Blue Plate Special

by Michelle D. Kwasney

  * * *

  at one in the morning,

  the parking lot is empty.

  a chalky cloud hangs

  over the smoldering bonfire.

  eric drives along the pot-holed road

  that snakes behind the school,

  parks beside a dried-up cornfield.

  he pulls two blankets from the back,

  opens them both across the ground.

  eric leads carol ann

  in the direction of one blanket,

  and jeremy motions me toward the second,

  a few yards away.

  the smell of burned wood

  and old corn mix together

  as we do it,

  right there

  below the night sky.

  and this time the stars are real.

  * * *

  afterward

  a mist hides the moon,

  and the air is chilly.

  when i shiver,

  jeremy takes off his

  suit jacket and drapes

  it across my shoulders.

  his warmth surrounds me,

  his smell,

  his jeremyness.

  gazing at me,

  he lifts a strand of hair

  from in front of my face,

  and for the first time ever

  he says, i love you, dez.

  i never thought about

  whether or not i love jeremy.

  but then i remember the day

  in his bedroom

  when he said he’d kill

  anyone who hurt me,

  and i whisper back, i love you, too.

  * * *

  everyone wants breakfast.

  so i suggest the geronimo,

  two blocks from jeremy’s house,

  but eric says, i know someplace better.

  they make a killer omelet.

  eric drives us clear to elmira,

  to a diner called the second chance.

  the walls are paneled dark brown

  and decorated with movie posters

  of old farts in cowboy hats.

  we grab a booth in the

  smoking section and light up.

  as i study the menu

  jeremy reaches behind

  my head, smiling.

  hang on, dezzie lou,

  you got a piece of corn in your hair.

  i elbow his side and shoot back,

  how do you think it got there, cowboy?

  * * *

  it’s four in the morning

  when we get back to johnson city.

  i can’t wait to peel off my dress,

  drop into bed,

  and sleep.

  jeremy kisses me good night on our porch.

  i hand him his jacket and let myself in.

  inside it’s dark, but

  i get this creepy sensation

  i’m not alone,

  that someone is watching me.

  as my eyes adjust

  a face moves toward me

  and a hoarse whisper

  shatters the silence:

  i’ve missed you, sweet stuff.

  Ariel

  Mom hauls out the last of our stuff, cramming it into the trunk. By the way she’s packed, you’d think we were leaving for two weeks instead of two days.

  I set the directions on the dash between a bottle of Apple & Eve and a bag of Soy Crisps. I’d planned on getting the directions off Mapquest, but Aunt Lee, who grew up in Elmira, insisted on writing them out herself. Across the bottom she added, Be safe, ladies! Say hello to my high school alma mater! xo, Lee.

  “Okay,” Mom says, “mental check. The doors are locked. The stove’s off. I put a light on a timer. The heat’s set at sixty.” She turns to face me. “Is that high enough? Will the plants be all right?”

  “They’ll be fine.” I hop into the front seat, motioning for her to do the same.

  Mom peers inside the car like it’s an alien spacecraft instead of a Subaru wagon with a gazillion miles on it.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go. Marge is waiting.” Marge is what Mom calls her car, named after Homer Simpson’s wife.

  Mom wrings her hands. “I didn’t cancel today’s newspaper. Maybe I should have. It’ll be sitting in the driveway until tomorrow night when we—”

  “Mom”—I pat the driver’s seat—“let’s go.”

  Hesitantly, Mom slides in. Fastens her seat belt. Adjusts her rearview mirror. Pats Marge’s dusty dashboard.

  Finally, we take off. As we cross the Mid-Hudson Bridge out of Poughkeepsie, my phone rings. I’d managed to glide through the whole why-Shane-gave-me-a-cell-and-why-I-accepted-it issue by inventing a little white lie. I told Mom that Shane was worried about us traveling, and that’s why he bought me a phone—so I can call for help if we have any problems.

  I peel back the flap on my pack, feeling inside for my cell. Then I dig through the side pockets. Next, I dump it upside down on my lap, cradling an avalanche of CDs, makeup, and breath mints. Meanwhile, “Only U” plays and I’m cursing under my breath, getting more and more upset.

