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Three Things I Know Are True

Page 1

by Betty Culley




  Dedication

  For those who find the beauty

  in a life they didn’t choose or expect

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Hands

  Clay

  Jonah

  The Attic

  Lounge

  Town Facts

  Pedaling

  Snowstorm

  Gwen

  Straws

  Snowflake

  Mom’s Lawyer

  Tray Art

  Trap

  Bumper Stickers

  Soup Kitchen

  Snowman

  Jonah

  Line

  Hunter

  Birthdays

  Dead End

  Coffee

  The Eddy

  Hippies

  Memory Metal

  Team Meeting

  Fiddle Music

  Fleas

  Cold

  Ears

  Elinor

  Sounds

  River

  Gwen

  Friends

  Soup Kitchen

  Termites

  Mom

  Jonah

  The Deal

  Logs

  In the Belly of the Whale

  O

  River Rats

  Rainie

  Locker

  Lip

  Gun Safe

  O Man

  White Noise

  Rooms

  Daredevil

  No

  Logs

  The Nurses Talk about Me

  Crossing the Line

  Fudge

  Beavers

  Lawsuit

  Hurricane Chaser

  French Braids

  Ghost Town

  Three Things about Hunter

  Mom

  Schedule

  What We Have to Say

  Three Things about the Kennebec

  Dad

  Blee-ah

  Trust Your Hands

  Music

  Weight

  Words

  Toothache

  Part Two

  Bangs

  Sides

  Dr. Kate

  On the Record

  The Night Before

  Headwater Courthouse

  Jonah

  Courtroom Decorum

  Recess

  Witness

  Firearm

  Clay

  Cross

  Arthur

  Snorkel Man

  Truth

  Headwater Courthouse Day Two

  Jonah After

  Hair Trigger

  Part Three

  Where Are You, Clay?

  Jonah

  Birchell

  Cows

  Limbo

  Team Meeting

  The Fidgets

  Surprise

  Wish Time

  Ring

  Harmonica

  My Presents

  After the Party

  Clay

  Magic Lotion

  Part Four

  Audrey

  Liv

  What Form?

  Nuummite

  Jonah

  Cans

  Soul

  Wish

  Moms

  I Meet an Organic Baby Cow

  Trailer

  Part Five

  Moo

  For Sale

  At the Great Water Place

  Tornado

  Verdict

  Part Six

  Driver’s Ed

  Plant Obsessed

  Summer

  Ashes

  River

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Betty Culley

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Hands

  My brother Jonah’s nurses

  say I have

  good hands.

  I don’t tell anyone that

  my hands are only good

  when they want

  to be good.

  I can feel them changing.

  Not thinking whose body

  they are connected to—

  me, the good girl, Liv.

  Not noticing,

  when they’re inspired,

  how they are

  getting me in trouble.

  Jonah’s hands are still now,

  even though he’s only seventeen.

  It’s not his choice anymore—

  hands under the covers

  or on top.

  We get to decide—

  Mom, the nurses,

  and me,

  his fifteen-year-old sister.

  Is that how it is in families,

  one child with bad hands,

  one child with good?

  Jonah’s bad hands found a gun

  in Clay’s attic.

  Waved it in the air,

  twirled it around his fingers,

  held it to his head.

  That’s not a toy.

  It could be loaded.

  You know my dad,

  Clay told Jonah.

  Clay is a serious boy,

  not a daredevil

  like Jonah.

  He wouldn’t climb

  the cell phone tower

  barefoot,

  just because it was there.

  Clay knows

  he doesn’t have superpowers.

  Mom’s lawyer says it’s best

  if Clay doesn’t come here

  anymore.

  Even though he lives

  right across the street.

  Clay

  When Clay’s door opens,

  it happens.

  My hands are above my head,

  waving,

  then they are beckoning.

  Clay takes a step forward

  like my hands have the power

  to move him.

  Then an invisible force

  pulls him backward,

  back into his house.

  I think he smiles at me.

  Maybe not with his mouth,

  but definitely with his eyes.

  After he disappears,

  my empty hands

  hold each other,

  doubling their strength.

  Jonah

  Jonah’s nurses love him.

  They bathe him, comb his hair,

  put him in blue shirts

  to match his eyes.

