Love Rewards The Brave
Page 14
Last time we went through this
courtroom scenario
I was the first to defend her
and the first to condemn him.
And in some
sickdisgustingconvoluted
way I still believe in
her innocence.
I want to believe.
If I don’t believe that
then I’ll be forced to accept
the very thing
that will crush me to my core
even more.
Is that possible?
My tribe follows me in.
We take up a row
in the near empty fluorescent-lit room.
The powerful people begin to speak.
I listen
to the words they have to say
as they talk and explain
use details to put pieces in place
about what my mother did to
My Benji.
How she hurt him in the same ways my dad hurt me.
How I never protected him like I thought I had.
How we are all more messed up than I thought we could
be.
How my family is the most fucked up thing this courtroom has ever seen.
And I crumble.
I no longer feel like
I am breaking.
Suddenly
I.
Am.
Broke.
123.
When it finally ends
they look at me and see a
huddledcryingmess.
No one speaks.
What do you say after you’ve listened to
all that?
That sad girl is gone.
The mad,
fierce girl is gone.
When someone is broke they are blank.
That’s me.
The judge uses his gavel to drive the point home:
I AM A BLANK BROKE JOKE
WTHOUT A HOME HOPE.
I AM HOMELESS AND HELPLESS.
PARENTLESS AND
POINTLESS.
Margot and Ms. F take my arms
pull me up to stand
and I just wonder
where
am I supposed to land?
124.
My life is on
125.
autopilot
126.
automatic
127.
re-run everyday
128.
same plot
129.
same routine
130.
school
131.
sleep
132.
work
133.
avoid
avoid
avoid.
134.
All contact at all costs
135.
unless absolutely necessary.
136.
I’ve found most everything is
not.
Not necessary.
137.
I’ve spent the last month
doing my best to avoid Jess.
If I see her at school I purposefully
walk
the other way.
In P.E., the one class we share
I always stand along the wall
alone
always find a way to get there early
or leave late.
Always make sure I am looking
straight
ahead when she’s around.
But today she’s waiting for me when I leave
the locker room.
She’s wearing my favorite T-shirt.
It reads: Find Your True North.
The one we bought together.
God, I miss her.
“Louisa. Wait up.”
She follows me
doesn’t want to avoid me
she tries to stop me.
“What?” I say, tired.
“I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
I don’t answer so she goes ahead.
“I read in the newspaper about a woman with your last name. Your mom. I had no idea, Louisa. I knew it was bad –– but I never knew that you and Benji went through all that. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t have anything to say.
To her
or anyone.
So I just find the wall
(the one I suddenly need to help me stand)
with my hand
and use it to guide myself
away
from everyone and everything
that is causing the
blindness, the numbness.
The throbbing pain
inside of me that will not go away.
Fuck.
Now the only friend I ever had
figured out
the piece of shit
place I come from.
I look back
over my shoulder
knowing that whatever may have been left
in me
is gone with one article in the paper.
138.
Ms. Francine is the first to try with me
in the kitchen before school.
“Louisa, how about you and I go shopping after school today?”
I look past her and see
the list she made for the New Year
mocking me.
139.
The next attempt comes from Terry, at our weekly date.
“Louisa, I’ve noticed you withdrawing, more and more, since you learned about your mother.”
No shit, Sherlock.
I wasn’t going to talk before but this
sure as hell is the wrong
approach
to try and
broach
the subject.
I don’t soften.
I don’t try and see her side,
as she tries
to ease me out of the hole
I dug myself in
the moment I learned
the truth of my mom.
Even the night sky
goes dark sometimes
and those stars never shine for me.
I’ve always wanted to live in
the black and the white
where trust and doubt and truth
and lies
have no place to hide.
Where everything is clear one way
or the other.
Good or bad
right or wrong
there is no in-between.
It’s either a lullaby or a good-bye.
A place where there’s no space
for lukewarm
love songs.
But maybe girls like me
were made for the gray.
Maybe girls like me
don’t belong anywhere
anyway.
140.
Next is Margot, after work, as we’re closing up shop.
I have to give her props
because so far she’s the least annoying.
“Louisa, look, I know you’re pissed. I’m pissed about all of this too –– but this,” she circles around my face with her finger, “is getting really old.”
I turn and walk away
blankly staring at the nothingness ahead
forgetting the life
I lived where I always did as
I was told.
Because that’s getting
really old, too.
141.
Jess finds me after school, doing an awkward
take of someone who has clearly
pondered
long and hard about what to say.
“Louisa, I called your house the other day. I never heard back. Maybe we can hang out over the weekend?”
Clearly someone put her up to this.
Why can’t she just move on
forget and dismiss?
142.
The fringe folks come last.
Tob
y doing his best good guy
helping out a wayward teen
scene.
Social worker guy shows up at Ms. Francine’s
asking if I would like to see
another counselor
therapist
psychologist
psychoanalyst
since I’m
detachedanddisconnected
from the people in my life.
My answer
surprises no one.
What does that say about me?
I don’t want to know.
143.
I should have seen it coming.
