by Monroe, Anya
Jess thinks he is.
She said he was, “A messed up kid who weighs you down.”
I told her, “That’s a really bitchy thing to say.”
She laughed. “But you know it’s true.”
Her and I had been sitting
in my room
getting ready for an uneventful Saturday night.
I went back to
straightening my hair
knowing
if I tried to say,
explain
it would require a whole lot of words
I wasn’t interested in
using with her
that night.
But in this waiting room,
seeing him in his snow gear,
I kinda get what she meant.
I
sit down
next to him
anyway.
55.
The social worker guy
is already in the room with Mom.
He motions for us to sit
at the table,
you know,
stay a while.
I do as I’m told,
remember the good girl thing?
Why does it always crop up
when it feels like it
and never when
I want it to?
It’s like
I’m not allowed to do what
I want, to say how I feel.
I’m a puppet
waving around.
Never able to stand my ground.
It would probably
help if I knew what
ground
I was looking for.
I look at Benji
frozen
in the doorway.
In between Mom’s
misses
and his
rep
e
ti
tious
behavior
there have
been seven and a half months
since
the last time they’ve
seen one another.
The social worker guy fills us in on these facts
and I’m quick to react
to what the impact
of them not being
around one another might be.
See,
every week I show up here,
Ms. Francine
dutifully knitting
in the waiting room.
I sit here
hoping to be seen.
Fifty-fifty
I’m ushered into a room
like this
where
it’s always
hit or miss
if
my visit is solo.
But I always
assumed
that
Mom and Benji
must be meeting at another
time
place or
day.
But, according to social worker guy
they don’t.
And Benji is standing at
the door
with a ski mask
pulled over his face
only showing his eyes
through little holes
refusing to budge.
56.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look over at Ms. F
as we drive home from the
most awkward hour ever.
Benji refused to sit down
so Mom got upset
at the fact
that her only son
wasn’t happy to see her,
wouldn’t go near her.
Telling us about
her plans for:
-Getting an apartment
-A job
-Bunk beds for us to sleep in.
-Good God.
She can’t see what’s happening.
Benji hyperventilating
as social worker guy tries to take notes.
Me, so stressed
tapping my fingers
biting my nails
wiggling my foot
anxious.
I kept willing Benji
to take off his damned ski mask
coat
gloves
snow suit
and TRY.
Why did I have to do all the work?
I kept closing my
eyes, silently wishing Benji
could hear
my thoughts:
Let’s please make this work
it’s our one shot
our one way
only way
of being a family
again.
But Benji wasn’t
listening to my
telepathic cues
and I felt like I was going to
blow a fuse.
The one I
always
always
always
keep in check.
Why was he being so damned selfish?
57.
I quickly cover my mouth
scared those words
you know the ones of betrayal
had gotten out of my mouth
and made their way to the ears of
everyone around me.
But they hadn’t.
And I think that even if those words
had penetrated the air
no one would’ve cared.
no one was paying attention
to me.
“It was just really strange. I mean Mom was there, and Benji, but it was just…off.”
“Off how?”
Ms. Francine turns
the windshield wipers on.
They wipe away the rain
I want them to wipe away the
blame.
The blame I’m feeling inside
over the things I thought about Benji.
That he’s
a crazy weirdo
and
a selfish brother
and
ruining our chances
of getting back together.
“It felt like we were three strangers in a room together. It didn’t feel like….”
And my hand flies back to my mouth
once more
catching the word that almost
fall out.
Us.
It didn’t feel like Us.
Us being Ms. Francine and me.
Why am I thinking these things?
“It didn’t feel like what, Louisa?”
“Nothing. It just wasn’t like it usually is. I think we were all just tired or something.”
We drive home the rest of the way
in silence.
Not like the awkward kind
where no one
pays attention
to you
or
no one knows what to say
silence.
More like
silence is
exactly what I need.
58.
Margot’s at the house,
her bags litter the entryway.
The same way that Ms. F
hates when I leave my
things sprawled all over.
I only have to count to three
silently
before she says
what I’m thinking.
“Margot, the least you could do is put your stuff in the guest room. I’m going to trip over all this…this…what is all this stuff, Margot?”
Margot laughs
stands from the couch.
“This stuff happens to be my necessities, clothes, shoes, you know deodorant.”
She pauses, for dramatic effect
though last time I checked
Margot doesn’t need any help
in that department.
She’s decked out
head-to-toe
in all the things I’d die to own.
Oxford shoes with socks to he
r knees.
A pleated skirt.
Over-sized glasses
in red.
A lace tank top
in black
and a flannel shirt
tucked in, partially.
I could tell why she needed so many bags
to keep herself
looking
so
put together
accidentally on purpose.
“Well, how long are you staying? I thought it was just for a night.”
“Well, it might be a few more. The exterminator found an ant population that didn’t fit so well in my studio.”
“In the middle of winter?”
“Well, you know my apartment….”
“You mean pizza left in the box, a sink full of dishes, and past-prime-who-knows-what in the fridge?”
Ms. Francine laughs as she says this.
So does Margot.
“So what you’re saying is, your apartment is a breeding ground for cold, hungry insects?”
“Basically. You know what they say, Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time.”
