12
Today was Helen’s birthday. December tenth, she would’ve been nineteen.
We went out to dinner. We’re so conspicuous; Lucas and Dad arguing about everything and nothing, constantly.
The first thing they argued about was where to eat. Lucas wanted Mexican food, Dad wanted Italian. Mom suggested the International Kitchen.
We went to Ming’s. Chinese food was Helen’s favorite. Dad ordered a Shirley Temple for me and asked Lucas if he wanted one too.
“I’m twenty, Dad, not ten!” Lucas ordered coffee.
“Isn’t this nice?” Mom said, trying to make it that way. “The first time we brought you children here—” She launched into a beloved family fable. When the waiter filled twelve-year-old Helen’s water glass, she drank it all down, so he refilled it. So she drank that glass, and the next one, and the next one, until my parents intervened. She didn’t want to hurt the waiter’s feelings, she’d explained.
My mother’s eyes danced as she told that story, but Dad’s face had gotten sad. He interrupted Mom when she started to talk about how cute Helen was as a baby.
“How’s school, Jess?”
“Fine.” He doesn’t need to know I’m flunking math.
“That’s good. School’s so important, honey. I know you don’t realize that now, but someday when you’re all grown up.”
He thinks I’m a baby. He did the same thing with Helen. It drove her crazy. He didn’t want her to date. He didn’t want her to drive. On the rare occasions when she had a guy over, Dad managed to be lurking in the background, reading the newspaper, tinkering with the car.
He got worse as Helen did. So did the arguments with Lucas. They fought about the chemotherapy. Dad thought it was Helen’s only hope; Lucas thought it was just another way to die.
One night while Helen was in the hospital, Dad and Lucas started fighting at dinner.
“If she’s got to have the chemotherapy, she could at least smoke grass,” Lucas said.
“It’s illegal,” my father said flatly.
“For God’s sake, Dad! It’s medically proven! She wouldn’t feel like shit all the time. It relieves the side effects.”
“It’s out of the question! I won’t have Helen becoming addicted to drugs!”
“She doesn’t have time to become addicted!” Lucas shouted.
My father reached across the table and slapped him hard. My mother cried out and put her hands to her face. Lucas sat there, stunned, his eyes filling with tears. Then he ran out of the house.
“Lucas, wait!” Dad ran after him but it was too late. Lucas didn’t come home for several days.
The waiter brought our Chinese food; steaming platters heaped on a tray. But as soon as I smelled it, I was full. My father kept talking, talking, talking, filling Helen’s empty chair with words.
“How’s the band coming, Luke?”
“What band?”
“I thought you were getting a band together.”
“I thought so, too. It fell through.”
People come by our house with drums and guitars and take over the living room. But it never works out; they’re into drugs or drinking but not rehearsing. Lucas is too good for his own good.
“Most of them are into club music,” Lucas said.
“Club music,” Dad said. “What’s that mean?”
“The kind of music you play in dinner clubs. To make money.”
“There’s nothing wrong with making money,” Dad said.
“Depends how you make it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mmmm, isn’t the lemon chicken good!” my mother said.
“It means I’m not into playing Top Forty so a bunch of polyester heads can freak out on Friday night.”
Dad said, “Sometimes you have to give a little. The name of the game is compromise.”
“I don’t play games. Or clubs,” Lucas said.
I pushed the food around on my plate.
Home again, Mom brought out a cake she’d made. No candles. We sat around and ate it and talked about everything except what we were thinking. Then Mom got out the home movies: Helen and me on the swings, Helen and me in the May Day parade. Lucas suddenly had to go someplace, and Dad went to bed; he felt real tired.
I sat in the dark with Mom and watched Helen dance and laugh and wave. My mother drank a lot of wine.
Bambi came by and we went up to my room and she showed me her new red and blue tattoo; her boyfriend’s initials just above her left breast.
