by Monroe, Anya
“No, just give her a few more minutes. She’ll be here.”
Come on
don’t forget now, after this week.
I’m on a losing streak.
Come on
I don’t want it to happen this way.
I somehow want Ms. F to be proven wrong.
Not like she’s told me she wants my mom to fail
to not follow through,
but somehow it’s like I think she thinks
she wouldn’t.
Come on
I never need much
ask for much
tell too much
but right now I want to prove to Ms. F-
the one who is always a show
never lets go
or forgets or misses a beat
that my mom
remembers
me.
“It’s been thirty minutes, Louisa. What are you thinking you’d like to do?”
“I don’t care,” I say in the exact way I spoke to her a year ago.
The difference was, then
I really didn’t
care.
And now
I do.
But what does that say about
Mom
Dad
Benji
Ms. Francine
Margot
Me
if I admit that?
We sit in silence another thirty minutes.
I can’t bear to look at her
or say a word.
I want her to say what I’m thinking
so I can be mad at her for saying
the things I think.
Things like:
“Where the fuck is she?”
“What the hell is more important than me?”
“Why am I all alone again,
like every shitty day of my life?”
“Let’s go. She’s not coming,” I whisper.
Ms. Francine reaches over to take my hand
her olive branch to let me know
she understands.
I pull away
fast.
As much I hate my mom and all that
she’s done to me
as she sat by and
watched as my dad destroyed me,
she’s still my mom.
And I keep holding out hope
that one-day
she’ll find a way to pay me back
for the past.
I was hoping she’d start tonight.
Instead
I’m driving to Ms. F’s
cousin’s house, on our way
to pick up Margot.
A happy family dinner where everyone
can celebrate the fact
they all have more
than I’ve got.
100.
The cousin is KiKi and
she’s loud and in charge
and talking my ear off
the moment I enter her house.
I head to the bathroom
as fast as I can.
Avoiding the toddler tantrum
happening in the hallway
and the adults laughing as they
pour champagne.
I turn on the fan and I turn on the water.
And I just want to scream.
The noise is killing me.
I take off my coat.
I take off my gloves.
I sit on the floor.
Wanting to pinch myself
squeeze myself
illicit some sort
of pain
so that I can feel something besides
the throbbing feeling in my chest that
Will. Not. Go. Away.
There’s a knock on the door.
Another knock.
“Louisa, is that you?”
Shit.
Margot’s asking to come in and my option is
let her
or stand up and go out
and I can’t do that.
Not when I am in mini-crisis mode.
No, bigger-than-that
I’m in an about-to-explode
near-heart-attack-condition.
I lift my hand to the doorknob and turn it
just enough,
so it can crack open,
to
let
her
in.
101.
She sits
next to me on the bathroom tile.
Silent, just like Ms. Francine.
It’s like they’re in on a silent operation tactic
and I don’t want to be the first one to fold.
So I hold back.
“Louisa, do you want to talk about why you’re crying in a stranger’s bathroom on Christmas Eve?”
Do I really have to do this?
“Not really, Margot.”
I keep my head in my hands
not wanting to let her understand
me.
“Okay, look I get it, Louisa. I don’t need you to talk to me. But this is the second time in as many weeks I’ve found you huddled, alone, crying. That’s not a good sign. That’s like, a call for help. I don’t know everything that you’re going through, my sister knows way more than I do –– and not just because she’s your foster parent –– because she’s been through way more shit than me. But I feel like I get you, Louisa, and I care about you.”
That panic-attack
feeling is fleeing, fast.
I am So. Tired. Of. Trying.
“Let’s talk about something else, how’s Jess? Do you guys have any plans for break?”
I give her nothing.
I can’t
because I like Margot,
I don’t want to lose her.
If she knew me
really, really knew me
she wouldn’t stay.
I wouldn’t blame her.
“Did you ask for any Christmas gifts?"
I feel myself shutting
down.
“Um. Okay,” she tried again. “How’s the 6-Spot going? It’s been so busy I’ve barely been able to check in with you.”
I’m being difficult and I know it,
but I don’t want to own it
because then I’d have to
change.
I’d have to be willing to be
seen.
And I’m not ready to
be that sort of
girl.
The sort of brave.
“You know Toby? I guess he has a new boyfriend, they are going to see The Nutcracker tonight.”
That gets my attention.
“Really?”
I bite my lip,
not wanting to admit
that I’m a bit
jealous.
“I know, right? He’s got to be the most adorable guy ever, those eyes alone, right? But he isn’t up for grabs.”
I laughs and
she does too.
Shit.
She wins.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?”
“For, you know, saying those things to me. It’s just, it freaks me out. You know, the being cared about part.”
I look away
eyes stinging
heart clinging
to the good parts and the good feelings
that are flinging
around inside.
“I get it, Louisa. The being cared about part is scarier than most things. But you can be brave.”
And I don’t think I ever wanted
to believe anything as much
as those four words.
You.
Can.
Be.
Brave.
Margot
speaks the truth
I want so badly
to believe.
102.
I walk downstairs on Christmas morning
knowing that Ms. Francine was awake
from the banging in the kitchen
and
the smell of coffee cooking in the pot
the music playing
yuletide carols
and whatever else sort of frankincense and myrrh
happens here on Christmas.
“You’re up!” Ms. F says.
I come into the living room and smile
even though I promised myself
I wouldn’t.
But how could I
not?
There’s a tree full of presents
and I knew it was just the two of us.
I’ve never seen that kind of loot.
