by Nikki Tate
I ask myself, Did Mom read what Hannah wrote? Did Hannah mean for me to read her journal? If she didn’t, why did she write it? And if it’s true what she wrote, and if, say, the police read it, does it somehow make me responsible? If I caused her suicide, then am I a murderer?
At home I cook—lentil soup, three-bean chili, stuffed baked potatoes. I clean the bathroom, sweep off the balcony, dig out my sweaters from the storage locker in the basement. I crank up my mp3 player and try to drown out any words with a roar of music. Hard as I try to shut them out, Hannah’s words push through.
You helped me see there really is no point going on.
What did she want me to do with those words? Apologize? How? She bailed on whatever conversation we might have had.
Screw you, Hannah! I take shower after shower, each one hotter than the one before. What do you want me to do, Hannah? Follow you? I don’t know if I can.
Is this how she felt? Desperate? Her guts churning?
I polish the bathroom mirror and stack the spare toilet paper rolls in a neat pyramid. If I follow Hannah, I will not leave a mess behind. I tidy and organize and talk to Hannah, asking her questions she refuses to answer.
I don’t answer my phone or check my email. I don’t do poetry.
On Friday, the night of the team meeting, I pretend to be sick. Rosie can go. I don’t care.
I’m in bed when someone bangs on the door. Ebony’s voice is loud out in the hallway. “Open up!” Bang. Bang. Bang.
They’re all there. The whole team plus Ossie and Maddy. Ebony barges in.
“Welcome to Tara’s place,” she says. “Maybe you should get dressed?”
Bare feet, pajama bottoms, baggy T-shirt. Crap! I retreat into my bedroom, smoothing down my hair. Stupid Ebony. What the—?
“Hurry up in there,” she calls. “We’re hungry! We want to order something in.”
I think of all the food I’ve been cooking. “Don’t! I’ll be right out.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re all crowded around my dining room table.
“This is really good,” Karl says, polishing off his second piece of apple pie.
Ebony nods and adds, “We decided to bring the team meeting to you.”
“You know it’s almost midnight, right?”
“We won’t get rowdy,” Ossie says, grinning.
“They’ve decided you and Rosie are going to compete at Persephone’s on Sunday,” Ebony says. “The winner will take the last spot.”
“Sunday? As in the day after tomorrow?”
“That’s usually how it goes,” Karl says.
“Are you okay with that?” I ask Rosie.
She shrugs. “It’s not like we have any choice.”
“I haven’t been to Persephone’s for a long time,” I confess. I clear my throat. “Maybe Rosie should just take the last spot.”
Rosie picks at the edge of a placemat.
“For the good of the team—I’ll never be able to—” I stumble over my words. Make the poems harsh enough. Beautiful enough. Clever, funny, deep, whatever enough.
“No more talk of that!” Ebony says. “You’re both going to Nationals—you both need to be ready. Persephone’s is extra practice.”
Rosie nods.
“So it’s settled. We’ll all be there on Sunday. Don’t let us down,” Ebony says.
“Fine. Okay.” What Ebony and the others don’t know is that’s what I do best: let people down.
Thump. Thump.
“What’s that?” Ossie asks, looking around.
“Upstairs neighbors,” I say, pointing at the ceiling. “You guys should go.”
“But we just got here!” Ebony says. She’s too loud, apparently. The upstairs neighbors pound on the floor again.
“That’s harsh,” Ossie says.
“It’s an old building,” I say. “Not much insulation.”
“Sorry. We never planned to eat and run,” Karl says.
Before I know it the dishes are stacked and everyone’s at the door saying goodbye.
Chapter Sixteen
On Sunday, Rosie jogs into the bus shelter.
“Oh. Hi.”
It figures we’d be taking the same bus up to the university district. They don’t run that often on Sundays.
We sit side by side on the hard wooden bench. Maybe she’ll chat about the weather or how the bus is running late. No such luck.
“I’m sorry I ran out of the coffee shop the other night.”
“That’s okay. I get it.”
“It’s just…well, your poems bring up a lot of stuff for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology. I want to explain—”
I’m not sure I want to hear whatever she has to say.
“My aunt—the one who…died— she wasn’t like a regular aunt. I mean, she was, but she was more like a second mom to me and my brothers. She was my mom’s sister and she lived with us.
Because my mom worked full-time to support us, Auntie Erica was always there. She helped raise us, you know?”
“Your dad didn’t live with you?”
She shakes her head. “We joked about how Auntie Erica liked her quiet time in the evenings. We weren’t supposed to bother her when her door was shut.”