  “Hey, calm down.” Mom moves a magazine off the seat between us, and there’s my phone, underneath it. Except the ringing stops the minute I flip it open. 1 MISSED CALL. I push View. Shane’s name appears. Quickly I phone him back.

  He answers in less than a millisecond. “Where were you?”

  “Here. I mean, on the road. We’re driving. Well, Mom’s driving. You know.” I sound like a total spaz. “I couldn’t find the phone.”

  “Oh,” Shane says. One word. One short, single-syllable word. But it tells me all I need to know. He’s upset about something.

  I lean into my door, like that might give me some privacy. “Shane,” I whisper, “what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Two syllables this time. Sometimes I’m so busy trying to figure out what Shane’s feeling I barely have a clue what kind of mood I’m in anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly, even though I really don’t have anything to apologize for. Other than being a moron who can’t keep track of her phone.

  Shane sighs a slow, easy breath. “Okay.” Two syllables again. But these are smooth and round, even as well-worn stones.

  I exhale too. “So, what are you doing?”

  “Missing you.”

  “Me too.”

  We talk effortlessly for several minutes. I’m smiling again, and I even laugh a few times—once so hard that I snort, then hiccup, which makes my mom laugh too.

  Before we hang up, Shane says, “Call me when you get there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  Four hours later, Mom and I are parking Marge in the hospital lot. Inside, we stop at the visitor’s desk. An old woman in a turquoise dress smiles up at us. Her pin says Frieda: Volunteer. A halo of white hair surrounds her head, transitioning to black a few inches from her scalp. I feel sorry for her, that she doesn’t know how ridiculous it looks. “Name of the person you’re here to see?” she asks.

  “Murdock,” Mom mumbles.

  Frieda scans her list. “Are you family?”

  The word must throw Mom for a loop. Her face goes completely white.

  “Yes,” I answer for her.

  Frieda holds out two visitor stickers. “She’s in room seven-twelve, bed B. Take the second set of elevators.”

  On the way, we pass a gift shop. There’s a candy kiosk next to the register. Mom almost never eats sweets, so I have no idea why she stops. Or why she has this bizarre expression on her face—like one of those glassy-eyed people on the psychic channel who claim they can talk to dead people.

  Mom holds up an Almond Joy bar. “When I was your age, I practically lived on these things.”

  “You?”

  “Yep.” Mom grins. “I used to shoplift them.”

  The woman at the register turns to watch us.

  “She’s kidding,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m not,” Mom say
s, deadpan.

  I take the candy bar and put it back before Register Woman decides to call security. Then I nudge her toward the elevator.

  I push the up arrow. We wait.

  “Do you feel ready for this?” Mom asks me.

  “No.” I laugh. A choppy, nervous laugh. “You?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything about owing her jar a dollar, so I let it go.

  The door glides open with a bing. We step on, and I push the button marked seven. I always hate it when elevators stop on every floor, picking up more and more people until you’re so crowded your face is mashed in someone’s armpit. But, today, I wouldn’t mind. I’d welcome anything to put off what’s ahead.

  The door opens on the seventh floor. We walk slowly, checking the numbers.

  Room 712 is across from the nurses’ station. The tag outside reads:

  M. Murdock / Dr. Bishop

  DOB: 12-11-59

  From where Mom and I stand in the hallway, I can see her: M. Murdock, clad in a kelly-green hospital grown with a long-sleeved sweater overtop. Occupying the entire bed, her large form rises and falls with each breath. A big green mountain.

  Seconds later, she stirs. She grabs the rails that line both sides of her bed, straining to sit up, which—judging from the look on her face—must hurt. She leans forward. Coughs. Sips from a Styrofoam cup. Points a remote at her TV. Melodramatic music fills the hallway.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “All My Children. The theme song’s imbedded in my brain.”

  We watch her watch TV. It feels weird—knowing who she is when she doesn’t have a clue who we are. Or that we’re standing here, studying her.

