Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  is exceptional—and move on to

  the perfectly seasoned steaks.

  I keep stealing glances at Jonah,

  who cuts his meat delicately.

  Gracefully. Some might find it

  borderline feminine, but he is all

  man. Enigmatic, because despite

  a definite hippie gene influence,

  he maintains the self-assurance

  of a soldier. Nurture, nature, or

  both. He is utterly fascinating.

  Teacher. Wine connoisseur.

  Rider of the Banzai Pipeline.

  “So, where did you learn to surf?”

  He takes the time to swallow.

  In Hawaii. My dad was stationed

  at Fort Shafter when I was in high

  school. It was the first place I really

  felt at home. Like I belonged there.

  I went to a public high school, and

  pretty much everyone surfed. Not

  only did I pick it up right away, but

  when I discovered riding, I found

  myself. Right there in the ocean.

  Riding big water? That liberated

  me. It’s something my brothers

  would never do. And it takes almost

  as much courage as facing bullets.

  LIBERATED

  I like the sound of that. I think

  I need to ride bigger water.

  We finish dinner. Turn down

  dessert in favor of getting to

  the theater a little earlier.

  The poetry slam is similar to

  the spoken word competition,

  except the poets perform their

  own original work. Some of it

  is funny. Some of it is sexy.

  Some of it reflects the time—

  unemployment, foreclosure.

  War. Depression. Loss. A couple

  of times as people take the stage

  Jonah lets me know they were

  in his classes at some point.

  See that guy there? he whispers.

  He actually gets paid to teach

  performance poetry at schools.

  Pretty cool gig, don’t you think?

  I do, actually. Making a living

  doing something creative, not

  to mention something you love,

  has immense appeal. It’s a great

  evening, topping off a fabulous day.

  On the way home, I find myself

  happy. Why does that strike

  me as strange? How long has it

  been since I’ve felt content?

  What’s even more interesting

  is this feeling has nothing to do

  with alcohol—two glasses of wine

  at dinner, and that was hours ago—

  or pills. It’s all about the activity,

  and the company, and the idea

  that life brims with possibility.

  When we get to the apartment,

  Jonah walks me to the door.

  “Thanks so much for today.”

  Suddenly, I’m afraid to go inside,

  back to the isolation I’ve created

  for myself. I put my key in the lock,

  wishing I could invite him in for

  a nightcap. But that could go all

  kinds of wrong. Jonah smiles.

  Reading my mind again? Thanks

  for helping out today, and for your

  company tonight. I really enjoyed

  the day. See you in class Monday.

  Before he can turn away, I give

  him a quick hug, more thank you

  than invitation. He looks surprised,

  but pleasantly so. “Night.” I go inside,

  surprised by myself. In many ways.

  INSIDE, ALONE

  I find myself wishing I had

  taken Jonah’s hand, coaxed

  him in for that nightcap.

  Sometimes it’s just so tiresome

  playing the martyr role.

  Before I really understood

  what sex could be, it was

  easy enough to convince myself

  I didn’t need it. I mean, if you

  don’t enjoy it, shun it! Cole taught

  me how to love it. And I do,

  with him. But every now and then

  I wonder if it’s only because

  I’m with Cole, or if the lessons

  he’s taught me could make me

  love it as much, or more, with someone

  else. Is an orgasm the same with

  every partner? Sitting here, buzzed,

  I imagine being with Jonah.

  My hand slips down between my legs

  where fantasy has made me wet.

  When I finish, I write it as a pantoum.

  GHOSTS

  by Ashley Patterson

  Even a small bed is too big, alone.

  She lies half-awake, draws stuttered breath,

  listens to memory’s bittersweet drone,

  wonders if silence comes cloaked in death.

  Not quite awake, she draws stuttered breath,

  promises shattering on her pillow.

  She wonders if silence comes cloaked in death,

  as her storm clouds begin to billow.

  Promises shattering on her pillow,

  she conjures the image she cannot dismiss,

  seeding her storm clouds. They billow

  with the black remembrance of his kiss.

  She conjures the image she cannot dismiss,

  summons the heat of his skin on her skin,

  the black remembrance of his kiss,

  desire, abandoned somewhere within.

  She summons the heat of his skin on her skin,

  opens herself to herself, in disguise,

  recovers desire, abandoned within.

  Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes

  And opens herself to herself, in disguise,

  listens to memory’s bittersweet drone.

  Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes,

  knowing her small bed is too big, alone.

