Reckless, Glorious, Girl

by Ellen Hagan

  “Vacations are for bad food, swimming pools,

  extra cholesterol, extra calories, extra pure

  joy. Cable TV turned on all the wrong channels

  & you & me. Curled up soaking it all in.”

  Happy Birthday, Beatrice

  Last night of vacation.

  Mom arrives finally.

  Throws shoes off.

  Cuddles us close.

  Mamaw unwraps cookies.

  Chocolate chip walnut.

  Fancy new journal.

  Fancy new pens.

  Fancy new book.

  Fancy new bookmark.

  Marking my life.

  Thirteen feels babyish.

  Somehow still lost.

  Say thank you.

  Don’t say scared.

  Don’t say lost.

  Don’t say alone.

  Don’t start crying.

  Don’t lose control.

  Hold the truth.

  Trying so hard

  to stay above,

  eyes tearing up,

  hold it in,

  breath & all.

  Don’t lose control.

  Hold the truth.

  Can’t stop now.

  End of Vacation Life

  Some days I wake up & I’m all sunshine.

  All helium-filled balloons & dance parties.

  Music turned up all the way.

  But some days, I wake up & I’m thunderstorms.

  Heat lightning—my whole self feels heavy & clunky

  & unreliable. That’s how I feel today.

  So I pull the covers tighter around me.

  Try to be a cocoon

  or my own life raft. Ignore the way my heart

  is attempting to slip out of my body.

  That’s how Mamaw finds me. Steaming cup of cocoa

  from the lobby downstairs between her hands.

  “Bug” & “flowerpot” & “lemon drop” is what she calls me.

  Throws the shades open.

  Tells me you can’t quit before you even start.

  Wipes my eyes with her wrinkled hands.

  Holds me still & calm.

  Rocks me steady & ready & awake.

  Sometimes in My Dreams

  I am in the highest swing

  on the swing set

  & make every goal

  & slam dunks are my life.

  In real life,

  I don’t even like sports

  but dream gold medals,

  the tallest trophies, ribbons.

  The saying: “people choke on my dust”

  is true

  because I’m not just fast,

  I’m a train straight

  off the rails,

  one hundred miles an hour.

  The way Mamaw

  drives when she’s full of fury.

  The ways she says

  she drove the night they called

  to tell her my dad

  (her son) died.

  But in my dreams,

  I am not full

  of sadness like a lost boat.

  Death is not my only story.

  I am a fireball,

  firecracker,

  fired up

  & other things that burn.

  I kick the ball highest,

  my legs the strongest.

  The sheer amount

  of push-ups I can finish in a minute

  is straight-up bonkers.

  Iron Woman.

  Unstoppable.

  Mind-numbingly powerful

  & athletic

  & so skilled at

  e v e r y t h i n g

  that other folks take notes.

  But sometimes—

  even in my dreams.

  I don’t make it out alive.

  I just sink

  deeper

  & deeper

  & deeper

  until

  I

  disappear.

  Dreaming Another Me

  California dreams

  far away as possible

  could I disappear?

  Imagine mountains

  homes that don’t belong to me

  new identity.

  Run, run, run away

  been singing myself to sleep

  but when I wake up

  I’m still here.

  The Way Home

  Mamaw turns the volume

  up high. Rolls the windows

  all the way down. Riding

  through a wind tunnel.

  Says the cold air opens

  your pores. Sings top volume

  Sam Cooke & Loretta Lynn.

  Mom belts it out too,

  the two of them

  conspiring against me.

  Put my headphones on,

  sound all the way up.

  Feeling good finally,

  no worries at all,

  like I finally got away

  with it. Thinking

  maybe my days

  of worrying are over,

  so I kick back,

  put my hands over

  my headphones

  & rock.

  That’s when Mamaw

  looks through the rearview

  & must see the glint

  off my fake diamonds

  flurry in the mirror.

  She says, “My goodness,

  those look just exactly

  like Bluegrass Bauble.”

  Gaudy in sun-

  light, they shine.

  In an instant,

  I remember, sliding

  them on my fingers

  this morning, full

  of myself. “Oh!

  My new friends,

  they bought them

  for my birthday,” I explain,

  rolling them around.

  “Pretty pricey gift,”

  Mamaw says, shutting

  off the radio & looking

  even closer at me & my lie.

