Phoenix Rising (6 page)

Lucas figured the present was inside, so he pulled out all the Kleenex. It turned out the present
was
the Kleenex and the animal's a handy dispenser
.

It's amazing that Lucas is so old. Twenty. After the family party (we gave him music stuff and some shirts he'll never wear), he went out with friends and didn't come home until the next day. Mom and Dad stayed up till 1 a.m., arguing. Dad wanted to wait up for Lucas. Mom said Lucas was a grown man now, believe it or not, and they had to trust him
.

I wonder if I can trust Bloomfield
.

Would he go away if he knew about the cancer
?

When I kiss him I worry that my breath smells funny. Do I taste like medicine? Apparently not: We kiss until my lips are puffy (mostly at his house; his parents work), and he runs his hands up and down my back, then squeezes my breasts and whispers, “Helen, why not?”

Trouble is, I can't think of a good reason. Besides death and disease and babies, of course
.

I love him and I want to touch him and I want him to touch me
.

The other night I dreamed we were at Foothill Park, in that flower-sprinkled meadow. Bloomfield was wearing a white tuxedo (!) and playing a piano, just grandly. I was dancing, leaping, soaring, iridescent as dragonfly wings
.…

I'd lose my breath if I danced like that now. That's the lovely thing about dreams. You can be so free
.

There's too much going on all the time: school & family & clinic & writing. I want to write something perfect for Bloomfield, a story that would knock his socks off, a poem that would kiss his heart
.

I know that the way I feel about him is crazy. I really don't know him at all. But for some strange reason he makes me happy. When I'm with him I am laughing, dancing, flying
.

O Bloomfield: I love/I'm so scared of you. I wish I had the guts to say: It may be true that life's in vain, but I would do it all again with you
.

8

Bambi and I cut class today. We didn't even discuss it. When she picked me up this morning I tossed my books into the backseat, hard. She looked at me and laughed, then we just cruised.

I know I should buckle down and study but it's hard to take the future seriously. At any second the earth could veer off course and slam into the sun. Or a meteorite could land on your head. Twelve tons of them fall every day.

I was never the great brain, compared to Helen.

I can't seem to concentrate.

We drove to San Jose and toured the Winchester Mystery House. It's a giant pipe dream of a mansion, built by an old lady with tons of dough. Her husband invented the Winchester rifle, which killed thousands of people, who haunted his widow. She believed that as long as she kept building—rooms, turrets, porches, stairways—she would never die. She was wrong.

After that we had burgers and milkshakes. The waitress eyed us suspiciously. Bambi was done up in her junior hooker outfit: black fishnet stockings and a slinky dress that hugged her like an oil slick. Gulping down the last bite of her wolfburger, she said: “I feel so fat! I must be getting my period.”

I hope so. Last month she slept with a thirty-year-old guy because she thought it would be rude to tell him no.

She sets traps for herself, promptly falls into them, and then shrieks, “Who turned out the lights?”

Nobody, you idiot. Open your eyes.

It sure is easy to see other people's problems, but not your own.

There was nothing to do. That's the trouble with cutting; all your friends are at school.

When in doubt, shop. I didn't have any money, but Bambi had her magic plastic cards.

It was November in the parking lot and December in the mall. It's been decorated for Christmas since Labor Day. We went to the Emporium. We went to Macy's. Bambi bought purple vinyl boots, designer jeans, and perfume. Helen had to give up wearing perfume. The chemo made her skin smell funny.

I only bought a lipstick. I was feeling nervous. I was thinking about my teachers. They were real nice to me after Helen died, but now it's business as usual. They're ticked because I have so much “untapped potential.” I'm not doing my homework, or forget to bring it, and I never raise my hand in class. Helen and I were secretly shy. Together, we made someone brave.

We drove back to Bambi's down streets alive with cart-wheeling leaves, the tape deck blasting, the top down although the day was cool. Bambi hates silence and she loves to be looked at. It's the only time she's sure she's alive.

She lives a few blocks from me in a ritzy development named for what used to be there: Buckhorn Hill. Everybody calls it Big Bucksville.

Her grandfather founded Bordtz Beer and made a killing during Prohibition. Bordtz Beer eventually went down the toilet, but Bambi's dad held onto his inheritance and invested in real estate. He owns several tasty chunks of the town.

Their house is huge. It's got an indoor pool, a sauna, and a hot tub, all unused. Bambi's mother was watching the tube in the den. She prefers TV to real life. Mrs. Bordtz is as spooky as a sleepwalker, with eyes like keyholes to burning rooms. She's always dressed up, even when she's going nowhere, as if waiting for the press to arrive.

“Is that you, Bambi?” she called.

“No, it's a blood-crazed maniac. We're going to slaughter you and torch the house.”

“Oh, is Jessie there, too? Shouldn't you girls be in school?”

“It's a holiday, Ma. Sid Vicious's birthday.”

“Oh. There's fresh Twinkies in the fridge.”