  Rewind

  SLEEP STUDIES

  Suggest the belief that someone

  is in your room, in your bed, where

  you can hear them breathing and

  feel their hands at your throat,

  even though, in reality, no one

  is actually there, can be explained

  by coming up out of REM sleep

  too quickly. This produces a state

  of sleep paralysis. Part of your brain

  is aware, the other part is still dreaming.

  You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t

  chase away the imaginary monster.

  There was a time when sleep paralysis

  could only be explained through

  the paranormal. Some people still

  believe it is the presence of evil

  and if you only pray hard enough,

  God will chase it away, allow you

  to wake completely and go about

  your day. I’d rather accept science.

  The morning I woke up, positive

  Cole’s ghost was in my bed, needing

  to say good-bye, was the scariest

  experience of my life. I deal with fear

  by research, and what I learned was

  sleep paralysis can be linked to periods

  of high anxiety. Anxious? Me? Well, yeah.

  COLE WAS IN AFGHANISTAN

  Where they were ramping up security

  ahead of the coming elections.

  A Taliban spokesperson warned,

  Everything and everyone affiliated

  with the election is our target—

  candidates, security forces,

  campaigners, election workers,

  and voters. All are our targets.

  Cole’s unit was one of several

  c
harged with keeping those targets

  safe, and it would not be easy.

  Pre-election, three candidates

  and at least eleven campaign

  workers were killed, and his unit

  lost a soldier. During the voting,

  across the country, dozens of bomb

  and rocket attacks led to even more

  deaths at the polls. But the district

  Cole was protecting suffered no

  casualties. The official word on

  that credited good communication

  between the locals and the Marines

  who oversaw their safety. According

  to Cole, it had more to do with

  the accuracy of the sniper squad’s

  scopes. I pretty much believed him.

  HE TOOK PRIDE IN THAT

  But he was not exactly

  enthusiastic about it being

  his mission. He e-mailed:

  WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?

  THESE ELECTIONS ARE A FARCE.

  THAT FUCKING KARZAI STOLE

  THE PRESIDENCY LAST YEAR.

  THIS ELECTION IS STINKO, TOO.

  ALL WE’RE HERE FOR IS SECURING

  THE PLACE FOR MORE FUCKING

  FRAUD. PEOPLE ARE AFRAID TO

  VOTE. YOU CAN BET THE ONES

  WHO DO WILL STUFF THE BOXES.

  He was right, of course.

  Widespread fraud tainted

  the election. A fifth of the ballots

  were tossed. Winners eventually

  lost, and losers took their seats

  in the Afghanistan parliament.

  None of that mattered to me.

  All I cared about was knowing

  Cole was not among the reported

  casualties. They continued to swell.

  At that point, he was over half-

  way through his deployment.

  I was counting down the weeks.

  Checking them off the calendar.

  Obsessing about dates.

  CHRISTMAS 2010

  Was still up in the air.

  Some from his battalion

  would be home. Others

  would have to wait for

  January to take leave.

  I started thinking about

  holidays and birthdays

  and other celebrations,

  how the Marine Corps

  defined those for us,

  and for every military

  family. Would their

  soldier make it home in

  time? And if not this year,

  then next? No promises.

  As bad as that was for

  me, what would that mean

  to a child, waiting for Daddy,

  only to be told, sorry, he

  won’t help you blow out

  your birthday candles this

  year? You turn four only

  once. And what if you turned

  five without him there, too?

  And what if an insurgent’s

  bullet meant you’d never

  share another birthday

  with your father? And why

  did I decide to worry about it?

  I HAD ENOUGH

  To worry about. Besides Cole, flushing

  insurgents, and largely incommunicado,

  I was starting grad school, unsure

  about the program and the direction

  it was pulling me in. My summer hermit

  phase had made me uncomfortable

  in new situations or around large crowds

  of people—like on a university campus.

  I was definitely anxious about pretty

  much every facet of my life. And sleep

  paralysis was only one manifestation.

  I also started having mild panic attacks.

  Sleep paralysis, only totally awake

  and even on my feet. I’d be walking

  along, all good, and suddenly it was like

  the world began to shrink, everything

  closing in around me. Too many people.

  Too many voices. Closer. Smaller. Tighter.

  Suffocating. I’d freeze in place, unable

  to move. My heart would race, crowding

  my lungs. All I could manage was shallow,

  breaths, ragged and pitiful. A hollow

  ringing in my ears disallowed balance.

