Fallout

by Nikki Tate

  Did she imagine we’d be thankful that

  even in her time of despair

  she was thinking of us

  when, clearly, she was not thinking

  of us at all

  or she would have known that this

  pitiful offering

  was so shallow—so selfish

  a transparent attempt to ease her

  conscience

  by tidying up her room

  putting her affairs in some kind of

  order.

  My name is on the envelope

  and this is how it slips under my

  lacy bras

  and silk panties

  tucks into a dark corner and rests

  there awhile

  until the time comes

  to share this last moment of

  Hannah’s

  with the handful of others

  who need to know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Slams are different from regular poetry readings. At an old-fashioned poetry reading the audience is polite even when the poetry sucks. At a slam, crowds sometimes hiss and boo. Things aren’t quite that bad tonight, but I’m not surprised when my name is not one of the four second-round winners.

  Ebony advances and so does a skinny guy called Mike. He looks about twelve but he’s actually twenty. Mike is hilarious. He does a poem about the war between a procrastinator and his conscience. We’re all grabbing for napkins so we don’t spray our drinks everywhere.

  Karl, the German guy, moves on, even though I don’t think his second poem is that great. Rosie, the fast-talking food girl, is the fourth poet to survive to round three.

  It’s a relief, in a way, to be able to sit back and listen.

  The last round is intense. Ebony does a great job with a poem about the pleasures of sleep. I doubt I’m the only one ready for bed by the time she’s done. Even though Karl’s poem about a puppet is really clever, he doesn’t stand a chance, and Ebony winds up being the big winner of the night.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “Nice,” I add, examining her gift basket. It’s full of fancy chocolates and good coffee. She also won the big cash prize of thirty-five bucks.

  “Thanks,” she says, smiling. “Sorry about tonight.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay,” I say, though it isn’t.

  The organizers of the slam series are over behind the counter, punching calculator buttons. Tonight’s the night they announce the team. It would be better to know if I’m not going. We all hold hands under the table when the emcee, Blake, steps up on the stage and grabs the mic.

  “What an exciting series this has been. Let’s have a round of applause for all the poets.”

  I squeeze Ebony’s hand and she squeezes back.

  “As I announce the winners’ names, please come up here onstage so we can share the love!” Hoots and whoops fill the coffee shop. “The following fine poets will represent our fair city at the National Poetry Slam to be held in Corinthian two weeks from now!”

  “Karl Meisner—”

  “I knew he’d make it,” Maddy says.

  “Tiffany Hwan. And…Ebony Graham.”

  I let go of Ebony’s hand. “Congratulations!” Ebony’s huge grin says it all.

  “We have an odd situation here,” Blake says as Ebony joins the others onstage. “We have a tie for fourth place—Tara Manson and Rosie McCarthy. Would you lovely ladies please join us up on stage?”

  Stunned, I do as I’m told.

  “We’re allowed to send four team members and one alternate. One of you two will be our fourth and the other the alternate, and…” Blake shuffles through his papers and then asks Geoff, who’s in charge of the sound system, “What did we decide?”

  “We didn’t!” Geoff booms from the back of the room. “We’ll figure out a fair way to choose our fourth, but either way, you’re both going to Nationals.”

  That seems to be enough to satisfy the crowd, and the place erupts into a wild frenzy of cheers and clapping.

  Ebony gives me a huge hug. “Two weeks!” she says. “Corinthian, here we come!”

  Back at our table, we’re joined by the other team members and a skinny boy I’ve seen before but have never met.

  “They should have just picked one of us,” Rosie says. She probably means they should have picked her. “It’s not fair to not know who’s on and who’s not.”

  “You’re both going,” Ebony says. “They have special events for the alternates.”

  “So cool you get to go again,” the skinny boy says. Karl is the only one who has been to Nationals before.

  “Do you guys all know my brother, Ossie?” he asks, nudging the skinny boy with his elbow.

  We exchange greetings and order another round of drinks. It’s late and we’re still buzzing when the baristas start sweeping up around us.

  “Do you want to walk home?” Ebony asks.

  “Good plan.” I’m wide awake now.

  “I can walk with you as far as the train station,” Rosie says.

  I don’t know Rosie very well. Chatting with Ebony won’t be the same. Then again, we’re sort of teammates, so I suck it up and say, “Sure. You live over that way?”

  “On Fifth. About two minutes from the station.”

  Everyone else fades into the night and we head down Bingham Street. A light rain starts to fall when we take the shortcut through the park.

  “What poem were you going to do if you’d made it through to the last round tonight?” Ebony asks.

  Is she wondering if I performed the right pieces? If I had done things a little differently, maybe I would have had the extra point I needed to make the team. We’re supposed to find out about the final decision at a team meeting in two days. How are they going to decide?

  “I was going to do ‘Obituary. ’”

  “Is that the one where your family is fighting about what to put in the paper?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Can you do poetry and walk at the same time?” Ebony asks.

