Dead Stars (61 page)

CLEAN

[Dramatic Personae: The Cedars of Lebanon]

Deliverance

ReeRee

bled on the eve of the
Daydream Believers
shoot. Tom-Tom poked her head in the room, groggily clocked the paramedics, & went back to sleep. Rikki borrowed Dr Phil's old VW & followed the ambulance down. The winds were furious. The city below was bright & its landmarks brilliantly identifiable, like a city in a dream. He felt like he was slaloming down an xmas tree. 3AM.

They admitted her right away. Who should he call? Rikki didn't ask Reeyonna because he knew she wouldn't want him to call
anyone
. He didn't want to wake his parents either, no need, so he waited til 730. They were there by 9.

The 3 of them—Dawn, Jim & Ree's mom—had cellphone-strategized the best way for Jacquie to make her entrance but in the end she just strode in a minute or so after the fosters. When Reeyonna at 1st saw her, her features broke lose from their tenuous corral and spasmscattered, roving mountainscapes parched & dead. Mother Jacquie imperturbably rounded them up. At bedside, thankfully, mercifully, unpredictably, the child in Jerilynn, in
Reeyonna
(still so much child in her!), couldn't bear it any longer & held out its arms. They cried together. Everything—embrace, misery, love—was primordial, in full knowledge the ooze & ahhhs of babydom approached at cosmic velocity. Rikki and his parents left them to their unexpurgated
I'm sorrys
duet, the melody flooded the bone-dry hills and made creeks again, it fed the grasses & herded the lambs, the mother touched her daughter's wet face—its features finally come home, and safely fenced—Mother's hands palmed over innocent flesh like a witch warming its hands at a fire it never thought it could ignite, remorseful crone who'd lost faith in her powers, but now had conjured
this
. The bewitched daughter
letting
herself be touched. The cosmic velocity of it.

. . .

At last, the claque, perfectly imperfectly reunited: Rikki and Reeyonna, Jim and Dawn, Jacquie and Jerilynn. An overwhelming sense of relief—group exhalation (Rikki&ReeRee exempt). Fear, yes, for the baby—as they wheeled her off, a nurse said something that made them fearful—but relief at the dismantling of a monumental impasse. Hopefulness, despite Jacquie occasionally (quietly) projecting forward to the days after the baby's birth, roughly sketching the destructive return of
Jerilynn's
rage.
Don't go there. Stay in the moment. In this moment, you have your daughter back. Isn't that enough?

. . .

In labor now.

Jacquie's naked freefloating fear for the baby returns, like when you wonder if you left home with candles still burning, were they too close to curtains, did you leave the bathwater on or inadvertently cover the vents on delicate machinery, was the handle not removed from the discarded refrigerator, did you leave your child or someone else's in the car.

Rikki's just relieved to have the focus off.

He was going to drive Dr Phil's car back home but guesses he should probably stay. He only has roxies & weed. He wonders now that everyone's here if he should go back for sum yayo.

. . .

Jacquie & Dawn in the delivery room.

The gentlemen were invited, but abstained.

The gentlemen wait . . .

One hour, 2 hours—Rikki says he needs to get something from home, leaves—3 hours—shift change—Jim asks what's happening—stonewalled.
Why doesn't Dawn come out? I can understand why Jacquie wouldn't but come on, Dawn, what the hell's the matter? don't you think I'm going a little crazy out here?
Cellphones do not work in hospital zones. But he even steps outside the building to see if Dawn texted him: nothing. The engineer is nothing if not logical. An unwelcome voice bubbles up:
She probably hasn't had any decent prenatal care, to speak of.
He does not like the voice but does not silence it. He hopes that she did. Decent prenatal care. Or more decent than he thought. Engineer Jim takes deep breaths—Dawn calls them yoga breaths, she learned when she was in treatment for depression—just now it's the only way he can cope, the only way to forestall hyperventilation.