  Above and beyond,

  my mother says grimly,

  when I point it out—

  like it’s a fault.

  I lie next to Jonah

  and kiss the palm of his hand.

  Smack Smack

  His face changes

  just a little

  when I kiss him.

  For the past five months

  the living room is Jonah’s—

  a hospital bed

  nurse stuff

  Jonah’s liquid food.

  Mom doesn’t like it

  when I call Jonah’s formula pump on wheels

  his Food Truck

  When I call his suction machine

  Suck-It-Up

  When I call the new nurses

  Contestants

  in the JONAH PAGEANT.

  Mom says we’re lucky

  to get any nursing help

  at all,

  out here in the little mill town

  of Maddigan, Maine.

  I think,

  can you still

  call us a mill town

  if the mill is closed?

  I greet the new nurse,
Vivian.

  I like her black curly hair

  twisting out of its bun.

  I like her dark eyes that pause on me,

  and her long eyelashes that blink

  closed and open, closed and open.

  I see her notice the dishes in the sink,

  the stains on the linoleum floor,

  the laundry piled on the kitchen table,

  but look past them to Jonah.

  See her pick up Jonah’s hand

  and kiss it,

  just like I do.

  Jonah’s face relaxes,

  and Vivian gets my vote.

  Mom is suing Clay’s father

  for a million dollars

  for the loss of a son.

  Jonah is still here, I say to her.

  She gives me a hard look.

  I know you are not that stupid.

  I AM that stupid, I answer,

  giving her back my own hard look.

  I do know how expensive it is

  to be helpless.

  How many things don’t count

  as necessary.

  A wheelchair ramp

  A wheelchair van

  Clothes, air-conditioning, prayer cards.

  Everything has to be for my brother now.

  Jonah doesn’t ask for anything,

  but he needs everything.

  The Attic

  How it happened.

  Clay’s mom, Gwen, says,

  Boys, could you please

  bring down the boxes of

  Halloween decorations

  from the attic.

  Then we hear the shot.

  It’s only afterward

  that we know it was

  THAT shot—

  not Clay’s dad’s

  weekend target shooting

  in their backyard.

  BOOM

  It sounds so close.

  It’s a Saturday, but

  I should have known

  this BOOM

  was different.

  Target shooting is

  boom boom boom

  boom boom boom

  boom boom boom.

  This is one BOOM.

  Even inside our house,

  Mom and I

  hear Gwen’s screams.

  Then we see her

  in front of her house,

  still screaming.

  When Jonah is carried

  out of Clay’s house

  there are so many people

  around him,

  moving so fast

  to get him into the ambulance.

  My hands hide themselves

  in fists.

  Part of me

  wants to yell at Jonah,

  What stupid thing

  have you done now?

  I’m not going to cover for you

  this time.

  Clay walks

  out of the house,

  then is gone in a police car.

  His head is down

  and I can’t see his face.

  Lounge

  At the hospital

  Mom and I wait

  in a room.

  Two years ago,

  we waited in a room

  like this one

  after Dad had his heart attack—

  me and Mom and Jonah.

  The hospital has special rooms

  for people to wait

  for bad news.

  The woman who showed us

  to the room

  called it a “lounge.”

  Would you like something to drink,

  while you’re waiting in the lounge?

  she asks us.

  No,

  Mom says,

  with not even a thank-you.

  What are my choices?

  I ask the lounge woman.

  Mom hits out at my arm

  with a snap of her hand.

  Tea, coffee, water, juice, milk,

  the woman lists.

  I’ll take apple juice,

  if you have it.

  She brings me a tiny can

  of apple juice

  and pours it into an even tinier

  paper cup.

  It’s warm

  and tastes like metal.

  Different bad-news people

  give us updates.

  He’s in surgery.

  He’s holding his own.

  They are getting ready to

  close up.

  The doctor will be out

  to talk to you soon.

  Each time it’s just

  one person

  in the doorway,

  Mom lets out a sigh.

  I remember, too,

  when we waited to hear

  about Dad,

  and two people came

  together.

  That must be a bad-news rule.

  One person never brings

  the worst news

  alone.

