by Betty Culley
when Clay’s birthday is,
but he remembers mine.
The little animal inside me
hops around
waiting for my answer.
I don’t have a clear membrane
that closes over my eyes,
or a way to seal off my nose
and ears,
but still, I want to go down the
middle of the river
like a beaver.
Clay nods his head,
as if he understands perfectly,
and maybe he does.
Toothache
Mom is making
little hurt whimpers.
Not like Jonah’s
big moans.
She pushes her fingers
into the side of her cheek,
as if she can push away
the pain.
What’s the matter?
I ask her.
Mom is dressed for work
in her red Tractor Barn shirt.
This tooth.
It was only hurting
once in a while.
Now it’s
all the time.
The nurses say
I have good hands.
I wish my hands
could heal,
like it happens
with miracles.
I would put my hand
on Mom’s cheek
and watch the pain
go away.
If my hands could heal,
people would come to me,
and I would never turn anyone
away.
Over and over
I would watch the pain
leave their body.
Let me see,
I say,
and surprisingly,
Mom opens her mouth.
Here,
she says,
putting her finger
where it hurts.
I don’t need her finger there
to see the problem.
One tooth has a hole
that is black.
Yeah, that looks bad.
What are you going to do?
Mom whimpers again,
a quiet
ooh.
It’s almost worse
that she’s trying
not to make noise.
I guess it’s got to get pulled.
Then I’ll have a space there.
We don’t say
what we both know.
It would cost more than a day’s pay
to pull the tooth
if we had a dentist.
There’s no money for
new teeth
to fill the space.
Can I see it again?
I ask Mom.
Maybe it’s loose?
Mom opens her mouth,
and one of my hands
gently holds her chin,
and the other reaches—
GRABS THAT BLACK HOLE
OF A TOOTH
AND YANKS IT OUT
AAAARGGHHH
Mom screams once,
and the pain is gone.
She holds my good hands
in hers,
and cries with happiness.
I give Mom a dish towel
for her mouth,
and I throw the
rotten little stone
of a tooth
in the trash.
I want to tell Hunter’s mom
she was right.
I trusted my hands,
and they showed me where to go.
Bangs
With the trial coming,
Maddigan is divided—
like our DEAD END
invisible line.
The line starts
in our town
and keeps going.
It’s not a straight line.
It curves back and forth,
in and out,
crossing right through
houses and apartments,
over the river,
through the woods,
and down the interstate.
I stop hiding the newspaper
from Mom,
because now Jonah
is on the front page
of the paper
that’s for sale
at Tractor Barn.
It’s a photo of Jonah
pole-vaulting
at a high school track meet
where he placed first.
It’s taken at the moment
in the air
when his legs are on one side
of the bar
and the rest of his body
is on the other side.
There’s a photo
from Facebook
of Clay’s father
in an orange vest
with a hunting rifle.
Mom irons her
court outfits—
navy-blue skirt/
pale-pink shirt,
brown skirt/
pale-yellow shirt,
gray dress/
black sweater.
If the trial
goes more than
three days,
she’ll start over with
navy-blue skirt/
pale-pink shirt.
Elinor painted Mom’s fingernails
pale pink
to match her day-one outfit.
Her boss is letting her
take the days off
without pay.
In a way,
it’s a good thing
Mom’s so busy thinking
about the clothes.
It’s less time thinking
about what might happen
in the courtroom.
Mom’s lawyer
has a talk
with me about
Fashion Week
“courtroom etiquette.”
No shorts, no hat
No flip-flops, no sunglasses
No ripped jeans
No gum chewing
No food or drink
No name-calling
Cell phone off
He pauses a moment,
then asks me:
Any questions, Liv?
What kinds of questions
does he think
I would have about
ripped jeans or
name-calling?
I didn’t ask to play
Nine Things about Courtrooms—
unless you count
food and drink
separately,
then it’s Ten.
Yes, I do have a question.
What about bangs?
