by Roth, Judith
I didn’t ask again.
So I ask alone tonight
Please, God.
I wake up on the couch
to sounds in the kitchen.
Dad?
Just me, Mrs. Whittier calls.
Then she steamrollers in
with a steaming bowl.
Hungry?
Here’s some chicken bone soup.
My mind is cloudy with sleep and sickness.
What day is it?
Friday. I’ve got ceramics lab at noon
so one of the college girls
will be coming later
to check on you.
I force my zombie brain to think.
The play’s tomorrow.
Yes.
Her drab pottery work shirt
suits the mood because
by the sympathy dripping off her face
I can tell I won’t be in the play.
It is too late
and Neverland
has a whole different meaning
for me now.
I’m pretty sure Jocelyn
was one of Dad’s freshmen
when Mom died.
Now she’s a serious senior.
Majoring in psychology, she tells me
dark eyes wide with compassion.
She wants to know how I feel
about everything.
Either I’m too sick to guard my mouth
or she’s going to be
really good at this.
Because I tell her everything
I’ve been keeping quiet inside me.
I tell her how much I love Peter Pan the play
and how much I like Peter Pan the boy.
I tell her how much I miss my mother
and how my dad’s a mess of sadness.
I tell her how lonely I am
in my own house.
I lumber off the couch
to show her my room.
She asks about the cats.
There are pictures of cats
on every wall
of my pale-pink room.
Besides my cuddly stuffed kitty,
lions and tigers and cougars
lie helter-skelter on my covers.
Cat-head slippers peek out
from under the bed.
Where’s your real cat?
Jocelyn asks.
I don’t have one.
She raises her eyebrows in a question.
Mom always said, Ask your father
and Dad always said, No.
She purses her lips and then her look rests
on my book of Mom Tales.
What’s this?
Mom used to make up fairy tales
and write them down for me.
I show her the first page.
This one’s about Mom and Dad.
Beginnings
Once upon a time there was a magical professor who spun poems around his students. The poems gave his students wings. Sometimes they found themselves hovering in the air as if in a dream. One of his students was a girl named for dreams.
Aislinn was born with a hunger for words. She took to the winged poems like she was created to fly. She drank the words in. She swallowed them whole. And she soared.
Each time Aislinn heard the professor speak, her wings grew stronger and she flew toward paradise. But the spell never lasted. When she left the professor, her wings drooped and she drifted to the ground.
She knew she must keep the professor and his magical words with her forever. So Aislinn decided to cast a spell on him.
Her plan was a web of beauty. She reversed the spell he placed on his class and spun her own poems around him. Aislinn’s poems captured his heart and sent his soul soaring with dreams of her. And when he was completely under her spell, Aislinn showed him her own dreams of flying with him forever. She offered him the wings of her soul with a book of Love Songs.
The magical professor took the book. He took the book and read her heart and fell into her soul.
The sweetest spell of all.
Jocelyn looks puzzled.
Wow—your mom was a student?
Yeah. They were supposed to live
happily ever after.
But there wasn’t any ever after.
Jocelyn’s grown-up mask slips a bit
and she looks like she wishes
she didn’t know so much
about me
or that she knew
what to say
now.
If this were a TV show counseling session
now would be the perfect chance
to say, Our time is up.
But she doesn’t have the
counselor’s skill yet
of ending a conversation.
Jocelyn pets my stuffed kitty
pulls at the neck of her sweater
and smiles at me
shyly.
Beneath the fairy tale book
is a white baby blanket
decorated with pastel balloons.
I wrap a satin frayed edge
around my wrist
and climb into bed,
too tired to move back to the couch.
Jocelyn eyes the blanket
and I can tell she’s curious
but this is something
I will keep to myself.
My eyes close
the comfort of the silky edging
touching my skin.
The blanket has been used as
a belt, a kerchief
a veil, an apron
while Mom and I acted out fairy tales.
Used as a token, a flag
a banner, a snowfall
while Mom read poetry to me
and I dreamed of performing the words.
The blanket was here with me
through it all.
It’s still here.
But Mom is not.
I must be delirious
because when I wake up Saturday
I think I can do it.
Be in the play tonight.
I go to the bathroom and open
the drawer that was my mom’s.
It’s still full of her stuff.
Not like her side of the closet
that only has clanging hangers
since Mrs. Whittier
called my grandparents
to come and help Dad let go
last year.
I rattle through her makeup
and find what I think I need
for the stage.
I shower and do my hair
then play with eyeliner, mascara
powder, blush.
Dad knocks on the door.
Everything all right in there?
I unlatch the door
and let it swing slowly open.
Dad glances in
then freezes.
He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
His face scares me
so I look in the mirror
to see what he sees.
And I almost see her.
Eyes defined, cheekbones sculpted.
If I squint, the messy makeup
smooths out
makes me look older.
So much more like my mom
than ever before.
I turn back to Dad
and his eyes change like he
&nbs
p; recognizes me again.
He shakes his head.
Sorry about the play.