I guess good-girl-gone-numb
works better in movies or television shows
because the intervention happens sooner than
I know
what hits me.
It’s like I’ve barely had time
to perfect my rolling eyes
slamming doors
don’t care about school or following
your
orders.
I know I’m pretty shitty at it anyways
I mean, I’m all talk.
Part of me is pissed that they’re sitting
around Ms. Francine’s
living room
when I walk in after work.
Part of me wants to be mad that they are dissecting my moves
attempting to piece
together my broken
heart
but the other part is
hurt and betrayed
because when I look around the
living room
all I see are the people who chose to
stay.
Which points out to me the people who chose to
walk away.
144.
“Louisa, come in, we’re all here for you.”
Ms. Francine directs me
showing me where to sit.
I don’t think what’s happening here is
Agency-Foster-Kid
protocol.
In the circle sit Terry, Margot, Jess and her mom, social worker guy and Toby.
Then there’s Ms. Francine.
Now there is me.
They go around the room
one by one
telling me the reasons they
CARE
about me.
Are willing to
FIGHT
for me.
Want me to be
HAPPY.
I sit stoically.
Arms crossed
book bag still hanging on my shoulder
trying to maintain composure
as the people around me
speak words
they hope will shake me
from the numb
blindblankstate
I’ve been
living in for the past
month.
Through their eyes
and mostly their tears
I see
because they’re letting me know that
when I push them away
I desert them.
When I push them away
I alert them.
But mostly I hear them saying that
I hurt them.
When they finish going around the room
they ask me to say something.
Anything.
I shrug my shoulders, fearfully.
Not knowing how to say
what is true.
“You can do this, Louisa,” Margot says to me.
145.
Like it’s easy to talk to the people
you know you’ve
hurt.
I spent my life being hurt
I know how that feels.
Ashamed.
Defeated.
Used.
Uncovered and Undone.
I spent the last month doing
that to the people here.
Why are they back for more?
Don’t they know that once someone starts
they can’t stop?
I must be looking like a
crazy person
dazed person
because so many things are jumbled in my mind
and I feel like I am running out of time
and I don’t want to hurt them more
and I feel it in my core
and I want this to stop so
I speak.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
146.
I’m a crying mess of hot tears on my cheeks
but no one is yelling
or telling
me
there is a price to pay.
Instead there is a chorus of
Oh No Honey
That is not what you need to say
You aren’t hurting us like that
Not in that way
Don’t you ever think that, not for a day
Sweetie
You are okay.
I look at them
not computing their sentiments
with my list of negligent
behavior.
“Louisa, when we say we are hurting, or are hurt, by you –– it isn’t the same as the hurt you have inside from being a victim of abuse,” Terry says.
“Louisa, we hurt for you,” Margot says.
“Louisa, we hurt because we love you,” Ms. Francine says, taking my hand.
Hugging me.
Holding me.
Loving me.
Knowing me.
147.
I’m not sure where I am supposed to go
from here.
Jess and I are back on solid ground.
I have new found
respect
for the adults who are doing their best
to take care of me.
But still.
I keep walking through the kitchen and see Ms. F’s
list of intentions,
the dreams she hopes come true.
I keep wondering what that means
when the thing missing from the list is
You.
Half of me wants to go ask her what
is up
the other part wants to make my own list,
tape it up,
see what she says.
But if I want to be bold,
you know,
by making the list myself,
the first thing I have to do
is figure out
how to learn
about oneself.
Like who I am?
What do I want?
It’s trickier now ––
the thing I’ve always wanted
was Benji.
If I’m not
living
fighting
dreaming of
reuniting
with him…then what?
I take out my old musty journals
the box that has sat in my closet since my
pre-Christmas melt down
when I got stripped down
to nothing.
Somewhere in here
there must be something that can
clear
ly point out
who I am
without him.
I thumb through the pages
getting all achy inside
knowing there’s no reason to hide.
No one is going to come get me,
my parents are locked away.
So I stay in my room for
the rest of the night
hoping to find traces of myself
pieces that might
help me figure out
who the
hell
I am
besides the
shell
of a girl
lying on the bed.
148.
The knock on the door
startles me
awake.
“Can I come in?
”
Ms. Francine carefully
crosses the threshold to
a teenage riot scene.
The room is trashed.
I traded tidiness the last few weeks
for a steady job
that kept me busy enough
to obliterate
anything
inside.
“Sorry about the mess. I just, you know, with work and school...well everything, I’ve just....”
Ms. Francine holds up her hand for me to stop
stumbling for words
that I hope will insert
her vote of confidence in me.
As a roommate or otherwise.
“I’m sure with your day off tomorrow you can clean this place up. In other news, I wanted to talk to you about something else. Now that we have had our big pow-wow the other day, maybe this is a good time?”
I’m glad that two days ago
everyone huddled around
to dissect intervene
on behalf of my
irrational behavior,
but it does make me feel under the microscope.
I would be crazy to hope
that they won’t always think of me like that ––
a victim of my own story.
Hell, that’s how I see myself.