Bangs?
Mom’s lawyer moves
the papers
in his open briefcase
as if there might be bangs
under them.
Yes, bangs.
I take a scissors
out of the junk drawer,
rake out the pieces
of my hair in front
with my fingers.
and chop them into long
BANGS
right in front of
Mom’s lawyer.
Mom shrugs her shoulders.
She may not understand,
but I guess she figures
it’s my hair
to style.
Mom’s lawyer closes
his briefcase,
and reaches a hand
out to me
for the first time.
I don’t take it.
I am busy fluffing
my BANGS.
I can’t wear a hat
or sunglasses,
but with bangs
over my eyes,
I don’t have to see anything
I don’t want
to see.
And it makes it hard
for anyone
to see
me.
Sides
&nb
sp; If I could understand
what Mr. Sommers
is saying in geometry class,
I would ask him
if there are ever
more than two sides
of a line—
say, in some alternate geometric
universe.
Because when it comes to Jonah
appearing in court,
there are many sides.
Appearing is a strange court word,
since its opposite is disappearing.
Some of us want him to appear.
Some want him to disappear.
For once, me and Mom’s lawyer
are on the same side.
Mom’s lawyer wants Jonah
to appear to help win his case.
When I take Jonah for walks
on DEAD END,
it’s easy for Clay’s father to
pull the curtains
or look away when he’s driving
the Bugz Away van—
to make Jonah disappear from sight.
In the courtroom I will make
a slit in my bangs
to watch Clay’s father
when Jonah appears.
If he looks away,
I hope the judge will notice.
There is a Team Meeting
about Jonah’s appearance
in court.
There are lines dividing the nurses
and Dr. Kate.
Lila and Phoebe worry
about crowds of people
coughing on Jonah.
Dr. Kate listens
to the nurses
but says there is
no medical reason
for Jonah not appearing
in the courtroom.
All his equipment is portable,
even O,
she says.
I am not ashamed of Jonah
or his dent
or his feet turned inward
or his legs that will never stand
or all the equipment we need
to keep him alive.
I heard Lip and Blee-ah.
I heard the sounds of Jonah
calling from the place
we cannot reach him.
He is my brother.
He always took the leap
over the abyss
without thinking,
and always made it across—
until now.
Let them see it all.
Let them hear what Jonah
has to say.
Let them try and blame Jonah
for being Jonah.
Johnny and Vivian
and Mom and Elinor
and Mom’s lawyer and I
will appear with Jonah.
There will be six of us there
on Jonah’s side.
Dr. Kate
Dr. Kate doesn’t leave
when Team Meeting is over.
She takes a seat next to Jonah’s bed.
First she looks at his machines,
then she looks at Jonah.
She puts a hand on Jonah’s forehead,
as if she’s checking his temperature,
but she leaves it there.
Jonah closes his eyes.
It looks relaxing
to have a hand on your forehead,
so I put my own hand on my forehead
under my bangs
and it makes me close my eyes, too.
When I open them,
Dr. Kate’s hand is still on Jonah’s forehead.
Jonah’s eyes are closed
and so are Dr. Kate’s.
This is the first time I’ve had a close look
at Dr. Kate.
She has bangs too,
but they are short and straight,
not long
like mine,
and hers have some
silver hairs in them
I didn’t notice before.
When she opens her eyes again,
it’s as if touching Jonah
put a spell on her.
She doesn’t look at Jonah’s machines.
She stretches her arms and yawns.
Whew, I didn’t know I was so tired.
Then she looks at me strangely.
I can tell she is wondering
what is different
about me.
I don’t tell her
it’s my bangs.
My son turns ten next month,
Dr. Kate says to me,
and I understand exactly
what she is saying.
We both watch Jonah.
Dr. Kate puts a hand on Jonah’s chest.
Does your brother often have this kind
of breathing?
she asks me.
You mean stopping
and then starting again?
I ask. That’s how I think of it.