  The whole time

  I’m waiting in the lounge,

  I keep expecting

  Jonah to knock

  at the door—

  dressed in jeans

  and a T-shirt—

  having somehow convinced

  his doctors

  that they have gotten

  the wrong patient—

  that it was all

  a big mistake.

  Town Facts

  Dad was born here

  in Maddigan,

  in a farmhouse

  on the edge of town.

  It burned to the ground

  when I was little.

  Now it’s just a field

  with tall grass.

  That’s where the house was,

  Dad told us,

  every time we drove by.

  It was the same

  with other places in town.

  The bakery

  used to be a barbershop.

  The pizza place

  was a shoe store.

  The way he talked,

  everything was once

  something else,

  with only Dad to remember

  what it was.

  Jonah would joke,

  Is this going to be on the exam, Dad?

  I didn’t pay much attention

  to Dad’s town facts.

  Now, if I want to know,

  he’s not here to ask.

  Pedaling

  The nurses call it

  range of motion.

  Vivian takes Jonah’s

  arms and legs

  through the motions

  he used to make

  on his own.

  One motion

  for his legs

  looks like he’s pedaling

  a bike.

  It was Jonah

  who taught me

  how to ride my bike.

  The bike had

  old training wheels,

  so bent

  they barely touched the ground.

  Dad tried first.

  He gave the bike a hard push,

  and yelled,

  You got it, Liv. You got it.

  I didn’t get it.

  I won’t let you fall,

  Jonah said,

  and ran next to me,

  cheering,

  Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal.

  Every time I swayed,

  he was there

  to grab the handlebars,

  until my feet learned

  to do it

  on their own.

  Vivian slow-motions

  Jonah’s legs.

  Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal.

  Snowstorm

  At school

  I stop hearing the teachers’ voices.

  It sounds like buzzing in my ears,

  all the words blending together

  into one big GRAH

  coming out of their mouths.

  I stop taking notes.

  What’s the use
in writing

  GRAH GRAH GRAH?

  Behind my book in geometry class

  I make snowflakes.

  Fold and fold, fold and fold,

  and cut out little triangles.

  There are triangles in geometry.

  GRAH GRAH GRAH.

  Mr. Sommers points to them

  on the blackboard.

  A girl next to me raises her hand

  and answers.

  BLIH BLIH BLIH

  My paper snowflakes are astonishing.

  Open all the folds and LOOK—

  by snipping away some of the paper

  I created something that is more

  than just a piece of paper.

  How can there be more when there is less?

  Mr. Sommers is standing behind my seat

  admiring my snowflakes

  or not.

  I see him remember Jonah,

  the boy in his geometry class

  two years ago—

  wavy brown hair like mine,

  and blue eyes instead of my

  muddy ones,

  the school’s star

  pole-vaulter and triple jumper.

  My whole life

  I’m always two grades

  behind Jonah.

  I lift up a snowflake.

  One for you, Mr. Sommers, I say,

  and he takes it

  as if he can’t

  say no to me.

  My best friend, Rainie,

  says it’s illegal

  to put things

  that are not mail

  into a mailbox,

  but I stuff the snowflakes

  in Clay’s mailbox

  at the end of his driveway.

  Our Number 23 mailbox

  faces his 24.

  I was ten

  and Jonah was twelve

  when Clay moved in

  across the street.

  Jonah saw

  a boy his age,

  skateboarded

  down our driveway

  across the road

  and up Clay’s driveway

  to introduce himself.

  Clay’s hair was

  lighter than brown

  darker than blond

  and he was just a little bit taller

  than Jonah.

  It was fall

  and Jonah

  picked a pear off a tree

  on Clay’s front lawn

  and handed it to him.

  Jonah and Clay

  started talking,

  and I didn’t think Clay

  noticed me

  standing in front of our house,

  but suddenly

  he held up the hand

  that had the pear,

  and waved it at me.

  That’s the way it was

  with Clay and me—

  he was Jonah’s friend,

  but he never acted like

  I wasn’t there.

  I hope it is Clay and not his parents

  who find the storm.

  Gwen

  People in town write letters to the paper.

  “A man has a right to have guns in his house.”

  Even Gwen has a gun—

  a small one she keeps in her purse.

  No talking back to your mama now,

  Jonah said to Clay,

  after Gwen told the boys

  she carried a handgun

  to protect herself,

 

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