To dispel the
unnecessary
from his head.

A fresh nurse comes.

She says:

She's in critical care.

But did she have the baby?

She says:

She's in critical care.

. . .

The nurse says Jim can't go back, she says there's already 2 (Jacquie, Dawn) in there with her. So he waits in a family lounge outside the CCU. He wonders,
Where the hell is that kid? Where the hell is Rikki?
He starts to call Rikki's cell, but doesn't have it in him. Something in him is tired & broken.

Jacquie sits in a vinyl chair at Jerilynn's bedside.

Jerilynn looks bleached, beached, fattened, flattened; her mother looks the same.
She got so heavy, I never got this heavy. When I had her, I think I gained even less, I weighed more when I had Jerry. But that was just 10 lbs, not even.
Jerilynn has tubes in each arm (one backed up w/blood), a see-thru celery green one in her nose (O
₂
), bright yellow one under the bed (cath). The urine shot through with sunshine,
but some blood in it now is that blood in it.
The machine monitoring her heart beats time in brash strident tones that almost seem threatening. Angry harbingers . . . the thousands of forgettable scenes from television & movies where an aberrant rhythm breaks from the pack like a dark horse, shrill, screechy, sped-up, doctors nurses & crashcarts come flying, then: the flatlining. Forgettable scenes too with teens going from delivery room to CCU, though much less of those. Right?

Jerilynn in quiet delirium, Jacquie tamped down, crazed, benumbed, Dawn stroking the girl's sweaty crown of hair, Dawn's eyes involuntarily sweeping what she can see of the bedsheet for black-maroon blood, (Rikki's) black amour blackamoor blood—praying not to see a stain appear then spread like those helicopter shots of land-devouring blackwater tsunami—and the folly of Dawn's rage & offendedness return with galling sting, her rejection by the Buddhists, the vanity of it, the daily shame she experiences upon re-creating her impotence at the hospice program's
snub,
her lonely preening pitiful
entitlement
burns her throat as it regurgitates . . .
she cannot let go
. That was the lesson to learn, how to let go, but she cannot, she learned nothing, she got a 2-week stay in the hospital for her trouble, of course they were right, she wasn't fit to keep vigil with the living let alone the dying,
she had learned nothing
. Only
now
does it come to her, only
now
can she see what a great gift it was, how it came in disguise at the only time she could have accepted it, the only time she could hold the gift in her arms even though she was not ready to open it—but now she
was.

The online literature had been eminently clear, her resentments were all bullshit, the course had been established for professionals in the field, even
unestablished
professionals. She'd pretended, she'd
convinced
herself (and even her poor Jim, & everyone else) they had dissembled,
the Buddhists had lied
, when all she had to do was suck it up and volunteer at a VA, pick a VA,
any
VA, or a thousand other places, even those affiliated with the hospice she had applied to, she could have done that, could have gone up to the Bay Area and done hospice work with any of those places the Buddhists would recommend, but no, she had elected to use her time differently, she had elected to commit herself to a psych ward for other whiny entitled self-indulgent assholes, oh she'd put her poor wonderful Jim through pure hell! And God
knows
the effect her clownish crybaby collapse had on Rikki, at a time when he needed her the most. He'd acted as if somehow it was his fault that her application was denied.

Jerilynn is talking now.

Jacquie comes awake.

Jerilynn stares at Dawn, callling her
Mother
?