  “She looks the same,” Mom says. “Except older. Older and”—her eyes fill—“vulnerable.” She reaches in her pocket for a tissue. When she blows her nose, it makes a honking noise.

  The green mountain that is allegedly my grandmother looks up. Into the hall. Right at us. She points the remote at the TV again. The sound vanishes and a hoarse voice penetrates the sudden silence. “Is that you?” she asks Mom.

  Starting through the door, Mom reaches behind her for my hand, squeezing so tightly I think she might bust a knuckle. She stops at the empty bed closest to the door. Its smooth white sheets look ready to welcome someone new. Even though we’re only a few yards away, it feels more like a hundred miles.

  Mom pumps my hand like it’s a heart she has to keep beating. And I just stand there thinking, This is the woman who made my mother’s life hell.

  “I used to share the room with Ella Parker,” she informs us, tipping her chin toward the empty bed. “Except she died yesterday. Liver cancer.” She points to the chairs that flank the dead lady’s bed. “Grab those and pull ’em over.”

  We do as we’re told. Sitting, I mentally case out the room. There’s a yellow carnation in a plastic vase on the sill. A single “get well” card sits next to it. When Mom was home sick with pneumonia two years ago, she got dozens of cards. They filled the kitchen counter. And her mother has a single card. A gaudy one with too much glitter.

  She reaches behind her, wrestling a pillow loose. Her face takes on the same pained expression. As she holds the pillow in front of her chest, I try to imagine what it must be like to have parts of your body removed. To look down and see scars where your breasts used to be.

  The green mountain that is my grandmother wiggles her legs out from under the covers. She turns, struggling to swing them over the edge of the bed so she’s facing us. Her feet are swollen and bluish.

  “Fluid retention,” she says, reading my thoughts. “Diabetes.”

  I nod. “Oh,” is all I can think to say.

  I glance at Mom, who’s clawing a loose vinyl strip on the arm of her chair, looking shell-shocked.

  “What’s your name?” Green Mountain asks me.

  I clear my throat. “Um, Ariel.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Like The Little Mermaid?”

  Mom finally speaks. “Ariel’s named after a collection of poetry by Sylvia Plath.”

  Mom’s mother harrumphs. “Never would’ve pegged you as the literary type.” She turns to face me again. “So, Ariel. Did your mom tell you what a shitty mother I was?”

  I start to choke. Then cough.

  She points toward the corner of the room. “Open that door.”

  I have no idea how opening a closet is going to help me stop coughing, but I do it anyway. There’s an insulated tote on the top shelf, the kind I used to carry my lunch in when I was in elementary school. Mom would pack me the same thing every day—a sandwich on whole wheat bread, a bag of Sun Chips, a piece of fruit, and a container of Juicy Juice. It’s funny, the things you remember.

  I unzip the lid. Inside are six cans of Coke and an ice pack.

  “My bingo buddy, Thelma, smuggled those in for me this morning,” Mom’s mother informs us. “I’m not supposed to have sugar on account of—” She glances at her feet.

  “Your diabetes,” I finish.

  She winks at me and smiles.

  I feel myself start to smile back. But a smile would betray my mom, so I pin the corners of my mouth in place and sit. Peel back the tab on my Coke. Sip.

  A nurse breezes into the room. She replaces Green Mountain’s water pitcher and hands her several small pills. “Nice to see you’ve got yourself some company,” she says. Turning to Mom and me, she adds, “Just to let you know, Mrs. Murdock has four drainage tubes from her surgery, and she has to be careful with her movements. No organized sporting events during your visit, you hear?” She smiles and glides toward the door, leaving a long, uneasy silence in her wake.

  “Well, if the cat’s got everybody’s tongue…” Green Mountain says, powering the TV back on.

  Mom drums her fingers on the chair.

  Green Mountain nods at the TV. “He’s a looker, isn’t he?

  Mom raises her voice over the sound. “We didn’t drive four hours to watch All My Children.”

  Her mother directs the clicker at the TV. The picture fades to a black dot, and the sound in the room empties out. Now it’s even quieter than before.