A chill passes through me. How many times did I stand outside Hannah’s door, wanting to knock but not wanting to upset her? Even worse, how many times did I walk past, relieved I didn’t have to deal with her sour moods?
“Then one morning a week before Christmas she didn’t come downstairs. My mom had already left for work. Auntie Erica was supposed to drive us to school. It was still dark, and when I went in her room I thought she was sleeping. She wasn’t sleeping.”
Rosie’s voice has dropped so low I have to lean close to hear her. I put my arm around her shoulder. She shrugs my hand away.
“Booze and pills. She had puked all over her bed. My mom still says it was an accident, that Auntie Erica had always had trouble sleeping.”
“Look who’s here!” I say, interrupting.
Rosie looks lost for a moment, and then relieved. “Hey, Ossie. You going to Persephone’s? Where’s Karl?”
“He got called in to work.” Ossie shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m here to, you know, support you guys.”
We step out of the shelter and onto the sidewalk when the bus comes around the corner. The massive front end bears down on us. I draw in a sharp breath and stop, heart pounding. It’s okay. The bus won’t drive over the curb and crush me. I’m not going to fall into the road. I am not like Hannah. What if I lose my balance? What if someone pushes me? If the worst happens, everyone will think I did the same thing as Hannah. They’ll look for a note, they’ll search for reasons, they’ll—
A gentle pressure on my elbow breaks through the panic. “Where’s your bus pass?” Ossie asks.
Right. That’s what normal people think about when a bus stops. My heart slows a little and I reach for the handrail with one hand, root around in my bag with the other.
Ossie sits beside me and Rosie sits in front of us. He leans forward and rests his chin on the back of her seat. “Have you got a plan for tonight?”
“A plan?” She turns her head, and the sinking sun catches the curve of her cheek. Her fine, red hair is short and frizzy. “I plan to win.”
Ossie laughs and reaches over to pat my knee. “Tara might have something to say about that!”
We all laugh, but I’m not finding the situation particularly funny. I suspect Rosie isn’t either.
She changes the subject. “Are you still working at the nursery?”
“Yeah, the crazy time is done for now. Next big rush will be Christmas trees and holly wreaths.”
Oh. Nursery as in place where people buy plants, not a place for looking after babies. Makes sense. Ossie may not be a big guy, but he’s tanned and fit. The Celtic tattoo that wraps around his bicep is smooth and firm. Is it weird that I want to reach over an
d touch it? I smooth my skirt across my lap.
Ossie chats about organic vegetables. Bamboo. It’s strange to listen to him talk about stuff that has nothing to do with poetry, nothing to do with Hannah.
Chapter Seventeen
A lot of familiar faces have come to Persephone’s to see the big poetry showdown. There’s an open mic first and then, instead of having a featured poet, Rosie and I will be the main course.
We’ll each perform three poems, to be judged just like a regular slam. Whoever gets more points will take the fourth spot on the team.
Ebony and Maddy show up just as the first open-mic reader is being introduced.
I can’t listen properly. What should I perform? Should I do something old? Pre-Hannah?
When the open-mic readers are done, I whisper an apology in Rosie’s ear. Then I head for the stage.
The monster who took the maiden
was lonely as dust
so lonely he would stop at nothing
to possess all of her.
Dark as a mountain
slicing into the soft belly of the sky
he followed her
watched as she stumbled.
The monster grew fat and happy
dining on rot wherever he found it—
compost bins, landfills, graveyards.
The maiden loved to fly
was once so alive she threw herself
against obstacles
off rooftops
knowing at the last moment
she would rise
soar in one great arc heavenward
land breathless and grinning on the
other side
already charging forward.
No hesitation
no what-ifs
no but-I-can’ts
just a fast gallop over grass
aboard a blessed unicorn.
Until she crashed into a murky pool
where the monster lay waiting
a monster slippery as any
water-dweller
hooked claws sank into damaged
flesh
an embrace she was powerless to
resist.
She knew he was there
but such was his power
she didn’t run away
didn’t invite him in
didn’t have to.
He pushed his way inside
until he filled her
made her sway to the rhythm of his
counting
one two three four
take that step
and be no more.
The poem goes on to tell how the monster does terrible things to the maiden in his underwater cave. The lines one two three four / take that step / and be no more repeat several times. By the last one even I’m sick of it. The poem isn’t good enough.
The judges agree. My scores aren’t terrible, but they aren’t great either. The average is around 7.6 or 7.7.
Rosie is up next and she gets the crowd right into her poem about the power of dessert. Even I have to laugh when she rolls her eyes and describes the ecstasy of diving into a chocolate layer cake. It’s a crowd-pleaser for sure. Her lowest score is an 8.2.
