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Ordinary Hazards

Page 3

by Nikki Grimmes

of pink roses

  that crowded every

  square inch of vertical space.

  A slim mahogany console,

  barely wide enough to hold

  daily mail and house keys,

  crowded the corridor,

  squeezed in

  next to the radiator.

  Everything about this place

  seemed crowded.

  How could there possibly be

  room enough for me?

  Too many pairs of eyes

  stared in my direction.

  I half-hid behind Mr. Klein,

  ready to follow him

  into the living room,

  partly because there was

  a dog barking outside

  that didn’t sound very friendly,

  and partly because

  there was no place else

  for me to be,

  and I wanted to get away.

  “Come in! Come in

  so that I can close out the cold,”

  said the walnut-colored man

  named Mr. Buchanan.

  “March is not going out like a lamb!”

  One by one,

  each person was introduced—

  the mom, the dad,

  Grace, Michael, Kendall, Brad.

  We sat around the living room,

  forced and fidgeting until

  Mr. Klein said his goodbyes.

  Mr. Buchanan showed him to the door,

  flashing a kind smile that made me shiver.

  I’d been fooled by a smile before.

  I bit my lip, gripped my suitcase,

  and waited for instructions.

  “Does she talk?” asked Kendall.

  “She will when she wants to,”

  said his mom.

  If I want to, I thought.

  “For now, just take her upstairs.

  Show her to her room.”

  Kendall, not much bigger than me,

  headed upstairs, jabbering away

  to fill the spaces

  my silence left behind.

  All his chatter,

  and I heard nothing except

  a few creaks in the stairs,

  and that one dog barking.

  THE ROOM

  The dark-paneled walls

  absorbed whatever

  scraps of moonlight

  made it past the windowsill.

  Still, the room would do.

  I checked the door.

  No keyhole. No lock.

  No chance anyone

  would seal me up in there.

  LASSIE’S TWIN

  The day after I arrived,

  I found out the family

  and that barking dog

  were related.

  His name was Clancy,

  and he was big enough to ride.

  The first morning,

  as I settled on a padded chair

  in the oversized kitchen,

  a thoroughbred collie

  squeezed through

  a doggy door

  I hadn’t noticed before,

  and skidded across

  the checkered linoleum,

  straight for me.

  He sniffed my feet,

  then licked them

  until I joined him

  under the breakfast table.

  He flicked his rough tongue

  over my glasses,

  and when I reached out

  to pet him,

  he pushed his head

  against my palm,

  waiting for a rub.

  That’s when I knew

  the two of us

  would get along just fine.

  The parakeet,

  which spent

  as much time

  out of the cage as in,

  was another matter

  altogether.

  THE HOUSE ON HILL STREET

  With Clancy on my heels,

  I looked around the house,

  an aging, two-story

  brown-shingled affair with an attic,

  holding its own as the first house

  on the corner of a residential street,

  its property edging a building

  with a faded sign that said CON EDISON.

  At the top of a steep,

  nearly vertical incline,

  the house afforded a view

  of the mighty Hudson River.

  The backyard boasted a gap-toothed

  white picket fence on one side

  with neatly trimmed bushes

  on the other,

  ready to sprout green

  any day now, with spring

  right around the corner.

  Everything about this place

  said good, said safe.

  But was it?

  SIGN LANGUAGE

  A head shake

  is all you need.

  Up and down for yes,

  side to side for no.

  Three days in,

  and these people still

  hadn’t heard my voice.

  Petition

  Help me, Lord.

  I don’t know these people.

  If Carol was here,

  I’d slip into bed with her.

  Do you have a lap

  I can crawl up on?

  Stay with me.

  Please.

  And tell my sister

  I miss her.

  ANOTHER COUNTRY

  The backyard pantry

  was a fascination.

  Big as my room,

  it was a place

  where rake and pruner,

  shovel and shears,

  fit neatly, exactly

  in their designated space,

  seeming more at home

  than me.

  MANNERS

  Early lessons in manners

  came back to me.