You know you can’t go, right?
He makes the dorky sad puppy face
that used to make me smile.
I tell him Yes
and close the door.
Then I watch myself in the mirror
as the tears start falling
and I learn too soon
what happens to makeup
when you cry.
Grandma and Grandpa call
three hours before the play starts.
In my mind
I can see them
leaning toward the speakerphone.
Grandpa listening with his good ear.
Grandma doing most of the talking.
Hi, Honey—just wanted to wish you luck
before your big performance.
Wish we could be there!
They live in the hills of Pennsylvania
on the other side of the country.
Too far away to sense
my impending heartbreak.
Thanks—but I’m too sick to do it.
I try to keep the catch out of my voice.
Oh, Honey, Grandma says. Oh, I’m so sorry.
What are you sick with?
A stupid virus.
I tell them all my symptoms
and they both make sympathetic noises.
Grandma tells me how sorry they are
and they hope I get better soon
and she asks to talk to Dad.
I can tell by Dad’s responses
he feels awkward with them.
His own parents do service work overseas
so Mom’s parents are the ones
Mrs. Whittier called last year.
I listened from my room
when they had their face-to-face chat.
The words I heard from Dad were
Intrusive.
Handling it.
I need more time.
The words I heard from them were
Counseling.
Grieving too long.
Not good for Sara.
Now Dad says, Yes, yes.
I’m taking good care of her.
I will.
He hangs up and turns to me.
They send you their love.
Somehow even that small phrase
sends a tear
down my cheek.
I try and keep a low profile
the rest of the day.
Dad is not comfortable with tears
and I don’t feel like
dealing with him
not dealing with me.
Now out there in the world
the play is going on
without me.
A Kelli-Wendy
is following my Peter Pan
through the night air.
Not me.
I lie on the couch
like an old sub sandwich
forgotten and soggy.
My daisy quilt is damp with tears
and used tissues.
Even the cards
Dad’s artsy students made me
are wet from weeping,
the homemade paper wilting,
the inked letters running.
I’m a mess not just because
I’m painfully sick
and missing the play. . . .
There on the TV screen
a sun-bright woman
gently lays her arm
across the shoulders
of her daughter.
My heart wails
and I wonder if she can hear me
from heaven . . .
wonder if she knows
what I’m going through.
It’s no use.
I can’t stop crying.
Dad comes in with some apple juice
sees my tears
and stops
totally clueless
about what to do.
I feel a sob coming up from my chest
but it startle-stops
when our doorbell rings.
No one is there when Dad answers—
only a little white kitten
who darts into our house
like a paper airplane.
Dad chases it around madly
and they look so funny
I quit crying
and start laughing.
Dad stares at me for a moment
surprised and relieved
and when he finally catches the kitten
he puts it into my arms and says,
Serendipity, Sara.
Someone’s brought you a blessing
for a visit.
The little fluffball licks my nose
and suddenly
nothing else matters.
All I care about now
is making this visit
last forever.
Dad has never told me
why I can’t have a cat.
He has just told me No
and turned his face away
stared out the window
or into his book
his mouth held
like there are marbles
resting on his tongue
like the marbles
are years of tears
petrified.
Dad goes out the front door.
I hear his footsteps
scrape past the empty carport
then stop.
I picture him
scanning the horizon
searching for the troublemaker
who dropped a cat
into our lives.
By the time he comes back
the kitten is already
kneading a soft spot
in my stomach.
Any ideas who left the cat?
he asks.
I shake my head.
His eyes squint
into his thinking expression
figuring a way
I suppose
to send the cat back.
It is lucky for me
I’m sick and sad.
Now may be my only chance.
Can’t I keep it?
Please?
The shades come down over Dad’s eyes.
You know cats aren’t an option.
For tonight, at least?
You can’t throw it out in the cold.
I wipe at my mascara-running eyes
and tearstained cheeks
to remind him
who he’s dealing with
tonight.
Dad sighs
looks at his watch.
I guess it is pretty late.
I can take it to the shelter tomorrow.
I kiss the kitten’s forehead
and it straight-arms its paw
on my mouth.
Boy or girl? I ask.
Dad sighs again, then checks.
I think it’s a girl.
Maybe looking at the end
reminds him.
I hope she’s litter-trained.
I’d better go find a box
and some newspaper.
My heart says
And a way.
I’d better
find a way
that she
can stay.
At least she is mine
for tonight.
I can pretend she’ll be mine
forever.
I’ll begin with her name. . . .
She’s white as a snowball
but she’s warm
not frozen.
She’s squishy and soft and sweet
as a marshmallow.
But she’s delicate as an orchid
graceful as a ballerina
miraculous as an angel.
I can’t believe my luck
that she’s here with me.
I guess Dad named her
after all.
Serendipity.
It’s been three years.
You’d think we’d be better
by now. . . .
Dad does the best he can
but I remember
cheek-kisses
soft as velvet.
I remember
a gentle voice saying
It’s all right, honey bunny,
I’m here.
I remember