passing the joint,

  exhaling giant smoke puffs right in his face.

  Bogart. Pass that fucking thing over here.

  So I did, and once we were totally buzzed

  he pulled off onto a dirt ranch road, parked.

  No maid out here. Just birds and squirrels.

  Defenses lowered by excellent bud, I said

  okay to a quickie. Totally in control.

  In Control

  Out of control.

  Sometimes they’re

  the same thing.

  The trick is knowing

  that, realizing

  it’s okay to feel

  out of control

  once in a while,

  as long as

  you’re sure

  you can regain

  the upper hand

  when you

  absolutely need to.

  And really, when

  it comes to my

  reclaiming control,

  it comes down to one

  simple little thing,

  something I sometimes

  have difficulty with:

  saying no.

  I’ve Got to Learn

  To say no, and not only say

  it, but mean it. In some

  situations, not always

  the right ones, I know,

  I’m strong.

  Really strong. Tough,

  even. I guess, in a very odd

  way, I’m something of

  a survivor.

  But there are times when,

  much as I want to assert

  myself, know it’s the right

  thing to do,

  I can’t

  find the inner fortitude

  to follow through with a simple

  two-letter word. NO. One of

  the first words babies can

  understand,

  one of the first they learn

  to repeat. No. No, Mick, I won’t

  let you treat me with disrespect. No,

  Mick, and I don’t have to explain

  why I

  won’t let you touch me this time.

  Okay, so maybe I’m a little

  confused. Does being in control

  mean I have to cave in, have to

  crumble?

  Kaeleigh

  If Only

  I could say yes, Ian, get close to me.

  But it’s a place no one should ever be,

  and it would be cruel to let him think

  I’m strong

  enough to ever say yes, I need you.

  I start toward the pink stucco building,

  see Greta at the window. She’s

  a survivor,

  having defied the Nazis in World

  War II, smuggling Danish Jews into

  Sweden. They almost caught us twice,

  she remembers. But we outwitted them.

  I can’t

  comprehend that kind of courage.

  Funny thing. My friends (what few

  real friends I have) don’t

  understand

  why I work here at the Lutheran

  home. They think old people

  are lame. But they’re not. They’re

  awesome, and I know exactly

  why I

  think so. It’s because they’ve

  lived entire lifetimes. Loved.

  Laughed. Surrendered. Stumbled.

  Weathered, beaten, still they don’t

  crumble,

  not even as they inch toward death.

  I Work Part-Time

  Setting tables for dinner,

  washing dishes afterward,

  arranging flowers in vases,

  reading to those whose

  eyes no longer can. But

  the absolute best is when

  they share their stories. There’s Sam Lonnigan, who

  as a liberal-leaning broad-

  caster became snared by Joe

  McCarthy’s communist witch

  hunt. Commie? No way,

  not that his true ideology

  ever came into play.

  Miss High Fashion Spyre

  lost her modeling career

  when “skin-and-bones,

  raccoon-eyes Twiggy” hit

  the scene. Till then, curves

  were hip, she complains.

  Size subzero? Spare me! Also sharing words of

  wisdom are a fifties test

  pilot, three retired doctors,

  one author, one poet, two

  politicians, one Olympic

  medalist, four domestic

  divas, and Greta Sorenson.

  Greta Is My Faux Grandma

  It’s nice having her take on the grand-

  parent role, because I never see my own.

  Mom’s father was killed in Vietnam.

  Her mother, Grandma Betty, retired

  to Florida. She used to visit, but not

  since the accident. I don’t blame her.

  Daddy’s father and mother divorced

  when Daddy was still in grade school.

  The reasons were so ugly no one

  will talk about them. Other than

  a few creepy film noir–type scenes,

  I can hardly remember Grandma

  Gardella, can barely conjure her

  face. Daddy says she only ever

  came around looking for money.

  When I asked what for, he clammed

  up completely, except to say he

  wasn’t about to finance her binges.

  Grandpa and Daddy haven’t

  spoken in three decades. A few

  years ago I tracked Grandpa down,

  told him we were studying family

  genealogy in school. He had no clue />
  Daddy was married, let alone about

  Raeanne and me. Sheesh. He

  sent us birthday cards for a year

  or two, until Daddy found out.

  I’ll never forget the fit he threw.

  That sonofabitch better stay far,

  far away, or I swear I’ll kill him.

  When I asked him why, he had

  nothing substantial to say. I haven’t

  heard a word from Grandpa since.

  So I have a stranger for a grandma.

  At least she was a stranger until

  we got to talking. And now it’s like

  we’ve known each other forever.

  Not that she knows everything,

  a fact that she’s quite aware of.

  Pretty young woman like you,

  spending so much time with an old

  lady like me, instead of out

  with your friends? That can

  only add up to one thing—

  you’re hiding from something.

  Said with a sparkle in her ice

  blue Scandinavian eyes. But her

  tone was 100 percent serious.

  That’s okay, honey. You know

  you’re safe here with me. And if

  you ever want to talk about

  it, I’m a hell of a good listener.

  Meanwhile, why don’t I teach

  you to crochet? It’s a lost art.

  Sometimes, mid–slip stitch,

  I’ll catch those sharp blue eyes

  poking at me, as if trying to pierce

  my armor. So far, they haven’t

  succeeded. But, to tell the truth,

  once in a while they come close.

  Once in a While

  I catch something

  in her eyes, something

  not meant for me to see.

  Something very close

  to what she sees in mine:

  fear.

  Once, I gathered up

  all my courage, asked,

  “What are you afraid of?”