  “That’s okay. I’m sure Rosie doesn’t want to—”

  “No, go ahead.” Rosie’s slow to say it.

  Ebony barges in. “Don’t be shy! Go on. There’s nothing like an obituary poem to take your mind off the rain!”

  Rosie shoves her hands deep in her pockets and keeps walking.

  “You might need to do it at Nationals. Every chance to practice is good, right?”

  I can’t argue with that. “Fine.”

  The dark shapes of trees and bushes are hiding places for who knows what kinds of people that haunt the park at night. The louder I am, the more likely I’ll scare them off.

  Fill in the blanks

  and come up with an acceptable

  obituary.

  Our beloved so-and-so

  taken too early

  to return to God

  leaving behind

  loving husband wife

  two sons a daughter

  grandchildren

  a dog

  …after a valiant battle

  cancer, stroke

  Lived a full and happy life

  old age.

  Thank you to the caring staff

  the loving helpers at hospice

  instead of flowers

  donations to this charity

  in the name of Uncle Jack

  we have established a fund.

  A celebration of life will be held

  on the mountaintop she loved best

  at such-and-such a church, funeral home

  pay your respects, share your

  memories

  we’ll scatter the ashes at sea.

  What obituaries do not say is

  Uncle Edward died by his own hand

  unable to see his way clear of debt.

  Following a struggle with depression

  the demons finally got to Father

  the bastards sucked him into the

  barrel of a gun.

  T
here is no mention of the broken

  brains

  drowning in voids so black

  the only way out lies at the end of a

  noose

  or in the path of an oncoming bus.

  Where are those deaths?

  Where is the S-word

  in this public listing of grief?

  This collection of acceptable ends

  shameful the way it

  leaves out those

  who just could not go on

  twice erased

  but never forgotten.

  The reason lies in the mothers

  sisters fathers holy men who say

  there are right ways to die

  and then there are sins.

  This is true even for non-believers

  like my mother

  who sweeps the scribbled draft

  off the dining room table and

  declares

  the bus driver a murderer

  at least guilty of manslaughter—

  A leave of absence in no way

  compensates for what he has

  done to this family.

  Her logic sound because

  There was no note.

  Except, there is a note

  slim and invisible in my underwear

  drawer.

  What made me

  march upstairs

  to retrieve that package

  slide it across the table

  and watch it come to rest in front of

  her?

  What sense of justice

  grow up

  get on with it

  act like the adult

  you are supposed to be

  made me spit out the words

  There’s your note.

  By the time you read this

  I will be gone.

  Don’t be sad it’s better like

  this.

  The reading of it

  Dropped my mother

  carried her out of the room

  on a wave of wailing

  sobs shaking her body

  Someone killed my baby.

  Someone should pay.

  You won’t find any of that

  splashed across

  the back pages of the paper

  no matter how closely you read

  between the lines

  looking for stories of those

  who met an unexpected end.

  I finish as we stop at the corner at the north end of the park. Ebony is quiet, and beside me, Rosie’s shoulders are hunched. She sniffles. Allergies? In the light of the streetlamp her cheeks glisten.

  “Rosie! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  At first I think it’s about the competition—that she’s upset about maybe being an alternate. But then she starts to sob in earnest.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What’s the matter?” Ebony wraps her arms around Rosie and squeezes her tight. A crack of thunder makes us all jump, and then the heavens open up.

  “Quick! Beanos is still open—”

  We sprint across the street and into Beanos, an all-night coffee shop half a block away. By the time we slide into a booth we are all soaked.

  Rosie wipes the rain and tears from her face and mumbles another apology.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ebony says, giving Rosie’s hand a friendly pat. “Tara has this effect on people.”

  Rosie won’t look at me. Was it my poem that upset her?

  “Hey, I’m sorry…I—”

  “We never talk about it,” she says.

  “Talk about…” Oh. “Oh, Rosie, I had no idea.”

  Ebony looks from Rosie to me and back at Rosie.

  “It was my aunt. My mother’s sister.” Rosie’s having trouble getting the words out. “Except she didn’t leave a note. So we don’t really know for sure…”

  Her voice trails off. For once Ebony seems at a loss for words.

  “I have to go,” Rosie says. Before we can stop her, she’s up and out of her seat, running from the coffee shop.

  “Wait! Rosie!” I scramble out of the booth, but before I can chase after her, Ebony catches my wrist.

  “Let her go,” she says.

  “But—”

  “There’s nothing you can say. We’ll see her again at the team meeting.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Just let her go. She doesn’t want us to follow.”

  It’s so dangerous, making assumptions about what someone else wants or doesn’t want. Ebony doesn’t understand that.

  “I thought I knew what was best for my sister.” The story rushes out as I reluctantly slide back into my seat.

