shivering liz for jell-o,
sweep the kitchen for hash.
after two weeks,
she puts me in charge
of deciding the daily
blue plate special.
so i do what i’ve seen
her do many times—
stand before the open fridge,
hip cocked, inhaling refrigerated air,
waiting for the leftovers to speak to me.
hey, charlotte, i call,
we’ve got three big tubs
of mashed murphy and
hockey pucks climbing the walls.
how’s shepherd’s pie sound to you?
charlotte breezes past,
hauling a bag of trash
to the dumpster.
you’re a natural!
* * *
one humid wednesday,
our day off,
jeremy and i
take a bus to cedar key
then walk to the nearest beach.
the bluest water i’ve ever seen
reflects a cloudless sky.
seagulls caw overhead.
excited, i turn to jeremy.
i love the smell here. don’t you?
he wrinkles his nose.
smells like dead fish to me.
i swat his arm,
kick off my flip-flops,
hurry across the hot sand.
as warm, wet fingers
tickle my feet
a bumpy white shell
with pink insides
bumps up against my big toe.
when i reach to pick it up,
my baby kicks up a storm.
sometimes it freaks me out
knowing there’s
this living,
breathing thing inside me,
growing bigger every day.
overwhelmed, i start to cry.
jeremy pulls me close,
our stomachs touch,
then he feels the baby kick too.
surprised, he jumps back. whoa!
that dude’s got some strong-ass legs.
laughing now,
i wipe tears away.
it’s not a dude,
it’s a dudette.
that so?
i nod. definitely.
jeremy rests both hands on my belly.
did i ever tell you my dad played
soccer at buffalo state?
i roll my eyes.
only a zillion times.
well—jeremy smiles—
maybe our little dudette
is gonna take after her grandpa.
hours later,
when the sun’s gone down,
my pretty shell sits on the dresser
and jeremy snores beside me.
i lay awake,
taunted by the memory of his smile.
how will i ever tell him the truth?
in the middle of the night
my everyday fears become monsters
that threaten to swallow me whole.
* * *
a week before christmas
jeremy and i take a bus
to the kmart in ocala.
we buy a tiny fake tree,
pine-scented candles,
and a can of artificial snow.
on christmas eve,
the diner closes early
and jeremy and i
order takeout
to eat in our room.
holiday music plays on our radio,
candlelight flickers on the walls,
fake snow lines the sill.
i slide jeremy’s present
out from under our bed.
he peels back the paper,
beams. wow, a vcr!
now i can tape the simpsons.
my gift’s in a tiny box.
inside is a ring with
a thin, shiny band
and a tag that says
genuine gold plated.
jeremy slips it on my finger.
since we’re gonna have a baby together,
i’d say it’s time we got engaged.
i push the truth aside,
bury my face in jeremy’s neck,
and hug him as hard as i can.
* * *
by the time
the new year rolls around
i have the regulars pegged.
stew, the one-eyed meter reader
who always orders steak and eggs.
joe hobbs, who manages the feed store,
a grits-and-pancakes man.
sally haas, the town librarian,
who drifts in just before the lunch crowd,
ordering the blue plate special
without even asking what it is.
there are a dozen more like them—
folks whose habits give them away,
predictable as the daily noon whistle.
but one afternoon,
in the lull before the dinner rush,
when business slows to a crawl
and charlotte’s busy in the kitchen
setting up the next day’s salads and
watching oprah on her tiny tv,
an unfamiliar lady breezes in.
she has auburn chin-length hair
and a beige suit with matching pumps.
she’s probably mam’s age,
only thinner, prettier.
her heels click toward
a two-top in the corner.
she opens her briefcase on the table,
unloads a black leather binder,
clicks a fancy silver pen,
writes across a smooth, new page.
i mosey over. i got that from charlotte—
she’s always moseying here
and moseying there.
not looking up, the lady says,
i’d like a cup of earl grey tea with lemon,
a chef salad with extra swiss, no salami,
and italian dressing on the side, please.
i can tell from the flat, twangless
slap of her syllables
she’s a northerner, like me.
after bringing her order,
i study the northern lady
from the register.
she removes a single pit
from her lemon wedge,
holds it over her steaming mug, squeezing.
then she dunks her tea bag in the cup,
flattens it against her spoon,
places it gently on the saucer.
when i refill her cup with hot water
and leave her a brand-new bag,
she looks up, finally.
she has pretty eyes—
green as the shamrocks
taped to the windows—
and a small, delicate face.
tucking her hair behind one ear
she glances at my belly and smiles,
saying something about a bud being snug,
and a sprat—whatever that is—
doing something inside a pickle jug.