In her midlife midwife mid-death bones, Dawn knows the girl is dying.
She must now open the terrible beautiful gift. She must now unwrap the paper. How perfectly imperfect that it is here, that she is here, that they are here.
Jacquie watches their interplay, but does not compete, allowing Dawn to shadow
Jerrilyn's
shade
day is done, gone the sun. Day is Dawn, gone the swan. From the lake from the pills from this guy
Jerilynn says,
I don't understand where I am.
Dawn says,
You don't have to. You don't have to understand or know
The othermother marveling at the tenderness of the exchange the perfect imperfect poetry of give & take the
fading light dims the sight & dead stars gem the skygleaming bright
Mother
, says Jerilynn (to Dawn, why won't she look at me, I'm here baby),
I took your cameras
all your cameras
Jacquie gulps down breaths she is drowning, Jacquie says
I don't care about the cameras!
Jerilynn
, it doesn't matter! I don't care about the cameras! Reeyonna!
it's the 1st time she interjects, but daughter does not turn toward mother's panicked voice, nor look at or even toward the mother, nor even voice-attends. She only has encrypted eyes for Dawn, she calls Dawn
mommy, mama
at least she's calling out for that, for mommy/mama
hari Krishna Krishna hari hari mama mama
–

 

mama I took your cameras, I don't know where I am, where am I supposed to be?
Dawn says,
Right where you are sweetheart you're right where you're supposed to be you're perfect
the give & take, the taking the giving (of) thanks & praise.
for our days. neath the sun, neath deadstars, neath the sky
now
Jerilynn
is drowning, Jacquie says,
Should we call someone? Dawn, should we call?
———
Jerilynn
shouting at Dawn Mom
You! don't! know! none of you! none! of! you! know! where! where I am going!
DOCTOR! DOCTOR! mama-mommy rushes out Dawn says it's
all right baby it's all right to let go
never would Dawn have dreamt she'd have such surety at end-of-life, end of others', never never ever, she just knew, she now knows, now she knows & prays dispassionately compassionate end-of-life will H A P P E N, soon, at least before they come barging————
son has set———shadows come———time has fled, sheets are red, in the beds
now the scrubs rush in on cue, of course they do, the thousands of forgettable scenes, they crashcart-gallop after the dark star dark horse, though more it's the dragon of flatlineshrieking machine they chase, the machine sent them code babyblue, not the heed of shocky grandma's alarum . . . . . . . . . Dawn knows they're too late to catch that blackened horse, to reign & subdue it, giving her measure of comfort that her surrogate child will not (cannot) be brought back to suffer more indignities of the flesh, hadn't she sacrificed enough? hadn't she already bled out? hadn't she summoned the atrocious grace to leave a perfectly imperfect yawping pink thing behind? one that would look like her (& Rikki) & make her same mistakes, and make some she hadn't (not that Jeri wouldn't have, she just wouldn't have the time), who'd grow up in darkness, yes, but in the brightness of gods&glories too, gods&glories her mother would have died too young to feel or to know, never would Dawn have imagined she would be blessed with the knowledge the gift of knowing when was too late, never dreamed she'd have such surety, in hurricane's eye Dawn is calm
how how why is it so I never dreamed I could be this calm
she needs to be, calm & centered, because
Reeyonna
is still connected to Dawn by the eyes, the girl's still staring, stormwindow eyes silently lushly dischordantly singing
while the eyes fade from sight, & deadstars, gleaming rays, softly send
the tiresome code blue crashcart heroism can do nothing to stop the last verse
to thine hands

we, our souls

Lord come in.

CLEAN

[mixtape]

Who Wore It Best?

Rikki

gets back to the hospital late because they smoked & got caught up in Jerzy's numerological bullshit. J comes with, they go to obstetrics, a nurse says
Are you the father? Yes, I'm the father (which actually sounded cool to say). Wait one moment.
[
Then
]
OK, they're in the family lounge outside CCU, L-14.

When they get there his fosterfolks are kinda drapey on the couch, oddly spent, redrimmed eyes, Dawn sort of jowly, the only thing on Rikki's clouded hammery mind is to apologize for being late, for missing the birth, it never even occurs to him the birth maybe didn't happen yet, he knows he should see the baby, in a few mins he expects (thousands of forgettable scenes) to see the tiny rugrat on her tit, Ree sitting up in bed with that rosy-cheeked narcoticky post-marathon race look (the thousands of forgettable scenes in everybody's head)—
Hey is it a boy?
Dawn says no it's a girl
well can I see her? Let's go see him! No,
says Dawn,
her mom's in there with her now,
& just when Jerzy's going to utter some turdacious words of wisdom, Dawn tells them Reeyonna is dead.