  Yes, please,

  no, thank you,

  excuse me,

  were useful words

  to slip in

  through the day.

  They came in handy

  at the dinner table.

  Who needed more

  than that?

  Ken was probably the one

  to pry a mouthful

  of words from me.

  That first week,

  he heard me

  cry myself to sleep.

  The next morning,

  he asked why I was crying

  and what I was afraid of.

  “I wasn’t crying,” I lied,

  “and who said I was afraid

  of anything?”

  Not waiting for an answer,

  I brushed past him

  and ran down to the kitchen,

  worn out from all that

  speaking.

  STATISTICS

  Mrs. Buchanan

  took me to see

  a man we’ll call Dr. Stern,

  a psychologist we foster kids

  were assigned to.

  Mrs. B. called it

  a routine visit

  all her new fosters

  had to check off the list.

  She would know

  all about doctors,

  being receptionist

  for the only black doctor

  in town.

  She settled me on

  a waiting-room bench.

  “I’ll be back,” she said,

  patting my shoulder before
>
  slipping out the door

  to run errands.

  I swung my legs anxiously

  until I heard my name.

  An assistant led me

  toward Dr. Stern’s office,

  his door cracked

  as he talked to someone

  on the phone.

  “Yeah, the next kid’s file’s a mess:

  mentally ill alcoholic mother,

  victim of abuse,

  suffered abandonment—

  No telling

  what dark thoughts

  are swimming

  in that little head.

  There’s no chance in hell

  this kid will make it—

  Oh! Listen, I have to go,” he said,

  then hung up.

  “Hello!”

  I stepped into the room,

  teeth clenched

  tight as my fists.

  Who was this stranger to say

  I wouldn’t make it?

  He didn’t know me for spit!

  I gritted my way though

  his silly exams,

  stoking his words like kindling,

  hoping to God he’d choke

  on his inkblots

  and “games”

  of free association,

  all of which taught him zero

  about who I was,

  or would be.

  Or could be.

  I am not

  who he thinks.

  I am me.

  I am me.

  I AM ME!

  DEAR CAROL

  Dear Carol,

  I’m writing you this fake letter

  I’ll never get to send.

  No one will tell me where they took you.

  I need somebody to talk to,

  somebody who knows

  the right way to say my name.

  You hear anything from Mom?

  Moms aren’t supposed to leave

  little kids home alone.

  I hope the corner store

  runs out of her stupid brandy.

  WAITING

  For Mom to call.

  For Mom to collect me.

  But did she?

  The days

  rolled themselves into

  a big, fat ball,

  tangling me into

  weeks and months,

  and all they did

  was take me along

  for the ride.

  THE SCENT OF PURPLE

  Lilacs blooming

  outside my window.

  Never knew purple

  could smell so good.

  FRAGILE

  1.

  Curled into a ball of flannel

  and inch-thick cotton bedspread,

  my spindly six-year-old body

  shivered, nonetheless.

  Kendall and Brad in the next room

  trampolined on bunk beds,

  lost in laughter.

  “Quiet!” yelled Mrs. Buchanan,

  pausing at my door.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Well, good night.”

  She casually extinguished the light,

  and I dove deeper under the covers.

  Stepping into the hall,

  she closed the door behind herself

  and left me cotton-mouthed,

  listening for the sound of a key

  turning, turning, turning in the lock

  before I remembered

  there was none.

  I won’t cry, no matter what,

  I swore, biting my lip,

  waiting for something

  to reach out for me,

  waiting for the tears that

  welled up every night

  for weeks.

  I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid.

  I’m not afraid, I repeated,

  not until I wasn’t,

  but until I finally

  fell asleep.

  2.

  Each night,

  the terror returned

  seconds after the light

  was switched off.

  I closed my eyes

  and rocked myself

  from side to side,

  pleading for entrance into

  the land of Nod,

  too weak to storm the gates.

  Hours passed, and

  sleep remained elusive.

  “Enough!” I said out loud one night,

  reaching for my glasses

  and creeping from bed.

  I inched across the floor

  on tiptoe.