  Arrival

  I’m unpacking the weekend

  when Mamaw shows up

  in my doorway. Tells me

  she’s disappointed. Says,

  “Beatrice Miller,

  I’ve never known you

  to tell a tall tale,

  but I just got off the phone

  with Misty Cole.

  & you know what?

  She told me no young girls

  bought one lick of jewelry

  from her stand last weekend.

  Fact is, she said someone

  stole something special

  from her. Described them

  & everything. Gold-&-gem-

  filled rings. Fancy & shiny

  ones you couldn’t miss.

  Described the ones

  I saw in the mirror

  on the way home.”

  I Stole Them

  “Big deal,” I say

  & regret it instantly.

  Mamaw is never

  that mad. All Zen-like

  & calm. She’s smooth

  & laid-back, but now

  she gets to shouting.

  Says it’s high time

  I apologize to her

  & Mom, who’s standing

  in the doorway.

  “Spoiled & acting out,

  can’t even tell

  who it is

  you’re trying to be.

  Can’t even

  recognize you,”

  Mamaw says.

  “Well, I’m standing

  right here,” I shout,

  mad at myself now.

  Start packing my bag,

  keep both stolen rings

  tight around my fingers.

  Mad at my life

  & Mamaw & all her magic

  feel-good-ness.

  & Mom for working so hard

  but still not making enough,

  & me for feeling worthless

  sometimes & not enough too.

  & myself again
/>
  for being a brat & a baby

  & most of all at my dad

  who left me too fast

  & too soon

  & who I miss today

  & always

  & now I’m mad

  at my tears

  & the way they slide

  reckless

  down my face.

  Embarrassed

  that I can’t even

  be thankful

  for what I have.

  Storm downstairs,

  slam the screen door

  & ride.

  Tree House

  Zoom through the back roads

  ignore the rushing cool wind

  make it in record time.

  Peel back the tree bark

  sit in our makeshift hammock

  & rock myself slow.

  Who have I become

  I’m not recognizable

  to people I love.

  Zip my jacket up

  close my eyes & say a prayer

  hope Mamaw hears me.

  Apology

  I must have fallen asleep

  because when Mariella & StaceyAnn

  pull up on their bikes,

  they scare the bejesus

  out of me.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

  Holy crap,” I shout.

  “Jeez,” StaceyAnn says. “Calm down.”

  “Yeah,” Mariella adds. “It’s just us.”

  “You don’t recognize us?” StaceyAnn asks,

  cocking her hip & smirking at me.

  “Remember us? We are, or, we were

  your best friends.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, suddenly aware

  of how cold it is. The tip of my nose

  frozen. Face still wet from crying.

  “I messed up. Trying to be someone

  I’m not.”

  “We don’t forgive you,” StaceyAnn says.

  Mariella nudges her. “Yes, we do. Just

  don’t do it again. Act like you know us

  next time. & get up,” Mariella says.

  “You gotta get home. Your mamaw.

  She’s been texting me like wild.

  & she’s really bad at texting.”

  Texts from Mamaw (from My Mom’s Phone)

  Mrlla—cme gt Bea

  Dang phne—not know txt

  Crppp—phone—cant get no

  Wherrrr s Beatriceeee??? Dangitt

  Call bck. Npw.

  Text from Mom

  Come home

  Sweet Beatrice

  Come home

  My Heart

  Longing

  & ruin

  & pummel

  & ache

  & joy

  & wishing

  & pumping

  & glowing

  & flowering

  & peeling

  & hot pink

  & blazing

  & missing

  & full

  & rising

  & trembling

  & awake

  & here

  & far away

  & inside

  & glowing

  & yours

  & mine

  & alive.

  Poem of Forgiveness

  You see me

  & I’m enough.

  I know this.

  Sometimes I ache

  figuring myself out

  missing my dad

  missing his life

  could have been

  might have been.

  Sometimes I’m ashamed

  of our life

  & our garden

  & our house

  & my clothes

  & our computer

  & no phone

  & your eccentricities,

  I say, cringing

  but being honest.

  But most times

  I love it

  & you both.

  Wouldn’t want it

  any other way.

  I’m a jerk

  & I’m sorry.

  I’m so sorry.

  They hold me

  in a hug

  so tender & long,

  that I appear

  back to me.