i haven’t got the slightest idea
what she’s talking about.
i just stand there,
dumb as dust.
the northern lady smiles.
i’m sorry, that’s a line
from a poem called you’re.
i was imagining that’s how
your baby must be feeling,
tucked in that cozy space.
i nod, relax.
where’d that poem come from?
she reaches in her briefcase,
removes a small, thin book.
i glance at the cover and
recognize the poet’s name—
she’s the one who offed herself.
here, keep this. it’s an extra.
i bought it at the airport this morning.
i forgot my copy at home.
i’m not an organized traveler.
ariel, i say, touching the cover.
ari
el by sylvia plath.
my baby kicks and kicks
like she’s running
the new york marathon.
* * *
that night i drink black decaf tea,
something charlotte got me to try,
and read ariel, cover to cover.
some lines i can’t figure out,
but i like the way the words connect,
the sounds they make inside my head.
when i’m finished,
i feel melancholy.
the daddy poem especially
filled me with so many thoughts—
of my own daddy,
who i wish i could’ve met,
of jeremy,
about to become a daddy
to a baby who isn’t even his.
i turn to look at him,
parked in front of a football game,
sipping a coors.
except he seems
a million miles away.
jeremy, is everything okay?
he steadies the remote
and lowers the volume.
i was remembering when
i turned thirteen and my dad
got us tickets to see a bills game.
man, was he psyched.
i swallow hard. you miss him?
he nods, pauses.
but i miss my mom even more.
she, like, takes all this shit for anxiety,
and i worry i’m making her more nuts
than she already is on account
of not knowing where i am.
a long, hulking silence follows.
it slithers and crawls through
our room, belly down,
sucking up the last bit of air.
finally, jeremy continues.
maybe after the baby’s born
we can go back for a visit.
i know this is important to him
because the bills score a touchdown
and he watches me, not the screen.
whaddaya think?
my life is here now,
but i can’t break
his little-boy heart.
i pick up ariel,
a connection to the new life i have,
deciding i’ll read it once more.
sure, we’ll go.
* * *
the next day,
the northern lady’s back,
same time, same table.
as i walk toward her
carrying a spot with a twist
(diner-speak for tea with lemon),
she looks up, quoting a poem from ariel—
the one where kindness carries tea
and steam circles it like a wreath.
that’s from—she starts and
i finish, from the poem kindness.
she smiles. so you’ve read ariel?
i smile back. yeah—i mean yes. twice.
after she finishes eating,
she folds her napkin on her plate,
leaves me a generous tip,
stands and pushes in her chair—
something no one ever thinks to do.
as she glides through the door
a wind whips across the parking lot,
lifting the rusty vacancy sign
that hangs from a pole outside.
screech, screech, screech,
it claps against a cloudless sky.
that lady is just like the breeze,
appearing straight out of nowhere.
Ariel
There’s no sign of Mom in the cafeteria, which irks me. I know this visit is rough on her, but leaving me to fend for myself is kind of thoughtless. She’s not the only one affected here.
Not knowing what else to do, I wander outside again. The sky’s a brilliant blue and the foliage is brighter than fire. Olivia calls autumn colors hyper-hues. She says they look like they’re cranked up on Jolt cola.
I glance around, making sure Shane’s bike isn’t parked in the shrubs. That he’s not lurking somewhere, waiting to push my buttons so I can turn into a head case again. When I’m convinced I’m alone, I return to the bench I sat on earlier.
A bird chirps in a nearby tree, and a familiar ache crowds my heart. My Missing Dad ache, which shows up in moments like these—when talking with Mom isn’t an option. Hearing what happened with Shane this afternoon would put her over the edge. But Dad might understand. Or at least not completely freak out.
My eyes land on the spot where I tackled Shane. And there, shaded by a nearby shrub, is my phone. Which I’m obviously developing some serious issues with.
I glare at it, wishing it weren’t mine. Hesitantly, I stand to pick it up.
I flip it open. 8 MISSED CALLS.
ShaneShaneShaneShaneShaneShaneShaneShane.
I power it off and stick the phone in my pocket, telling myself that—since I forgot to pack the charger—it’s wise to save on the battery.
* * *
When I return to Green Mountain’s room, I expect to find Mom there, asking me where I’ve been. But she’s not. There’s a person in the second bed, though. I catch a glimpse of her through the small space where her privacy curtain doesn’t close. She’s old with wild, wiry white hair.
“Find your ma?” Green Mountain asks.
“No,” I answer, sitting down.