& right then, a nurse brings the baby into the lounge, special circumstances, to show new life where there has been premature death. The nurse smiles as if she hasn't a clue what has happened. She wants to hand the bawling deal off.

“Who's the father?”

. . .

She went to the car because they told her they were going to clean her daughter up. They didn't put it quite that way however they were as gentle and tactful as could be hoped for
if
one had to be told that the body of one's daughter was going to be made presentable by the sponging of excrement & bloodsweat & the removal of the needles & tubes that violated during her abrupt descent.

Sitting in her car in a hospital parking lot again, that was what defined Jacquie's lives and her deaths. Sitting in her car she listens to the sound of her breath, observes the rising fall of her breast. She remembers Jeri nursing, the recollection so vivid she suddenly feels the sting of infected nipple, impacted tit. She had both with Jerilynn.

From the parking lot, Jacquie talks to one of the girls at Opening Ceremony. Last minute bday gift, all that. She selects a few promising things by phone, they send some jpegs. She has Jerzy drive over to pick them up: a Rag&Bone, a Lim, a Wang
.
An Aubry top & Maxi Desert skirt, all earthtones, a raw-edged gray scarf, a Jacklyn dress. Other options: print tie-front dress/open back, cropped boyfriend pullover, silk blend deep V tank w/asymmetric hem/cut-out back. Silk & cotton.

All modest but not staid.

Feminine.

. . .

She approaches the shift leader (who of course knows all about the tragic situation) and requests time alone with her daughter. The shift leader of course says yes & please let me know if there are other ways they might accommodate. Jacquie has no intention of telling them her plans.

She gathers the family in the lounge. She tells them about the parish of portraits she's taken, the baby here, the infant in Arizona. She explains what she wants—what she's
going
to do. The ragtaggy dramatic personae solemnly accede without hassly questions, for which she is grateful. Everyone's in shock anyway plus she's the tribal chieftress, whatever she says is Word.

She tells Dawn that she needs her help.

She tells the men they will come back for them.

. . .

Both fight back tears as they dress their daughter.

Unfathomable delicacy.

Boundless love.

How heavy the body.

How heavy the body to make them break sweat.

Jacquie occasionally stops to examine the skin, as an appraiser admiring/cataloguing the stitches, patterns & imperfections of a vintage quilt—vaccine scar, birthmark, explosion of freckles, earlobe battered by years of repiercings/infections, a single chronically ingrown pubis hair Jeri always fussed with . . . the tattoo that surprises her. Rikki said the singer Rihanna had the same, a tiny
on the inside of her left ear. The scanning & commenting to her helpmeet busies her mind. Dawn is grateful she can be of service.

A sound comes from Jacquie, a moany
o
from the O of her mouth as they came to the bulky, cellophaned cotton the RNs used to seal now bloodless Caesarean lips; they would need to cut the dress to get around that. Dawn says she'll go find scissors but Jacquie impatiently tears the fabric of the Wang. They laugh at the grisly absurdity.

Champagne wishes & cadaver dreams.

A last pass over seams and buttons before pushbutton raising the bed so that she's half-sitting, half-laying.

Jacquie brushes Jerilynn's hair.

“Pretty,” she says, on unwitting verge of babytalk.

Dawn takes a step back & watches.

“Pretty, pretty girl,” says Jacquie. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

. . .

A nurse brings in the baby, hands it to Jacquie and leaves. She believes the two women are giving the dead girl a chance to say goodbye to the daughter she never touched, heard, smelled.

Jacquie gives the baby to Dawn, then prepares her daughter's arms. Dawn lowers it down while Jacquie sets up her camera. Dawn supports the baby but realizes she can let go. The baby stays cradled in its mother's arms.