At least a dozen presents
some for me some for her
it was all I could do not to stare.
“Merry Christmas, Louisa!”
She gives me a hug
and I return it
sheepishly.
I’m like a kid in one of those movies
they play on Christmas day over and over.
Where the kid gets a million and
one boxes
and they are all better than the last.
“Do you want some breakfast first?”
I do.
After my bathroom “episode”
I tried my best to be in “play nice” mode
for Margot and Ms. Francine.
It mostly just meant me sitting with
the little kids
helping them put together their
brand-new presents because it was too much
to be present.
The kids started driving me nuts
and that happens so rarely
to be annoyed like that with a person so small,
but they just kept screaming
that it was taking too long
or yelling that they wanted more candy
or fighting over who got the best new toy.
There was no joy.
In the small things.
Like the fact they were at this giant house and
crazy cousin Kiki was letting them all come here
open gifts
it should be bliss.
It’s so hard not to compare.
Tit for tat
How about that?
It never adds up
Equal
because if you add
nothing plus nothing it equals nothing
every.single.time.
I didn’t need to go down that line
not now, not then.
Instead I found Ms. Francine in the
kitchen
at Kiki’s, and stood next to her
letting her
get me a plate of food.
I sat, intending to chew
the honey baked ham
quietly,
but all the energy was out of me
so I just sat there
until it was time to go.
“I made bacon and French toast casserole.”
I look over at the tree again.
It’s so hard to look away and say, “No, let’s eat,”
when so many Christmas morning’s past
have waited to finally
see me be a kid.
But my stomach growls and the
kitchen smells heavenly.
So I follow closely behind her
a Christmas morning amateur.
103.
“This last one’s for you, Louisa.”
She holds it out to me
lovingly.
I take it from her hands
gingerly.
I had just opened the gifts from my “Mom”
although I know it was foster kid
program purchased
and most of these gifts are here
due to
angel tree
poor little me
teachers at school
pitch in
to fork up
cash to help Ms. F buy the
goods,
but it feels
good
nonetheless.
Last place I lived, those angel tree gifts
most likely
ended up on eBay
because they were certainly never
seen or used or worn by me.
Chose for me.
That’s why this is all so different.
It’s like, the things under the tree
are there on purpose
picked out, thinking of the size of my foot
and the length of my hair.
Picked out considering the clothes I liked to wear.
It was about me.
And so I take that last gift from Ms. F.
The one who’d already been so generous.
Feeling known and understood
in the freakiest
kind of way.
A way I never understood before today.
I untie the red bow and
open the little box and inside there’s
a key.
A key to the front door
and I’m floored.
I didn’t know what to expect,
but it wasn’t this
Because a key to her house means
trust
and concern
it means I can
always return
if I need
or
want
or have nowhere else to go.
And my heart-shaped hole
feels more whole.
“This key is your key, this house is your home.”
“But my mom, she’s making a home too, for me, Ms. Francine.”
“I know that, Louisa. But you can’t have too many places you call home.”
I give her a hug,
then I hand her the present I picked out.
The one Jess thought would be lame,
but Terry said would be great,
the one I knew would be right.
I knew
Ms. F
would know I care.
It would also remind me each time I looked at it
that it was okay to be scared.
Two balls of the softest wool yarn.
One white.
One black.
I wonder what they will look like when their
Crosses
Path.
104.
Ms. F drops me off.
“You sure you’re going to be okay? Did you want to try and call Jess one more time? I could still go pick her up?”
I don’t have the heart balls to call her
and apologize
can’t look in her eyes
and say what’s really been going on
all along.
“No, she’s out of town I think. Anyways, there will be people from work here I know.”
“Alright. Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be back to get you in two hours. And be careful, New Year’s Eve always brings out the crazies. I know Margot will look after you, but really, call me if you need anything at all.”
The club is loud.
Why was sound freaking me out
so bad?
I used to want to blare my music loud
wanting the noise to pound
out any sense of feeling.
Wanting to be left alone from reeling
in reality.
These days the reeling in the feeling
was the pounding sound I found
comfort in.
Is that a sin?
To suddenly want to let some of that
in
side?
Not wanting to hide
the same way I used to?
The idea of
not hiding
is eating me alive
because it’s all I’ve let in my mind.
Somehow since I got that key
to the door
the lock (to my heart) was opening a bit more.
So when Margot
asked if I’d wanted to come
t
o listen
to hear
what this slam poetry
thing was all about
FEAR
was the farthest thing from my mind.
105.
There’s a girl on stage
speaking
fury and pain
written on her face
and I wonder why the rage
and I can’t even look around to find Margot.
The words coming from the girl’s lips
sound like truth.
You can tell because the words she speaks
are little arrows
piercing different places
through the room.
“We are a memory
frozen in time.
One little line I used to know.
But the book we wrote
isn’t the kind you quote.
Shakespeare or Hemingway
or Emerson, Thoreau
just names that we know.
We can’t remember time and place
place and space
space and the faces.
disappear because they aren’t
our beginning or our end.
You were good to me
and I was good to you
but the everlasting wasn’t us
it was just a piece of me.
Just a piece of you.”
The room erupts, clapping.
I clap too,
for the girl taking a bow.
The guy on keyboard next to her
kisses her cheek.
Giving her the affirmation
we all seek:
that we’re enough.
106.
I look around
mesmerized by the crowd.
Thinking to myself, this is the place
I was looking for
all sweet sixteen years of my life.
Margot finds me. “You made it!”
She gives me a great big hug
as we look one another up and down
and then she frowns.