  “I thought if I could get my sister back on a horse, she’d snap out of it, stop feeling so miserable. It didn’t work.”

  “I thought she was paralyzed?”

  “You girls want coffee? Menus?” the waitress asks.

  “Tea for her,” Ebony says. “Hot chocolate for me, please.”

  “Your friend coming back?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The waitress strides away.

  “She was partly paralyzed from the waist down. A horse fell on her and broke her back. But she loved riding more than anything.”

  “So you took her riding?”

  I nod, remembering. “It was bad. I thought she could ride on our Paralympic team one day. You know, for disabled riders? But it didn’t work out…”

  I stare down at the table. That’s an understatement. The trips to the barn had been a disaster. Hannah had been in a lot of pain and, worse, she’d been terrible at it. Not like before the accident, when it seemed she could ride any horse.

  “You were just trying to help.”

  “I made things worse.”

  Ebony shakes her head. “You don’t know that.”

  I shrug. She wasn’t there to see Hannah crying. And now, doing these Hannah poems, I’ve made things hard for Rosie. “I shouldn’t be doing these poems,” I say.

  “You have to do these poems,” Ebony counters. “You never know what someone will take away from your work.”

  “I know, but still, I should—”

  “Should what? Write about puppies? Love? Springtime? This stuff is exactly what you should be writing about.”

  The waitress is back with our drinks.

  “Rosie’s tough. She’ll be fine. I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t know what you write about.”

  I nod. But I don’t feel like chatting anymore. I drink my tea as quickly as I can without scalding my mouth. “I’m tired. I need to get home.”

  How will I apologize? I am sorry that I didn’t listen to my gut and keep my mouth shut. I’m sorry that these are the poems that keep coming to me. I’m sorry that Hannah is gone but won’t go away.

  The next day the package arrives in the mail. Even though Mom warned me it was coming, it’s still a shock when I pull Hannah’s journal from the thick padded envelope.

  It’s heavier than I expect and stuffed full of photos, postcards and score sheets.

  I flip through the pages. Reading her training notes, I hear Hannah’s voice in my head.

  Working on steadying strides through combinations.

  Jackie-boy is too fit! He’s rushing and too forward and strong. Rena says we’ll work on that next week.

  Hannah filled page after page with notes about everything from the treats she gave her horse (Crackerjack scarfed down both apples and asked for more) to the stretching and strength exercises she did morning and night in her bedroom.

  Rena thinks I should get a gym membership.

  Rena says I should sign up for the Roger Whitcomb clinic.

  Excellent dressage test today! Crackerjack is the BEST HORSE EVER!!!!!

  The night before the horse show where Crackerjack hit the fence and they fell, Hannah had made a list of things to remember to take.

  stock pin

  jacket<
br />
  shipping boots from dryer

  extra water bucket

  The list is a full page long, and beside each item she added a tiny smiley face instead of a tick mark.

  I stop reading. The next day, everything changed. If I don’t turn the page, I can fill my head with the Hannah who still made lists, had plans and thought Crackerjack was the best horse ever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There is no holding back time— not then, not now. I turn the page, not really wanting to know what Hannah had written next, but curious. I thought maybe she would have written about the surgery, her time in intensive care, her move to the rehab hospital. Maybe she did write about that somewhere, but not in this journal. Here, the next entry is dated a little more than three months after the accident. It’s all about the day Mom and I took Hannah to the barn for a visit. It had been my idea.

  Saw Crackerjack today. Some lady is riding him.

  Hannah was still in a wheelchair. We didn’t know if she’d ever walk again. The physiotherapists pushed her hard and Hannah seemed to be up to the challenge. I remember once she said, “Even if I could walk with crutches, I’d be happy.”

  She didn’t write again until about a year after the accident.

  Things I Can’t Do

  1. Stand. Must hang on to something or I topple over. Need crutches and leg braces.

  2. Walk. Obvious, if I can’t stand. What I do is way beyond a limp.

  She goes on and on, a dark list of loss. My throat tightens. Why did Crackerjack have to fall? Why didn’t Hannah sail off, as she had plenty of times before, and suffer nothing more serious than a few cuts and bruises?

  I flip to the next page, and it’s like Hannah throws acid in my face.

  Read this, Tara. You proved that I am finished as a rider. You helped me see there really is no point going on. For that, I thank you.

  Oh god. The blood drains from my head so fast the room tilts.

  You helped me see there really is no point going on.

  She must have been talking about the few lessons I’d arranged with her old coach, Rena. Rena and I had worked out what horse Hannah would ride, how to get her mounted, how to help her come back to the world she loved. But in the end, everything I had tried to do was so, so wrong.

  You helped me see…

  How could I have been so stupid?

  For the next couple of days I march from place to place like a zombie. At the bookstore I ask the customers, “Bookmark? Did you find everything you were looking for? Bag? Cash, credit or debit?”