  She sat very quietly

  for several long minutes.

  Finally,

  she took a long, deep

  breath. Cleared her throat.

  Nothing. Now. But I used

  to be afraid all the time.

  I met evil when I was only a

  child.

  It followed me for many

  years, through adolescence,

  into adulthood. I married

  evil, but it was nothing new

  and so I accepted it. It was the

  wrong

  thing to do. Never accept

  evil as something you must

  walk with, something you

  deserve. Somehow. Do you

  understand what I mean?

  I nod, because I do

  understand. I’m just not

  sure how to go about

  divorcing myself from

  the evil I’ve already

  accepted.

  This Afternoon

  Greta is in her room, napping.

  Unusual. The pre-dinner hour

  is generally noisy, busy with

  afternoon activities designed

  to keep older minds exercised.

  Card games. Sing-alongs.

  Classes on memoir and poetry.

  I almost always find Greta

  smack in the middle of it all.

  Today she’s under the weather.

  I bustle around, doing assorted

  duties, every so often poking

  my head through her door. Shades

  drawn, her room is dark as a coffin.

  And why did I think that, exactly?

  That pulls my thoughts toward

  something she told me once, how

  she never really rested until she saw

  “that no-good son of a bitch”

  laid down in the hard, cold ground.

  I asked her who, but she was lost

  in reverie, stuck in some horrible

  memory, unable to extricate herself.

  I saw something in her eyes, though.

  Something that made me afraid for her.

  Hello? Miss Gardella? Sam calls

  from the confines of his wheelchair.

  Would you mind giving me a push

  to the rec room? The arthritis

  is acting up something awful today.

  I turn away from Greta’s sleeping

  form, softly close her door. “No

  problem, Sam. Sorry about the

  arthritis.” I give the brakes a nudge.

  “Hold on tight. Here we go.”

  One Problem About Caring

  For someone, especially someone

  who’s getting on in years,

  is the likelihood you’ll lose them

  too soon.

  The nurse says Greta has a flu

  bug, nothing major, but just

  the thought of her giving in to

  death

  makes me indescribably sad.

  I want to wake her, soothe

  her fever, tell her how much

  she means to me before it’s

  too late.

  Don’t worry, says Psychic Sam.

  No damn flu gonna take Greta

  down. I nod, thinking about

  going “down,” no last shot at

  redemption.

  That will likely be my fate.

  Done in by some viral villain,

  sent straight to the fiery pits,

  shackled by my silence,

  sentenced to

  spend eternity locked in

  a hot red chamber, no way

  to claim innocence and avoid

  an eternal

  dance with the devil.

  Raeanne

  Mick Picked Me Up

  And I made sure he kept

  me out extremely late. It’s always

  desirable not to get home

  too soon.

  I can’t always manage it, though.

  Daddy doesn’t always cooperate,

  drink himself to a state resembling

  death.

  Tonight Kaeleigh and I are in luck.

  The bitter perfume of bourbon

  smacks me as I stumble in. It makes

  me thirsty. It’s late, but never

  too late

  for one last shot. I tiptoe past

  Daddy’s snoring, ease the Wild

  Turkey from the table. Can’t

  really blame him for choosing

  redemption

  in a bottle. Two bottles, actually.

  One holds 750 ml of amber liquid.

  The other is small enough to fit

  in a pocket. Daddy has been

  sentenced to

  pain abatement à la OxyContin.

  The accident was eight years ago

  and his doctor keeps refilling,

  like he doesn’t know about Daddy’s

  dance with the devil.

  Like I Care

  Truth is, I borrow a little Oxy

  every now and then too. Not

  often, though. It’s expensive.

  Daddy would miss it, even if

  his dimwit doctor didn’t. I

  have to admit it’s tempting.

  It makes me feel like how

  you feel when you fall in

  a dream. Only you don’t

  wake up. You just keep

  falling deeper and deeper

  into the darkest recesses

  of sleep. Especially when

  you help it out with a nip

  or two of Wild Turkey.

  Of course, I have to be

  very careful not to do it

  when Daddy’s not trapped

  in the snare of sleep too.

  Wouldn’t do to be lying

  there unaware if he came

  crawling to me. No, I’d

 
; want to be totally ready.

  But it won’t be tonight.

  Fifth of whiskey beneath

  my arm, I slip noiselessly

  into the kitchen, pour two

  fingers, replace the bottle.

  Then I slither into Daddy’s

  bathroom, help myself to a

  small green pill. Just one.

  Just enough for a free fall

  totally without a parachute.

  My Bedroom Is Dark

  Quiet as death, and I keep it exactly

  that way. Even the bed cooperates,

  as I slide like a whisper under

  the cumbersome quilts, sit up in bed,

  motionless. I feel like I’m in

  a hollow black space. A cave.

  Empty. I chance a sip of Turkey.

  Have to wet my tongue before

  letting the Oxy dissolve. Slowly.

  Nasty. Another sip. Jet fuel, hot

  and acrid against my taste buds.

  Another time, another place, I’d let

  myself cough. Not now. Not here.

  Nothing to disturb the deep breaths

  resonating throughout the house.

  My tongue burns. My mouth

  tastes like crap. The spinning

  inside my head begins. Grins.

  I lie flat, give myself up to the

  Oxy/Turkey merry-go-round.

  Eyes closed, I start the tumble.

  Round. Round. Down. Down.

  Outside, the wind rouses suddenly.

  Branches scratch against the window

  and the sound, like something wants me,

  carries me where sleep will not follow.

 

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