“Promise you won’t tell!” she said, as if anybody was interested. Sorry, but I’m going to have to go to the Enquirer. This is news. This is big, Bambi, big.
She said, “My boyfriend’s asked me to marry him.”
“You’re kidding.”
That hurt her feelings. Bambi’s built like a tank but she breaks like china.
“I mean,” I said, “you’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Of course not. But he loves me a lot, I think.”
“Do you love him?”
She twirled a strand of her limp black hair. She said, “He’s nice to me.” She got out a Band-Aid box full of marijuana.
“You can’t smoke that here,” I said. “My mother would smell it.” She was downstairs watching all the movies again.
“You could tell her it was incense.”
“I don’t want to get stoned.” Dope makes Bambi feel sleepy and happy, but it fine-tunes my pain. I see things too clearly. I remember things I want to forget.
“What’s this?” Bambi had picked up Helen’s journal. Seeing her touch it upset me. I held out my hand until she gave it to me.
“Helen’s journal. I’ve been reading it,” I said.
“Is there good stuff in it?”
“Like what? Like sex?”
“Yeah, did she and Bloomfield ever do it?”
I’d be damned if I’d let Bambi into Helen’s mind.
“If she did, do you think I’d tell you?”
“Why not? I was her friend.”
“Then you know,” I said.
“Come on,” Bambi pouted. “You’re holding.”
“It’s mostly about her writing. There’s some poems and stuff.”
“Maybe you could publish it post … post …” Bambi wracked her brain for the right word. “Maybe you could publish it posthumorously.”
“What?”
“You know; after her death.”
That cracked me up. Helen would’ve laughed, too.
“You mean posthumously.”
“So? I was close.” Bambi’s face was red. “Why do you always make fun of me, Jess?”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You’re always laughing at me.”
“I can’t help it when you say something stupid.”
“How am I supposed to know how to pronounce it? I’m not a big brain like you! Helen was smart too, but she was real nice!” Bambi made a tearful exit.
“Helen was a saint!” I roared down the stairs. “What a shame I didn’t die instead of her! Helen was everybody’s favorite favorite!”
She was my favorite favorite too.
I look for her everywhere; in strangers’ faces, seeking that warm, shy smile. I go to Foothill Park and climb our hill to the top. To the south, north, and east, miles of civilization; to the west, mountains rolling to the silver ocean. The wind makes my eyes tear and I think of Helen, her brown hair kiting in the breeze. “Jess,” she would say with a happy sigh. “It’s so beautiful here. Let’s never come down.”
I haven’t been there lately. Riding in the car scares me. I almost caused an accident the other day. Thinking a bus was going to hit us, I grabbed Mom’s arm. My legs shake badly and my foot keeps pumping an imaginary brake.
Life is full of risks, Jessie, Dr. Shubert says. You mustn’t let fear overtake you.
Week after week I visit her office. We are making a study of each other. Her stylish clothes and manicured nails reflect a
polished professional. She means well, but we’re not making progress. Instead of becoming closer, I am moving away. She is running along shouting beside my window while the train is leaving the station.
Dr. Shubert says I’m trying to punish myself because I’m still alive and Helen isn’t.
She says that I am idealizing Helen, as often happens when a loved one dies. Remembering the good times and burying the bad.
No, I remember. Especially the mood swings. That happened right around the end. I’d walk into the room and Helen would land on me, raving about something I’d done.
“Well, why don’t you have a fit about it, Helen? I’m sorry I wore your stupid blouse!”
“My stupid blouse!” She grabbed it from me and tore it apart. “My stupid blouse doesn’t fit anymore because my stupid stomach sticks out! Stupid, stupid—” She ripped her clothes out of the closet. She tipped over the bookcase. I begged her to stop. I’m so sick of myself! I’m sorry!” she cried, collapsing, exhausted. “I’m sorry, Jessie! I’m sorry!”