. . .

Rikki, Jerzy & Jim come in. (Photo session over, camera and tripod hidden.) Jim is restrained, the boys gimlet-eyed. Too mindblowing even for heartache. So off-the-charts it's one of the few predicaments where a so-called normal response might cause them to actually look just as whacked out as they already did. The men wonder what they're supposed to feel, what they're supposed to feel.

Rikki's the 1st to come close, looking confused. He shakes his head and keeps muttering,
So fucked up it's so fucked up.

Jerzy joins him bedside, like a boy band, about to sing into the same mic. He stares at his sister & says
Whoa.
Flashes on the dead naked body beneath the cool-looking dress before lurching back into the present. “Beautiful dress,” he says. “Good choice. Great choice.”

Not sure what he's supposed to say or feel but a compliment to Jacquie seems like the right thing. He flashes how if no one else was there he would probably lift up the dress and have a look.

Almost 15 minutes of people—
dramatis personae
—coming close then backing away, coming close then backing away. Rikki wonders is this a viewing. Is this official? That's why she's in the dress? Is this like a last time? Am I acting OK how do you act at a viewing? When is the funeral is there going to be a funeral?

Dawn says, “We're going to go see the baby. Are you OK?”

Jacquie says that she is.

The men linger a moment, as if leaving on Dawn's command would compromise their grieving manhoods. When Rikki finally goes, Jerzy follows after. Jim approaches the body a final time; Rikki and Jerzy turn to see that but decide in their whackitude & laziness to let him have his unmalecompanioned moment. Jim looks at her face, closes his eyes.

“It isn't fair. So young, so young—too young.”

Laconic, clichéd, normal-engineer-type griefy editorials.

Dawn catches her husband's eye to let him know it's time to leave her now. They close the door behind them.

Jacquie stares out the window, the very same harmless idle way a visitor stares out the window when the patient is sleeping. You come with gift or flowers but they're sleeping and you let them because they need to sleep, and also you have things to do, it's a busy day, you can get more things done if you leave soon and instead just call and tell them later that you stopped by but they were sleeping & you didn't want to disturb. Tell them that you sat there very peacefully, which would be true, except you might imply you sat there longer than you did. Stretch the truth just a little, what was the harm. The patient is dozing and you turn to look out the window at the world, at life, the dull sun-slanty roar of it. You stare out the window & contemplate the brevity and strangeness, the richness and beauty, the fresh insults and horrors of it.

And then your friend wakes up.

. . .

Jerzy & Rikki walk to the van. Jerzy hates the hospital lot & parked off Robertson, just around the corner from the Ivy. His professional stomping grounds. They walk in silence, still in a bubble of intense weirdness.

A kid in Vans sprints by, clutching a camera. Then two more, then another . . . not kids, but fellow pros. 2 figures come toward them, surrounded by fly swarmerazzi. For once, Jerzy's happy not to have his camera.

“Leighton! Leighton!”

Jerzy pauses to watch with bemusement—like he's being given a tour of his life by the Ghost of
Honeyshot!
s Past.

“Who is it?” asks Rikki.

“Leighton Meester. From
Gossip Girl
.”

“ReeRee loves that show.”

Leighton gets closer, then fakes out the fotogs & goes lateral, tearing across the street.

“Wow,” says Jerzy, staring at the receding
& the pursuing hordes. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“Her dress—same as Reeyonna's. The Alexander Wang!”

“So?”

“
So . . .
ReeRee totally rocked it
.
Leighton looked shitty
.
I give Ree an 87% & Leighton a
thirteen—
a 20% at
most
.”

O shit, thinks Rikki, the dude's into his numbers again.

“87% of what?”

“Of the
vote,
nigger, what do you
think
I'm talking about?” Jerzy hugely smiles. “ReeRee
rocked it.
”