We start to turn away at the exact same time,
but I turn back and take a risk:
“Do you want to come over one day?
We could paint.”
171.
The next day on the bus
Jiman tells me a story,
set in our art class:
It started with a single dot
that I turned into a sun.
Appear the antagonists:
They walk past when Mr. Lydon isn’t looking,
hands at their sides, marker or pen uncapped,
and stab it or drag it
across my paper.
I’m on the edge of my seat:
Once or twice, when I crumpled it up,
they laughed when I started over, called me a name.
But I realized I was letting them win.
And the hero triumphs:
Now, I can transform any mark or mean word
into a butterfly, flower, or bird.
It’s how I learned I’m talented.
With a twist:
I had a feeling, Abbey,
that you’d be fine too.
The end!
or
The beginning…
172.
The last day of school
begins in an ordinary square classroom
with blue walls, a white board, a striped flag
forever tied in my mind to September 11th, 2001—
the one school I’ll always
remember.
173.
Other students fill the desks
around me, and as attendance is taken,
and the final announcements are made,
I know I’m different.
Words roll from my tongue, the ones
I’ve repeated since I was five:
…with liberty and justice for all.
But today,
my eyes are open wide.
I will stand up to things that are wrong
let myself be heard, be strong, defend,
befriend. I can do things I never realized.
I have skills that travel.
I pledge allegiance.
I pledge allegiance.
I pledge allegiance
to stand up,
to stand tall,
to mean it
wherever I am
with liberty and justice for all.
174.
To make my room
less temporary, Camille, Jacob, and Jiman have agreed
to help transform my ceiling into art.
Jacob skips soccer for this!
It takes two minutes tops
before Jiman wins the hearts
of my other two friends.
Mom’s on board with our project,
and she’s stocked us with all the supplies.
I’ve decided to go with deep blue
and stars that pierce through,
shining into this world from another,
which makes me think of Aunt Rose.
Jiman designs elaborate stars
like Georgia O’Keeffe flowers.
And Jacob freestyles constellations.
“Go Michelangelo!” I tease.
“Doing all the hard work for you guys,”
Camille reminds us, as she layers blue
into the four corners of the room.
When we’re done,
we all recline on my bed
to stargaze at our creation.
And I consider myself lucky
to be among friends,
which is a really good place
to be.
AND THE MONTHS BEYOND
175.
Dad has begun the process
of coming home to us.
It will take weeks.
But a few more weeks we can manage now.
Just enough time to finish
my painting for him.
On the phone, I ask him quietly,
“Has it been bad?”
but not: Will you be the same?
And he whispers,
“Abbey, I’m fortunate,
I get to come home to my two favorite girls.”
And his voice sounds like liquid
somewhere out there
on the other side of the world.
176.
Then,
it just happens.
Finally!
The door opens and closes,
and he is back where he should be,
back where he belongs,
back to the place where we all sleep,
sharing the same latitude
and longitude on a map.
It’s as simple as that.
There are no other words.
Just—
the three of us
together
in the same place
at the same time
again.
For now,
we are home.
We are.
177.
Within days,
it’s almost like he was never gone.
Almost.
Some things are different now.
I’m not exactly sure how.
I can’t put it onto the page
or paint it into a picture—
not yet.
I can see it in his eyes.
There is helplessness and protectiveness.
There is strength and weakness.
There is loss and there is love.
Maybe the difference is Dad,
maybe it’s me,
maybe it’s Aunt Rose,
maybe it’s Mom,
maybe it’s War.
We have shifted
as our world has,
forever scarred.
But we are together
and we are stronger.
178.
Instead of sitting around,
Dad seems anxious to connect,
to be a family again.
“I have some stuff to show you,” Dad tells me one afternoon
and pulls the artwork
I sent to him in Afghanistan
from his boxes.
Each one is carefully packaged
and unbent. He takes his time
displaying them
on his bed.
But I can’t wait any longer
and have to ask:
“Why didn’t you tell me you were an artist, too?”
“That was a long time ago, Abbey,
and you are my masterpiece,”
he says, looking into my eyes.
My knees go weak
with the weight of his love.
Then he takes out
a folder full of drawings
that aren’t mine.
In response to each picture I sent,
there’s another one,
like an echo, or an answer,
or maybe a question.
There are several desert scenes
and pictures of soldiers
and children.
“Her name is Amena.”
He points to a sketch of an Afghan girl.
“I think I just took a break from art,” he explains.
I study his pictures,
admiring his talent.
“But your art and mine helped me to get by, to survive.”
Then Mom comes over to us.
Dad pulls her close to one side
and me to
his other.
179.<
br />
Mom seems more like her old self.
I take a chance as we’re driving past Henley
and ask if she wants to meet Aunt Rose’s tree.
At first, she shakes her head vehemently,
but after a mile she turns around,
drives back, sighs, and whispers, “Show me.”
The ribbon is completely gone and the tree wears
leaves now. Mom surprises me and reaches her hands
up to a low branch and swings from it like a child.
We giggle when she slips and falls, and sit together
beneath it for a while. She doesn’t say she’s sorry
for the year I’ve had—it’s been hard on everyone—
but I can see pride and love and an apology
shining in her hope-filled eyes.
180.
Self-Portrait Revisited
I leave an expanse
of
white
space
I am a work in progress
Abbey
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As a teacher, I’m often surprised by how my middle-schoolers have heard of 9/11 but cannot comprehend its magnitude. This is no wonder, since some of their lives’ tragedies have yet to be written. But it’s a story that needs to be told and retold through many voices. It’s a tragedy both shared and uniquely personal.
