normal man.
The door opens and the nurse, Florence, comes in. She notices us and tips her head. But what is she actually seeing? Maybe nothing is a surprise in the distressed families lounge.
“Help.” It's just a croak, but she hears me. She calls to someone in the hallway and then slides in, quiet on those heinous puffy white shoes.
“Honey,” she says, touching my head.
And then she settles her nurse's hands on Dad's shoulders, reminders of civilization, of how fathers are supposed to be no matter what. Dad gulps, pulling in breaths like a little kid recovering. My mind repeats that word,
recovering.
Like a little kid
recovering
from a bike bump or a stubbed toe—and then I hear another thought.
There will be no recovery.
We are broken. Even fathers break.
It started with you, Claire, the one broken person. But there is never only one broken person.
Aunt Jeanie
“Natalie!” Aunt Jeanie hurls herself at me, squeezing my breath away.
“Un Jee,” I say, my greeting muffled with my mouth crammed into her burgundy shoulder pad, bugging my eyes at Mom.
“How
are
you, baby?” Jeanie cups my face in her hands, trying to peer into my soul. “This is a big, hard punch, Natalie. There's no hiding from this one.”
“Uh—”
“Jeanie, don't start,” says Mom. Her little sister can drive her from mild to exasperated to insane in seconds.
“What we have to do is to share our strength and punch back! If we visualize Claire standing on her feet again, we can make it happen! Am I right?”
“ Uh-huh,” I say. Aunt Jeanie's voice is way too loud. She's bigger and rounder than my mother, even though she's younger. She's jollier too, except right now jolly is so wrong.
“Mom? Dad's in there.” I point to the lounge, where he's sipping a Coke and gripping an ice cube in his fist.
“You take me to see Claire,” says Aunt Jeanie, propelling me along the corridor. “We'll tell her that we're all pulling for her, eh?”
Wishful Thinking
I'm not sure what Aunt Jeanie was expecting, but it wasn't anything like this. I can only see her eyes above the mask, but they go wet and afraid as all her positive thinking melts into the humming quiet of Claire's room. I notice I have a stomachache from hoping she was right all along.
How We Make Room for New Truths
You don't look quite so bad today, actually.
It's scary how a person adjusts to being able to say that. To being able to
see
that. Because you're lying in a hospital with tubes crawling in and out of your body like garter snakes, but you don't look quite as…
bad
as you did yesterday. The bruises on your face are fading, sort of. To yellow.
It makes me think about that time we went tobogganing with Leah and Ben Skipton before they moved to Texas. When we had that colossal smash-up at the bottom of Kill Hill. We didn't tell Mom and Dad about it because it was hard enough getting permission to go with those older kids. And your whole arm was purple with bruises from being slammed underneath. You wore long sleeves for the first couple of days and it was winter, so no big deal.
But then we were supposed to be having a bath and your arm was yellow. Mom called out, “Get ready, spit-spot,” the way Mary Poppins does. I dove into the art box and pulled out the finger paints and we slathered ourselves with green, yellow, blue, pink. And then we climbed into the bath. Mom had a complete fit. But with all the muck in the tub and on our skin, well, she never saw the bruising at all. Remember that?
I guess not.
I depended on you…. You're older, you're supposedto be my … my
archive.
That's what sisters do, remember for each other.
But the cold, hard, horrible truth is that I don't feel you here.
Some of What the Principal Said at Claire's Graduation
“You'll have some tough choices in the years ahead— whether to continue your education, whether to travel, whether to join the workforce, start a family, buy a house…. But you will face some even harder
The door opens and the nurse, Florence, comes in. She notices us and tips her head. But what is she actually seeing? Maybe nothing is a surprise in the distressed families lounge.
“Help.” It's just a croak, but she hears me. She calls to someone in the hallway and then slides in, quiet on those heinous puffy white shoes.
“Honey,” she says, touching my head.
And then she settles her nurse's hands on Dad's shoulders, reminders of civilization, of how fathers are supposed to be no matter what. Dad gulps, pulling in breaths like a little kid recovering. My mind repeats that word,
recovering.
Like a little kid
recovering
from a bike bump or a stubbed toe—and then I hear another thought.
There will be no recovery.
We are broken. Even fathers break.
It started with you, Claire, the one broken person. But there is never only one broken person.
Aunt Jeanie
“Natalie!” Aunt Jeanie hurls herself at me, squeezing my breath away.
“Un Jee,” I say, my greeting muffled with my mouth crammed into her burgundy shoulder pad, bugging my eyes at Mom.
“How
are
you, baby?” Jeanie cups my face in her hands, trying to peer into my soul. “This is a big, hard punch, Natalie. There's no hiding from this one.”
“Uh—”
“Jeanie, don't start,” says Mom. Her little sister can drive her from mild to exasperated to insane in seconds.
“What we have to do is to share our strength and punch back! If we visualize Claire standing on her feet again, we can make it happen! Am I right?”
“ Uh-huh,” I say. Aunt Jeanie's voice is way too loud. She's bigger and rounder than my mother, even though she's younger. She's jollier too, except right now jolly is so wrong.
“Mom? Dad's in there.” I point to the lounge, where he's sipping a Coke and gripping an ice cube in his fist.
“You take me to see Claire,” says Aunt Jeanie, propelling me along the corridor. “We'll tell her that we're all pulling for her, eh?”
Wishful Thinking
I'm not sure what Aunt Jeanie was expecting, but it wasn't anything like this. I can only see her eyes above the mask, but they go wet and afraid as all her positive thinking melts into the humming quiet of Claire's room. I notice I have a stomachache from hoping she was right all along.
How We Make Room for New Truths
You don't look quite so bad today, actually.
It's scary how a person adjusts to being able to say that. To being able to
see
that. Because you're lying in a hospital with tubes crawling in and out of your body like garter snakes, but you don't look quite as…
bad
as you did yesterday. The bruises on your face are fading, sort of. To yellow.
It makes me think about that time we went tobogganing with Leah and Ben Skipton before they moved to Texas. When we had that colossal smash-up at the bottom of Kill Hill. We didn't tell Mom and Dad about it because it was hard enough getting permission to go with those older kids. And your whole arm was purple with bruises from being slammed underneath. You wore long sleeves for the first couple of days and it was winter, so no big deal.
But then we were supposed to be having a bath and your arm was yellow. Mom called out, “Get ready, spit-spot,” the way Mary Poppins does. I dove into the art box and pulled out the finger paints and we slathered ourselves with green, yellow, blue, pink. And then we climbed into the bath. Mom had a complete fit. But with all the muck in the tub and on our skin, well, she never saw the bruising at all. Remember that?
I guess not.
I depended on you…. You're older, you're supposedto be my … my
archive.
That's what sisters do, remember for each other.
But the cold, hard, horrible truth is that I don't feel you here.
Some of What the Principal Said at Claire's Graduation
“You'll have some tough choices in the years ahead— whether to continue your education, whether to travel, whether to join the workforce, start a family, buy a house…. But you will face some even harder
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