Listen to me, Jessie, Dr. Shubert says, surviving Helen’s death doesn’t mean you’re abandoning her. She wouldn’t want you to be sad; she would want you to be happy. Life goes on and so must you.
I have hidden the extent of my guilt from Dr. Shubert. Saying the words aloud would kill me.
I would not let Helen talk to me. When she needed me, I turned away. I didn’t want to hear about her pain and her fear. I didn’t want to see her changing.
I was too scared and selfish to reach out to my sister.
It is not only Bloomfield who betrayed her.
13
May 7
I’m in the hospital at the moment, awaiting a transfusion. Boy, am I sick of this place. But a batch of new blood should make me feel a lot better. As soon as I’m done, I can go home. Hurray!
From my window I can see the bright blue sky, with clouds like a herd of white buffaloes. It’s one of those blustery spring days when the sun keeps flirting and hiding its face, then popping out, promising summer.
The little girl in the next bed reminds me of Sara Rose, with the same bright eyes and puckered up mouth, as if she’s about to tell a joke. Her name is Darcy. We played a game of Sorry awhile ago (she flattened me) and whenever she’d bump me off the board, she’d shriek, “Sorry, old chum!” giggling like a chimpanzee.
Her parents visited this morning, trying not to act scared, but you could see the fear in their eyes. After they left, Darcy said, “Some people just can’t take it, Helen,” as if she were ninety instead of nine. Her folks wouldn’t worry so much if they’d seen her eat lunch, all of hers, then most of mine.
I am trying to catch up on my schoolwork and journal. I took a nosedive after Bloomfield’s departure. Now it seems silly that I got so upset, but breaking up was awful. He’d see me in the halls and nod his head … as if we’d met, once upon a time, and he remembered my face but not my name.
He’s the most frightened person I’ve ever met, afraid that if he cares about something, he might get hurt. That’s why he acts so blasé, so cool.
I feel sorry for him. (I am such a fool.) He reminds me of Lucas. They both go around in a self-imposed fury, faces frozen in a scowl as if telling the world: I don’t care if you love me! I don’t love you first!
Good luck, Bloomfield, little rabbit, little darling. And good luck to Cheryl Prentiss and all the others (like me), who will think they can unlock his heart when Bloomfield holds the key.
Don’t look back. Sadness makes you weak. I must move ahead. I must be strong.
I got a wonderful letter from Ms. Tormey and the class, and lots of get-well cards from kids at school. It surprises me; I’ve always been so shy. I didn’t think anybody noticed me. The cards make it sound like I’m rebounding from the flu: “Hurry up and get well soon!” That sort of thing. People don’t know what to say about cancer. It ain’t considered polite to write: “I hope you don’t die.”
Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to live—long enough to be a FABULOUS success and grind my enemies to dust beneath my feet. Long enough to own a dog and name him Bloomfield.…
Now, Helen June: It’s not nice to be mean.
True, but meanness gives you spunk and juice and tastes so much sweeter than sorrow!
The nurse just took another blood sample. What in blazes do they do with the stuff? Is this place called Transylvania General? Maybe Dracula wasn’t a vampire, just a misguided lab technician.
I’m feeling tired today, but happy.
For one thing, I’ll be home soon. It’s springtime and millions of flowers are blooming and I want to plant a vegetable garden.
For another thing, I’ll graduate from high school next month. THEN what? I wish I knew. I guess in the fall I’ll go to the J. C., and then eventually I’ll major in English. Get a teaching certificate so I’ll have a way to eat while I’m waiting to hit the Big Time.
I don’t expect I’ll ever be a Famous Writer but I’m sure going to try to be good. Not that I have a choice; I HAVE to do it; like birds gotta fly and Lucas gotta argue. It’s destiny. It’s in the blood.
No matter WHOSE blood I have. I have to write.
Here’s a poem for the culture section of How to Survive Your Life:
Hope
When you love someone
you give him the key
to your heart.
You hope
that he won’t come in and
wreck the place.
You hope
that he will
feel what you feel;
see what you see.