  See myself new

  taking up space

  being the girl

  I was always

  meant to be.

  Truth Is

  Mamaw starts in, looking straight at me,

  “While you know I always appreciate a good

  old-fashioned I’m Sorry, you & I both know

  that’s not enough. I nod. It’s been that way

  since I was a kid. Every time I messed up,

  or made a mistake, Mamaw or Mom

  (or both of them) would tell me

  I had to make it right & most of the time

  I had to figure it out on my own.

  “Good thing I know Ms. Cole. Don’t worry.

  I’m sure she’s made a few mistakes too.

  I’m betting she’ll understand. Now get to it,”

  Mamaw says, pulling out the basket of notecards

  that sits on her desk.

  “Don’t worry about all that fancy

  cursive lettering this time.

  Just tell the truth,

  just speak from here,” she says,

  putting her hand above my heart.

  “That’s all that ever matters anyway.”

  & all of a sudden, I know she’s right.

  Dear Ms. Cole

  I messed up. It was all me.

  Seventh grade is way harder

  than I thought it would be.

  I stole the rings last Saturday.

  Both of them.

  All I wanted was to fit in

  & have people see me as popular,

  have them see me & wish

  they could be friends with me.

  Laugh at all my jokes,

  wanna hang out with me,

  ride bikes, work on my treehouse.

  I’m not gonna lie,

  I took those rings

  so people would look at me

  in a different way,

  & when I showed them what I did,

  I felt a kind of liftoff.

  Floating.

  They could see how wild

  & daring I was.

  But afterwards, all I did was deflate.

  Out of air.

  It felt like I’d have to keep taking risks

  to just stay in their spotlight.

  & then I felt guilty

  & embarrassed

  that I even wanted that so bad

  in the first place.

  Felt sick to think

  I’d let someone else

  make me feel not good enough

  or not in place enough.

  I’m sorry I stole the rings.

  I thought they’d turn me into someone else.

  I even wanted that.

  But now I realize that being anyone other than myself

  is the biggest mistake I could ever make.

  Please give me the chance to pay for the rings

  by helping out in your gallery this winter.

  Thank you for considering.

  Sincerely,

  Beatrice Miller

  One More Apology

  Mom reads the letter

  before I seal the envelope.

  She smiles, while tears fill her eyes

  & pulls me toward her.

  “You know, my folks had me working

  from the time I turned twelve.

  Babysitting, helping around the house,

  you name it, I was doing it.

  Laundry, gardening, dishes.

  Didn’t have much time for friends

  or fooling around. I had to be tough.

  By sixteen, I had two jobs,

  and in college, forget about it.

  I just worked and worked.

  It was all I knew.

  And then your dad died.

&n
bsp; After you were born

  I just threw myself into work

  even more. Worked to forget

  and worked to give myself

  something to do, ease my mind.

  I guess somehow, along the way

  I forgot what it was like to be a kid

  and sometimes

  I want you to grow up too fast,

  to work too hard—just like me.

  But I see you with StaceyAnn and Mariella

  and Mamaw

  and I see you laughing

  and just enjoying your life

  and working hard to help us

  all at the same time

  and I try to remember that you’re twelve.”

  “Thirteen now,” I remind her.

  “That’s right. Yes. Thirteen.

  I want to say I’m sorry too.

  For sometimes asking too much of you,

  too fast. I’ve been thinking that sometimes

  it helps to just get out of the way

  and give you the space you need,” Mom says,

  & as soon as she does, I pull her close.

  “Don’t go too far though. Please?”

  She holds me tight next to her,

  & we stay that way until morning.

  Friendsgiving

  Mamaw & Mom

  invite the whole block.

  Our house stays open

  for Friendsgiving.

  Mamaw’s favorite holiday.

  Fried turkey & Tofurky

  for days.

  Stuffing with sausage

  & sage. Lemony

  pound cake & cookies

  made with rolled oats

  & raisins, dark chocolate

  & walnuts. Cranberry

  sauce & green beans

  loaded with ham hock.

  Mariella’s family

  brings elote & they help

  make our house a feast.

  StaceyAnn’s mom

  & dad join us,

  whip up mashed potatoes

  & savory gravy.

  Red-velvet cake

  & lemon meringue

  & coconut cream

  & Shirley Temples

  we mix with maraschino