She tips her head toward her new neighbor. “Colon cancer. She’s going into surgery tomorrow.”
The curtain ripples as Wild Hair smacks it. “Mind your own damn business!”
We both stifle a laugh.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself,” Green Mountain says. “What grade are you in?”
“I’m a junior.”
“You a good student?”
I shrug. “I guess. My schedule’s hard this year. I’m taking three AP classes.”
“AP?” she repeats.
“Advanced Placement. If I pass the exams, I might get college credit for the classes.”
“That so? Where do you wanna go?”
“Brown’s my first choice. Smith is my second. If I don’t get accepted, I’ll probably go to Hudson Hills University. That’s where Mom got her bachelor’s.”
She looks shocked. “Your ma went to college? How’d she swing that?”
“Mom works at HHU. With her employee discount, tuition was super cheap.”
“I wanted to go to college,” she tells me. “Never got to, though. I got pregnant with your ma during my senior year of high school.”
“What would you have majored in?” I ask her.
“Nursing.” She glances out the window then back at me. “How about you? What’ll you study in college?”
“Probably psychology. Mom and Aunt Lee both think I’d make a good therapist because I’m intuitive and I read people well.”
Her eyes narrow. “How’d you wind up with an aunt? Your ma and her boyfriend were only children.”
“Oh, Aunt Lee’s the woman Mom works for at the university. She’s not really my aunt, that’s just what I call her. We couldn’t be any closer if we were related.”
She nods. “You got a boyfriend?” she asks me next. Then quickly, she adds, “Or a girlfriend? Sorry, I don’t mean to assume. My bingo buddy, Thelma, the one who smuggled in the you-know-what?”—she points to the closet—“she’s a lesbian. Came out of the closet two years ago on her forty-seventh birthday. She says us straights make too many assumptions. So I’m cool with the whole gay thing. Just in case.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “I’ve got a boyfriend, actually. Shane.”
My left eye starts to quiver. I rub it until it stops. But as soon as I take my hand away, the twitching starts up again.
“What’s the matter?” she asks me.
“Oh. It’s just this weird thing my eye does sometimes when—”
“That’s not what I mean. When you said your boyfriend’s name, your face went all funny.”
I rub my eye again. “We had a fight a little while ago.”
<
br /> I hadn’t planned to tell her that. The words just fell out. Immediately, I feel a surge of paranoia. I glance under Green Mountain’s bed—like I’m afraid Shane’s hiding there, weighing every word.
“Did Shane come along with you and your ma?”
There’s no way I can admit what happened—that Shane put a tracking device on my phone and followed me here. It’ll sound like he’s stalking me or something. “Um, no”—I dig in my pocket and hold up my cell—“we had a fight on the phone.”
I suck at lying. I probably look guilty as hell.
Her eyebrows knit together, and I get a feeling she knows there’s more I’m not telling her. When she changes the subject, I’m relieved. “I had a boyfriend in high school, your ma’s father. I lost over fifty pounds for him.” She pats her large, round stomach. “Unfortunately, I found ’em again.”
“Where’d you guys go on dates?” I ask her.
“Movies. The Drive-in. The arcade.”
“Did you have proms?” As soon as I ask, I want to kick myself. It sounds like I’m saying she’s ancient.
“Sure. Except we rented dinosaurs instead of limos.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
Green Mountain laughs too, guffawing so hard she snorts.
“Quiet down over there!” Wild Hair shouts.
Green Mountain sticks her tongue out at the curtain. Then she reaches into the drawer on her nightstand, holding out a small cylindrical tube. It’s five or six inches long, made of woven pink and blue wicker, with an open hole on each end. “My boyfriend won this for me playing Skee Roll. Ever see one?”
“No.” I lean in, interested. “What is it?”
“Chinese handcuffs.” She slides her finger into one hole, directing the opposite end toward me. “Here.”
I copy her, slipping a finger inside. “Now what?”
She tugs her end backward. The pink and blue strands clamp down on my knuckle. “Gotcha!” she says, triumphant.
I attempt to pull my finger out. But I can’t. I try a second time. A third. I’m stuck.
My mouth is suddenly dry. I lick my lips. Swallow. Try a fourth time. A fifth. Harder. I can’t get free. “Let me go!” I blurt out.
But she doesn’t. She just watches me, grinning.
My heart kicks into overdrive. My pulse pounds in my ears. “I mean it—let me go! Now!”
She finally gets it. That I’m freaking out. “Lean in,” she tells me, and I do. The tube loosens its grip. My finger slides out effortlessly.
Collapsing back in my chair, I stare up at the ceiling squares.
Blue Plate Special Page 18