It’s like trying to meet for lunch
in a dream.
It is so unlikely
that you will
feed each other’s needs;
follow each other’s leads;
that you hope that,
if you can’t come out of this
together,
you’ll come out of this
alive.
So relax, Bloomfield. I survived you—although it was nip and tuck for awhile. I put on this happy face (see illustration:) for Ma and Pa, meanwhile threatening to slash my wrists in the privacy of my/our bedroom every night. Jessie puts up with a lot. My moods go up and down. It’s partly the cancer and partly the chemo, and partly my giant crush on Bloomfield, which turned around and crushed me flat.
Sometimes I don’t get the meaning of life. It’s like trying to put together a giant puzzle with half the pieces lost under the couch.
Then I’ll experience a flash of understanding; realization breaks through my brain, like the time when I was little and I noticed that I had to keep swallowing spit all the time.
Monumental breakthroughs like that.
Once in a while I’ll wake up and think: Wow, I’m alive right now! The hugeness of the universe sweeps me to the stars. Billions of stars! Millions of people! Trucks down the freeway and blood through my veins! Dinosaurs! Astronauts! Languages! Money! Money’s so weird; it’s just paper symbols, like hearts on Valentine’s Day. Or the musical symbols that encode symphonies. Or the words that build worlds on pages.
For that second I’ll feel as if I’m part of everything, and that everything that exists is part of me. All the lost puzzle pieces fall into place, and life makes sense, and God is love and peace.
Lucas goes CRAZY when I say stuff like that! Sometimes when the phone rings, he gets it and says, “Helen, it’s for you. It’s God. Hold on, please. She’s been expecting your call.”
Lucas claims that he doesn’t believe in anything. But I think he sees God as some heavenly hit man; a celestial sniper firing at the frightened mob below.
That’s not what I believe but I have no answers for Lucas. Most of the time I’m lost in the fog, feeling my way home.
I just got a phone call (from Jessie, not God). She really cracked me up. She said Lucas and Dad are playing golf together. Do you think it’s safe to let them use clubs? she asked. Will Dad come home and say Lu
cas drowned in a sand trap?
I wish she would let people outside the family know her. She denies that she’s shy and says people are jerks. She’s beautiful and funny and she thinks she’s ugly. Why can’t she see herself clearly?
We talked about the time when Lucas was little and he screamed in Dad’s ear to wake him up. It was funny when kids did it on TV. Dad almost had a stroke. He shot out of bed and chased Lucas down the street—Now it’s a family joke. I can still see Lucas hauling down the block, barefoot, in his pajamas.…
Nurse Vampira is back with my transfusion.
I say, “Fill ’er up with unleaded, please.”
14
We made it through Christmas. It was worse than Thanksgiving. Christmas is such a production. And you know you’re supposed to be feeling happy … and when you don’t, you feel so wrong.
Lucas didn’t even stick around on Christmas Eve. He took off to visit friends. He slept in late the next morning until I finally had to wake him up.
“Oh God,” he groaned.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
“Yeah, fabulous.” He looked hungover.
We sat around the tree and opened our presents, then ate the special breakfast that Mom makes every Christmas.
No one could think of a thing to say.
The day dragged on for years.
Dr. Shubert says that, when someone dies, it’s hard to survive the “firsts”: the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without them, their birthday, and the anniversary of their death.
She’s right, of course, but being right doesn’t help. Dr. Shubert calls me her client, not her patient. She tries to relate but she dated Freud. Half the time she doesn’t understand what I am saying.
Me: … so then Lucas split.
Dr. S: You mean your brother left the house?
No, he split down the middle like a threadbare schizo; tore in half like a fraying manic. He and Dad said killing things. My brother shouted, “You always make me feel like a jerk!” Then Dad said, “That’s not true! I love you!” The words hung in the air while we stared at them. “I know,” Lucas said. He looked embarrassed and confused. Then he split.
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