  I had to sit or fall. I learned to drop

  my head between my knees and close

  my eyes until the world began to grow

  wider again. After the fourth “event,”

  I went to my doctor and asked for

  chemical help. He prescribed Xanax,

  told me to avoid alcohol while taking it.

  I thought that was probably a good

  idea anyway. I’d been drinking more

  than I knew was wise. I needed

  an excuse to stop. And I did. Mostly.

  I wasn’t an alcoholic. I didn’t drink every

  day, didn’t often drink to excess or binge.

  And could leave it alone completely

  for large swaths of time. But I did drink

  to be social. To have fun with friends.

  Sometimes, to sleep. Sometimes, to forget.

  WITH THE XANAX

  School was okay, though I was glad

  I had only two classes that semester.

  There was a lot of reading. A lot of writing.

  A lot of research. I learned more

  than I ever wanted to about human

  behavior. Unfortunately, it made me

  very aware of some very bad things.

  Especially at my job. I still loved

  taking care of the little ones, teaching

  them things that would jump-start

  their regular school experience.

  Colors. Letters. Numbers. Telling time.

  But every now and again, I couldn’t

  help but notice signs. Things that

  made me uncomfortable. With Soleil,

  especially. Over the summer, I’d broken

  through the barrier she’d erected

  between herself and the rest of the world.

  I could even make her laugh once

  in a while, chase the thunderheads

  from her eyes. And when she finally

  conquered a difficult concept,

  her face lit and she transformed

  into the prettiest child, ever.

  But some days she retreated

  to a place inside where I couldn’t

  reach her. A place she created

  where no one could touch her.

  I started watching the interaction

  with her mother, a stiff young woman

  who rarely smiled and seemed to

  communicate by snapping and

  barking. If Soleil didn’t move

  quickly enough, sometimes her

  mother would grab her and jerk.

  One day, I finally had enough.

  I stepped in front of her. “Excuse me,

  but do you think that’s an appropriate

  way to deal with a child?” When I

  looked into the woman’s eyes,

  there was something scary there,

  and it went beyond how dilated

  her pupils were. How I handle

  my daughter is really none

  of your business, now, is it?

  She stepped around me, yanking

  Soleil out the door. The little

  girl had to run to not get dragged.

  A WEEK LATER

  Soleil arrived at school dressed

  in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

  Not so unusual, except it happened

  to be unseasonably warm. All

  the other kids were in shorts.

  I already had my suspicions, so

  I decided to set up the easels for

  some painting. The kids all slipped


  into smocks. When I helped Soleil

  into hers, I told her we had to roll

  up her sleeves. I’ve never seen

  anyone look quite so scared.

  I can’t. Mommy will get mad at me.

  “But if you get paint on your shirt,

  she’ll really get mad,” I coaxed.

  “We’ll just turn them up a little.”

  She let me, and the finger-shaped

  bruises on her arms were apparent

  immediately. I prodded one gently.

  “Does that hurt?” In answer,

  an obvious wince. “Are there more?”

  She trusted me enough to give

  a small nod. “Can I see, please?”

  Fear clung to her like sweat. I soothed

  it as best I could. “Soleil, honey,

  I don’t want anyone to hurt you.

  Ever. I can stop it if you let me see.”

  Her eyes, which had been focused

  on the floor, turned slowly up

  to meet mine. She must have

  found what she needed there

  because she took my hand, led me

  to the bathroom, closed the door.

  She turned away from me, lifted

  her shirt. The bruising began

  in the small of her back, disappeared

  beneath the waistband of her jeans.

  It was dark. Fresh. “Who did this?”

  Her voice was mouse-quiet.

  Mommy. She’s very sorry.

  Of course she was. “Okay, honey.

  You want to go paint now?”

  Anger seethed. Red. Frothy. How

  could anyone do something like

  this to a child? We returned to

  the playroom and I gave Soleil

  a paintbrush. Then I went to call

  Child Protective Services. It was no

  more than my duty, but it felt

  really good to report what I saw.

  Later, however, it hit me that

  Soleil’s mother would probably

  blame her for the trouble coming

  their way. I went home. Popped

  a Xanax. Washed it down with tequila.

  I NEVER SAW HER AGAIN

  Once Child Protective Services

  stepped in, it was completely

  out of my hands. I knew I’d done

  the right thing, but I was concerned

  about her safety. Especially as I learned

  more about what happened after

  someone—like me—reported abuse.

  Often the child remained in her home,

  if the parents seemed cooperative

  and mostly sane. I had a hunch

  Soleil’s mom was using some

  sort of controlled substance. Crystal