Yes, she answers.
He’s been doing it for a few days.
It mostly happens when he sleeps,
I explain.
It reminds me
of when Jonah would practice for
our river game
Last One Up.
We’d jump from
the high bank
out into the river
and see who could stay underwater
longest.
Jonah and Clay and their friends,
me and Rainie and Justine.
Piper watched from the bank,
because of all she knew about
water-borne protozoans.
Jonah was always the last one to surface.
He used to train at home.
Holding his breath, letting it out,
holding his breath, letting it out,
timing himself
again and again.
Thank you, Dr. Kate says to me, thank you,
like Dr. Liv has given her the answer
to some great medical mystery.
On the Record
If you follow the river
downstream,
you will get to the dam
in the town of
Stoppard,
where the Headwater courthouse is.
That is where we will go
for the trial.
Below the courthouse
is the empty woolen mill
that was built on the banks
of the Kennebec.
Five stories high,
the long brick factory
is full of windows
that are mostly broken.
My grandmother worked there
as a loom weaver
from the age of ten
until it closed,
making woolen blankets
and cloth for coats.
Some people want to turn the empty building
into luxury apartments,
because of the river view,
but the soil
and the water
are contaminated
from the chemicals and dyes.
Clay could probably name
the chemicals
if I asked.
In the spring they open the
giant floodgates of the cement dam
to let out
the spring rain
and ice melt
that fills the river.
And the rush of water
is so loud,
no matter what you say
or how loud you shout
your words are swallowed up
into the air.
I’m sorry the spring rush
is over,
because there’s no chance,
if the Headwater courtroom windows are open,
that the words spoken there
will disappear.
Even if they did,
Mom’s lawyer says there will be
a court reporter
taking down every single word
escape.
He doesn’t think
I will be called to testify.
But if I do,
it will all be on the record,
he says.
I’m guessing Clay’s father’s lawyer
told Clay the same thing.
I’ve always known Clay
to tell the truth,
whether he was
“on the record”
or not.
The Night Before
The phone has been ringing all week
since the trial date was announced
in the paper.
Mom’s lawyer says that
if we answer the phone
and we’re asked a question
about Jonah or Clay’s father
or guns,
we need to say
“No comment.”
Mom is afraid she won’t sleep
during the trial,
so Dr. Kate gives her a prescription
for a few little pills.
When it gets dark,
Mom takes half a pill.
She offers me the other half.
I say No thank you.
I don’t care if I can’t sleep tonight.
Since Jonah came home
from the hospital,
I’ve found that, in fact,
not-sleeping
makes me more awake.
Maybe that’s my new special animal
talent,
like Hunter’s mom being able to
predict storms and floods.
There’s a knock at the door
and Johnny lets Rainie in.
She stands there rubbing her amber
“stone of courage”
between her fingers.
My father dropped me off.
He won’t let me miss school
to go to the trial,
but I can stay over with you tonight.
Where’s your mom?
Asleep.
How’s Jonah?
He’s asleep too. But he’s good.
It surprises me
how true the words feel.
Rainie walks farther into the house
than since before the accident.
She drops her backpack
on the floor,
and peeks under the aluminum foil
of the dish on the counter.
Help yourself to some casserole.
There’s also fudge in the fridge.
In her usual Rainie way
that’s so familiar to me,
that drives Mom crazy,
Rainie takes a plateful of casserole,
spilling some on the counter,
leaves the casserole uncovered,
pulls off three paper towels at once
to use as a napkin,
tastes a corner of the fudge
with the refrigerator door wide open,
decides she likes it,
takes another plate for her fudge,
and settles herself at the table.
So, who’s the bald dude?
Rainie jabs her elbow in the direction
of Jonah’s room
where Johnny went.
Is he Jonah’s bodyguard?
That’s Johnny.
He’s one of Jonah’s nurses.
Oh, where’s the one who did your braids?
That’s Phoebe. She only works Tuesdays.