Not a good start for me.
When I’m back on the stage, Ebony gives me a small nod of encouragement.
When the coffin drops the last few
inches
the soft scrape of wood against dirt
tears a hole in the sky
and I am falling.
My aunt whispers, hold on hold on
as if this instruction can steady us all
stop my mother from
throwing herself in
after Hannah.
Wedged between my father my uncle
aunts grandmothers cousins
somehow I stand
anchored by the scent of lilies
heavy in my hands.
When you’re ready
The uncle nudges me
not knowing I am blind
can’t see the edge of the pit
through this sea of tears.
Every bad horror movie
I’ve ever seen
plays in the background
claws pushing aside dirt
black eyes, staring
what if she isn’t in there?
what if she is, but isn’t dead?
why, really, did they keep the casket
closed?
Her dress ragged
her fists pounding, pounding
on the inside of the lid—
let me out let me out
let me come back, please.
I promise
I won’t do it again.
All these people
pushing her back
shh, Hannah—you are at peace
now—
shh, Hannah—your pain is done—
close your weary eyes
and…what?
enjoy your final resting place?
When the coffin drops the last few
inches
the earth falls away beneath my feet
and I soar
like a black bird
swooping above
the heads bowed
with the weight of rules that say
when a child dies thou shalt be sad
when a child turns her back on you
forgive her.
My scores are a little better this time—all in the low 8s. Rosie’s next poem is not nearly as funny as her first one. It’s about how she learned to puke on demand. She talks fast and smooth, like someone selling fancy knives on tv. Her scores are pretty close to mine.
We take a short break after that. Rosie and I wind up beside each other in the hallway, waiting for the bathroom.
“Did you see this?” Rosie points at a flyer pinned to a notice board.
Suicide Survivors Support Group
“I used to go,” she adds matter-of-factly.
The thought of being in a room full of people who have lost someone to suicide makes me shudder.
“I haven’t been for a while. It was so…sad. And hard. But it was good too in a way—you know?”
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
“It might be different—better—if I went with someone.”
She can’t seriously expect that I’ll go with her?
The door opens to the bathroom and she slips inside. I think of her puking poem and wonder what she’s doing in there. Do we never get to leave our pasts behind?
“Good luck,” she says when she comes out.
“You too,” I answer.
For my third poem I do “A Bus Rolls into the Shower Stall.” The scores are good, but if Rosie has a strong finish, she’ll win easily.
When it’s Rosie’s turn, it’s obvious she’s nervous, which isn’t like her at all. Her hands quiver and she licks her lips several times before taking the microphone.
The day I jumped from the
Wishbone Bridge
the sky was clear as a window to
heaven…
Ossie reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I cannot tear my eyes from Rosie’s face as she recites her poem. She is both radiant and terrified. Instead of her usual rapid-fire style, she delivers the opening lines in a slow, smooth roll of images. She stands on a bridge, silently apologizing to her family. She reminds herself why she is there, dizzy when she looks down at the water so far below.
Then she switches to a faster delivery and throws a string of abuse at herself, at us—
Fat worthless slug
ugly and useless
you deserve this and only this
Then she steps over the rail. Here Rosie slows down again and describes the moment of letting go, the moment when she teeters at the edge.
Is it too late
to reach for the railing
and pull myself to safety?
Falling. Falling.
Then there’s the terrible moment when she r
ealizes that she has just made an awful mistake. A mistake that’s too late to fix.
I hold my breath and wait, wait, wait for the impact. Rosie slams into the water.
The bones in my feet shatter
ribs crack
my screams drown
in the siren’s wail.
She delivers the final lines in a sweet, tender voice.
To be alive is to live with pain
knowing this, I’ll never jump again.
When she comes back to the table I wrap her in a fierce hug. She doesn’t pull away. We both burst into tears. All the hurt and grief and fury sobs out. She understands. I understand.
The organizer calls for a ten-minute break. It’s just long enough for us to splash some cold water on our faces in the washroom.
“Ready?” I ask before we head back out into the bistro.
“Ready,” Rosie says.
I have never cared less about the outcome of a slam. Rosie wins, which comes as no surprise to any of us. When I congratulate her, I mean it.
Nikki Tate is the bestselling author of more than twenty books for young readers. When she’s not writing, storytelling or horseback riding, Nikki hosts a book club called “Titles and Tate” on CBC Radio’s All Points West. She lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, with a varied menagerie of animals. Visit www.nikkitate.com for more information.
Orca soundings
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