Like Abbey, the main character of The Places We Sleep, I was not in New York City on September 11, 2001. Like Abbey, I live in the South. Yet the reverberations of that day were far and wide.
On that indescribable morning, nineteen militants associated with al-Qaeda, an Islamic extremist group, hijacked airplanes and used them as weapons against targets in the United States. Nearly three thousand people in New York City; Washington, D.C.; and Pennsylvania lost their lives that day.
At the time, I was pregnant with my first child. In the days and weeks that followed the terrorist attacks, I felt a deep fear of bringing a child into a world where such death and destruction could occur. Furthermore, my two brothers and my brother-in-law were deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq in the subsequent war.
As I cared for my infant and continued, along with the nation, to process the events of 2001, I began writing Abbey’s story, which unfolded in verse. I was not necessarily writing a novel, but finding a way of creatively coping and working through a new unfamiliar sense of foreboding.
Since 2001, my daughter has blossomed into a complicated teenager, for whom puberty may sometimes seem like the greatest tragedy. Having a child renewed my faith in the goodness of the world. In fact, I now recognize that bringing a human being into the world is a courageous act of hope.
For Abbey, adolescence coincides with the uncertainties of an entire nation. What was it like to come of age at a time when no one felt secure? When prejudices bubbled and strengthened just beneath the surface of one’s skin? When the diversity at the heart of a nation became a source of tension? Is it so different today?
Maybe Abbey’s story can inspire others to choose kindness and tolerance, to learn one another’s names, to opt for creation over destruction. If nothing more, I hope Abbey inspires others to express themselves through poetry and art.
— Caroline
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful for this opportunity to thank those who’ve helped me to become a writer and now an author. This book would not exist without you!
Thank you to Richard, the love of my life, for your lyrical collaborations and shared joie de vivre, and to Rose, with whom I was pregnant on 9/11 and who inspired me to tell this story, and to Rowan, my own personal big shot and spirited fan. Many aspiring writers and artists don’t have the support of their family, but you have always believed in me and my dream of becoming an author, even when it seemed impossible or inconvenient. Thank you, sweet family!
To my extended family, thank you for providing me with years of unconditional love and support and, whether you were aware of it or not, fodder for stories.
To my friends who’ve motivated and encouraged me to keep writing, a little part of you is in all I write: Rhonda Stansberry, Kathy Dykes, Jill Thomson, Hosanna Banks, Amy Ridings, and Diane Lewis.
Thank you to my brothers, James and Jason Brooks; my brother-in-law, Chris DuBois; my father-in-law, Charles DuBois; and my grandfathers, Carroll Quinn and James Brooks Sr. for your military service. You were the inspiration for Abbey’s dad.
Thank you to my editor, Sally Morgridge. Your experience as an NYC middle-schooler during 9/11 lent a beautiful vision to Abbey and brought out the best versions of my characters. Thank you to the lovely staff at Holiday House, especially art director Kerry Martin, for making this story into a real-live book. Thank you to my agent, Louise Fury, for your dedication and tenaciousness. Your steadfast belief in my manuscript has buoyed me more than once! Kathrin Honesta, the cover art is breathtaking—thank you! And a special thank you to my sensitivity reader for insight and perspective into key ways to improve this book.
Thank you to those who’ve read my manuscript, in part or in its entirety: Lynne Berry, Rebecca Brooks, Lisa Connor, Richard DuBois, Rose DuBois, Susan Eaddy, Margaret Fusco, Heather Hale, Diane Lewis, and Amy Parker. Some of these poems have existed in various versions, so please forgive me if I’ve forgotten anyone else who’s read them over the years.
The multiple critique groups I’ve been fortunate enough to be a part of have been integral to my growth as a writer. To the P-Gals from UMass MFA, I’m still moved by your poetry and magic: Kristin Bock, Pam Burdak, Carrie Comer, Robyn Heisey, Caroline Lewis, Judy Nacca, Karen Skolfield, and Sam Wood. Lynne Berry and Susan Eaddy, my first kidlit group, you taught me so much! Thank you Midsouth SCBWI, you rock! A shout-out goes to my former East Nashville group before several of you flew away to faraway locales: Kimberly Dana, Meg Griswold, Molly McCaffrey, and Linda McMunn. To fellow writer Heather Hale, thank you for your timely and tireless reads of this book, daring and thoughtful feedback, and kinship and friendship in general. I’m so glad we met!
Thank you to all the teachers who’ve challenged me to become a better writer and decent person. Nancy Stewart, Catherine Sniderman, Bonnie Auslander, Rosa Shand, John Bird, and Dara Wier, you have all showed me the beauty of words. Thank you to my family members who were teachers by profession. You inspired me to become both a teacher and writer: Nancy Dellinger, Camilla Quinn, Mark Quinn, and Glenda Wallace. And finally, thank you to my first teachers, my parents, Jim and Rebecca Brooks, who taught me to be curious about the world and to believe in myself.
Though The Places We Sleep is more of a coming-of-age story than a 9/11 story, I hope it honors all who were impacted by the myriad of tragedies on that day and in the months and years beyond. I would like to acknowledge and praise the police officers, firefighters, first responders, EMTs, doctors, and countless involved civilians, as well as all military personnel and their families. There are so many small acts of heroism in the face of tragedy, so an additional thank you to all of the unsung heroes surrounding 9/11.
The Places We Sleep Page 13