  “So”—Mom clears her throat—“how are you feeling?”

  Green Mountain’s eyebrows knit together. “They cut my breasts off three days ago. How the hell do you think I feel?”

  Madeline

  The next day, the cheerleaders are huddled together outside English class. When I pass them, Muralee steps forward. “Um, hi,” she says, clearing her throat.

  I can’t believe Muralee Blawjen is talking to me. In public. I feel my face go red. “Hi,” I say back, and keep walking.

  As she follows me to my seat Sharon and Jeannette crane their necks to watch.

  “I like what you wrote,” Muralee says. “You know, the essay Mr. Bryant read to the class about the egg? Nice symbolism. Convincing point of view.”

  I can’t believe she was listening to my words. “Thanks,” I say, hoping I look calmer than I am.

  Muralee sits next to me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her earrings are star sapphires, and they match the blue on her cheerleading uniform. “It’s amazing if you think about it,” she goes on, “that the shell—the only home the creature inside has ever known—has to be completely destroyed in order for the new life to thrive.”

  I know Muralee’s smart because she always makes first honor roll, but I had no idea she was deep too. I don’t know what to say back, so I just smile.

  Muralee leans closer. “About what you saw me doing in the drugstore,” she whispers. “You haven’t, um…?”

  “Told anyone?” I whisper back.

  She nods.

  “God, no, I never would. Not in a million years. I swear.”

  The bell for the start of class rings.

  Muralee stands. “That’s great. Thanks.” She crosses the room to her desk.

  Jeannette grabs Muralee’s arm. Loud enough for everyone to hear, she says, “What do you want with her?”

&n
bsp; Muralee sits and opens her English book. “None of your business, Jeannette.”

  * * *

  After school, I stop at the thrift store and buy two pairs of size fourteen slacks. They’re a little tight when I try them on, but they’ll fit soon enough.

  As I walk in the door to our apartment, the phone rings. I sprint up the stairs, hoping it’s Tad. We didn’t make after-school plans because it’s his day off, and he had to work on his truck. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t see him.

  When I answer, Tad says, “Hi, beautiful.”

  I always blush when he calls me that. “Hi, yourself,” I say. “How’s your truck?”

  “In great shape. I changed the oil and the spark plugs and fixed a bad hose that was”—he stops himself—“hell, why am I boring you with that?”

  “Because I asked. And because it’s interesting. Everything you say is interesting.”

  “And everything you say is nice. Whatcha got planned for tonight?”

  “I’ll probably watch Laugh-In. I never get to ’cause Mom hates it, but she’s out.”

  “Oh, really? Care for some company?”

  Tad has yet to see inside our apartment. Once I let him pull into the driveway instead of dropping me off at the curb, but that’s the closest he’s been. And now’s not the time to test that. Sure, Mom might be out all night. But if her latest date’s a disaster, she could be home in an hour. “Our place is a mess,” I lie.

  “Okay. Let’s go out then. We can hang out at the amusement park for a while. And after it gets dark”—he draws out the word—“we can catch a movie at the drive-in.”

  I imagine us someplace dark, where I can let in the feeling of Tad’s touch instead of panicking, worrying he’ll see my scars. “Sure,” I say, excited, “it’s a date.”

  * * *

  We cut across the picnic area behind the amusement park. Someone’s grilling hot dogs on a hibachi and the smell makes my mouth water.

  I notice a family at an end table. A boy and girl—a brother and sister, I’m guessing—are sharing a game of checkers. A transistor radio sits beside them, playing a song by the Jackson 5. A woman in a sundress, the mom probably, is lifting plates from a woven basket, and the man, the dad, is reaching into a cooler for a beer.

  A familiar pain stabs me in the heart, reminding me: You never got to be that little girl. But when I remember what Tad said about wanting kids, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe someday I will have a shot at a family like that. Except I’ll be the woman, the mom. And Tad will be the dad, and the kids will be ours. Not that I really like kids much—it depresses me, seeing them do things I never got to—but Tad likes them. And I want to make him happy.