  With one desperate swipe,

  I threw the switch

  and sent the demons packing.

  Kendall, on his way to

  the bathroom, no doubt,

  must have noticed

  the light under my door

  because he softly knocked

  and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I whispered

  loud enough for him

  to leave me alone.

  I didn’t have much

  in the world, but

  my fears

  were my own.

  ISOLATION STATION

  The house was full, but with strangers,

  and I was there by myself in the dark, in a

  tiny pocket of a room with a tiny bed to sleep in

  and little space for the fears I’d packed in my suitcase,

  which makes no sense, because why would I bring them with me?

  And the night sounds, foreign to this city girl, left me tossing and

  turning. There was no more room in my head to hold the anger

  rising like steam, searing the edges of my brain, there was not even

  a shelf where I could stack the questions crying out for answers

  that wouldn’t come: Why did Mom love liquor more than Carol,

  more than me? Why did Daddy let strangers take us away?

  Why did Grandma refuse to come to our rescue?

  Why didn’t they love us? Why didn’t anyone love us enough?

  Whywhywhywhwhywhywhywhywhywhy? Why?

  “Stop!”

  I leaped out of bed, switched on the light,

  grabbed a piece of paper and a pen,

  stabbed the page, and let my thoughts gush like a geyser,

  shooting high into the moonless sky,

  then falling down on the page I held captive

  till every line was stained with my feelings and

  the heat of them finally had a chance to cool, and

  suddenly, I could breathe, breathe, breathe and

  there was once again room enough in my head

  and my heart to just—be.

  Then I closed my eyes.

  And it was morning.

  SECRET

  I slipped the tear-smudged page

  into my dresser drawer.

  Those words were strictly for

  God and me. Besides,

  this writing thing

  was some kind of magic trick

  I didn’t yet understand,

  except for this:

  Magicians rarely share

  their secrets.

  JOURNEY

  My life in notebooks

  began with this,

  a poem here,

  an observation there,

  a rage of red ink—

  each sheet of white

  a paper haven.

  The blank page

&nb
sp; was the only place

  I could make sense

  of my life,

  or keep record of

  each space

  I called home.

  The daily march of words

  parading from my pen

  kept me moving

  forward.

  Notebook

  Mrs. B. put a night-light in my room.

  Somebody must have told her I’m afraid of the dark.

  Don’t tell me lilacs aren’t just the most perfect flower, ever.

  I put some in a jelly jar, set them on the table in front of Mrs. B.,

  and—poof—her smile came out of hiding.

  Lilacs smell

  like joy

  moving in

  for a visit.

  BAPTIST BEGINNINGS

  One Sunday,

  the family took me to

  Star of Bethlehem

  for the first time.

  I slid into the pew,

  closed my eyes,

  and listened to the organ,

  letting the music hug me

  on the inside.

  Notebook

  “Don’t get comfortable,”

  my foster sister Grace tells me.

  “You don’t belong here.”

  Thanks a lot! Like I don’t know

  I don’t belong anywhere…

  Notebook

  I was supposed to go see Mom this weekend, but my visit got canceled. My social worker called and told Mrs. B. and me that Mom had a nervous breakdown, which made no sense. “How can nerves break?” I asked Mrs. B. once she hung up the phone. She told me there was nothing wrong with Mom’s nerves, that she was another kind of sick, in her mind. “Right now, your mom doesn’t know what’s real, and what isn’t.”

  The minute she said it, I shivered. I remembered the times I’d seen Mom talking to imaginary friends. “You mean like talking to someone who isn’t there?” I asked Mrs. B. “Exactly,” she said. She asked how I knew, and I just shrugged.

  Mrs. B. told me I could visit Mom another time, once she felt better. Now that I know what kind of sick she is, I’m really not in any hurry.

  CHANGE OF SEASON

  Spring spun into summer,

  the sun beat the ground

  like a drum, bees hummed,

  and flowers flaunted their colors.

  Then my mother called,

  the one who still

  didn’t seem to want me back,

  and I was suddenly chilly again

 

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