Her hand is on her chest as she
says the lines,
sounding
smart and old at the same time.
“And who says that, Margot?” Ms. F asks.
“Mark Twain.”
That makes more sense.
“You always were the wordsmith. Okay, Margot, I’m starting dinner, but can you get this stuff put away?”
“Sure. Louisa, can you help?”
And she tosses me a duffel bag
like me being here
with her and her
sister
is totally normal.
59.
Ms. Francine stops my
Saturday morning routine
of sweat pants and earphones
coffee and eggs
before it’s even started.
“Terry called, Louisa. She says she’d like to see you today. Apparently she has something for you that you’re going to love.”
“Can’t she just wait till the appointment on Monday?”
“No, she says you need to come in. She can meet us at the office in an hour.”
I pour coffee in my mug,
dousing the brown liquid
with organic creamer
hoping this will
jump-start the day
I have no choice in.
60.
I take a shower
after the eggs are eaten,
annoyed that my
typical four-hour start to the
weekend is derailed.
Terry and Ms. F prevailed.
Not like I gave a fight
refusing to go
refusing to know
what this was about.
Have I ever?
What could be so big that
I need to come in?
I shave my legs
and wash my hair, but
the whole time
my mind races.
It’s got to be
Benji
or
Mom
or
some sort of incident.
Accident.
Oh, God.
I nick myself with the razor
wincing
as the blood wells up right
below my kneecap.
Shit.
Setting the razor down
my heart racing
just like my mind.
Turn off the water.
Dry off.
Get dressed.
I can handle a nick on my knee,
but I can’t handle a
full-blown injury.
I’m at the front door calling for Ms. F
fifteen minutes before we need to leave.
Freaking myself out
about the thing I don’t yet
know.
61.
It’s weird coming here on a Saturday morning.
The lights are off in the windows.
Parking lot’s empty
except for Terry
when we pull up.
She’s waiting outside of her pickup truck
waves at us
as we get out
makes me wonder what this is all about.
No somber face,
no looking down
not afraid to say
what we’re here for.
“Louisa, I’m so glad you could meet me this morning. Do you want to go inside, or do you mind just talking here?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Francine, if you don’t mind, I think we’ll just talk in my truck, that way I don’t have to turn off the alarm. Is that okay with you?”
Ms. Francine responds on cue, “Of course, Terry, whatever is easiest.”
She smiles
opens the door of her car again
shutting it fast
not letting the cold air in.
I look at Terry.
She’s standing here
in jeans and a polar fleece jacket.
Looking so strange out of her
normal work clothes.
I usually see her at the end of the day
always seems tired,
drinking Diet Coke to stay awake.
Looking like a cross between
over-worked and under-paid
under-stress and overweight.
But maybe it’s just the fluorescent lighting.
Because right now she looks
relaxed.
I wonder what I look like under those fluorescent lights.
I wonder what I look like now.
Probably not
that.
62.
“You can breathe, Louisa. Are you feeling anxious right now?”
We sit side-by-side in her truck,
heat’s cranked up
music’s off
armrest is the buff-
er between us.
Feeling like I’m invading her personal space.
The office would’ve been better
less at stake
when you don’t have to be
six inches apart.
“Is everyone okay?”
My hands shake
as I ask the question
that scares me most.
“Yes, oh, of course, Louisa. I’m sorry, did you think you were here for bad news?”
Her hand goes to her forehead, upset.
“I’m sorry, I see how you feel confused. No, everyone is fine. I actually have something of yours I think you might really like to have back.”
She looks at me
hopeful.
Hopeful that she didn’t
get it wrong.
I look back at her
my eyes burning
with relief.
Good grief
get it together.
I was worried for nothing
rushed here for nothing
everyone is fine.
“What is it then?”
63.
She reaches behind her seat
pulling up a box
two-feet deep.
She huffs a bit at the
awkward maneuver, but when it’s
squarely between us
she looks at me
with a smile.
A bright-eyed
and wide
smile.
“What is it?” I ask self-consciously.
“It’s your journals. From your old apartment. At least a dozen of them.”
You know that saying about
losing your breath?
It’s real.
The air went straight out of me.
The box right here
contains relics
I don’t know if I want to see.
Want to know
because I’m afraid if I remember
I’ll never grow
or change from the girl I was then.
I’ll get caught up in the
tailspin
of self-preservation.
“Well, don’t you want to see them?”
Terry takes off the lid
and somehow the box
holds
the cigarette smoke
of all the
homes
I lived in.
It holds the
sweaty stale smell
of
the
Hell
I lived in.
It holds the
rotting broken heart
of
disregard
ed
dreams
I lived in.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I shake my head
fast
wanting the wave of nausea
coming over me
to pass.
I am not
ready
or prepared
or “self aware”
enough
to do this.
I can’t do this.
“Louisa, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be so pleased.”
I open the door just in time to
vomit the
visions
I
had
just
inhaled,
out.
64.
I go to my room when we get home.
Fall on the bed
stuffing the scent of the
pillow
into my head.
I felt sick
on the drive home.
Ms. F wanted to know what happened.
If I was feeling okay?
I left Terry’s car so fast
in such a hurry.