We ate some Twinkies in the gleaming kitchen. Twice a week a Spanish woman comes in and shovels out the dirt. I forget her name. She doesn't speak English. She doesn't speak to us at all.

Bambi's mother floated in and watched us eat. Her hair was newly shorn; but not as if she'd had it styled; as if she'd gone berserk with the scissors.

“How are you, Jessie?” Her voice was very flat. She always talks like that, no matter what she's saying.

“Fine.”

“That's good.”

Bambi poured some 7-Up. It galloped into the glasses.

“Where's Rascal?” I asked. Their obnoxious beagle. He's usually humping my leg.

“Gone,” Mrs. Bordtz said vaguely.

“We got rid of him when we got the new furniture,” Bambi explained. “Want to see it? It's Mediterranean.”

After I dutifully admired the furniture warehouse that passes for a home, we retreated to Bambi's bedroom. She shoved stuff off the bed so we could sit down, then proceeded to paint her toenails green while talking nonstop about this jerk she's seeing. He wants her to tattoo his name on her breast. He prefers black hair, so she's dyeing it again. She's getting more holes punched in her ears.

I will never cut my hair. I will let it grow forever and wear it like a cloak, like a cape. Helen had the longest, thickest, prettiest hair before it changed.

Bambi thumbed through the
Star
. “Wow, they've taught plants to read! Hey, look at this kid's nose! He looks like an anteater!”

“I have to go now, Bambi.”

“Why?” She looked startled. She never wants me to leave.

“Mom will be expecting me.”

Besides, I couldn't breathe. There's no air in that house. It smells like the clinic that Helen went to; like flesh, like fading flowers.

My mother was making dinner.

“How was school, honey?”

“Fine.” She has enough on her mind.

“Bloomfield called again.”

“Big wow,” I said.

“He seems like a very nice boy.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“You should call him back.”

I wanted to escape but she wanted to talk. Mom used to talk to Helen. Helen would've looked like this in twenty years: smooth brown hair, a slender figure. I noticed she was more than slender. When had she grown so thin? A glass of red wine was on the counter. My mother used to drink only at parties and celebrations.

To my surprise, I launched into a rollicking fabrication of my hilarious day at school, making up all this jazz about a football rally, and the joke my sociology teacher told the class: “Marriage is a lot like the gallows. After a while you get the hang of it.” Ha.

My mother smiled, her bleak eyes brightening. Her smile was a drug. I went on and on, like some crazed talk-show host, like that red-haired comedian.
People! You hear about the optimistic drunk who fell out of a high-rise bar? At each floor she shouted to the folks inside: “Doing all right so far!”

I thought to myself: I am a fabulous liar. I should be a writer. I should be a politician.

It made my mother happy; that was all that mattered. So what if none of it was true? For a few minutes she forgot that her life had been shattered; that she would never again see the daughter who wore her face; forgot her brokenhearted husband, stranded in a sand trap, beating golf balls to death; forgot the angry alien masquerading as her son, who plays his guitar just as loud as he can, to fill his mind with music, to drive out the pain; forgot the tangle-haired tightrope walker who is losing her balance.

“I ran into Mrs. Maxson today,” Mom said. “She used to work at the library, remember? She hadn't heard about Helen.”

“What did you tell her?”

My mother's eyes probed my face. “I told her she'd died.”

The last time that happened to me, I lied. I said, “Helen's gone away to school.”

Death is hard, Dr. Shubert says, but life is even harder. Jessie, she says, you must face the truth.

I said, “I'm going upstairs.”

My mother's face collapsed, her happiness a crumpled mask. I had not fooled her.

“It's bad enough we've lost Helen!” she cried. “Now we're losing you!”

She ran from the room. I should've gone after her. Instead, I went up and fell asleep on my bed, curled around Helen's journal.

I open my eyes. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. My bed is a boat in a dark sea.

Why did I wake? The smell. It's smoke.

Fire! The bedroom door is outlined in orange neon.

I get out of bed and touch the door. It's hot; it burns my fingers. In sixth grade the fire chief talked to our class. He said, “Jessie, don't open that door.”

I run to the window. I can't get it open. It's stuck where Lucas painted it. I've got to get out. I can hear the hungry flames devouring the living room, licking up the stairs.

I pick up my school books and smash the window. The glass shrieks and chatters. I climb out.

Neighbors line the lawn, in robes and pajamas. They see me and gasp. “Jump, Jessie!” they shout. “You have to jump! You have no choice!”

I'm falling through space. I land in a shrub. Thorns rip my skin. Someone's pulling me out. It's Bambi's mother, her eyes full of the flames, the red light flickering on her face.

“Look at all the people,” she says, calmly, as if she were announcing the time. “Two
A
.
M
.,” she adds, reading my mind.

The crowd is enormous. A man sells hot dogs. “Red hots!” he shouts. “Red hots!”

Dad is beside me. He takes my arm. “Come on, honey,” he says. “Everybody's waiting.”

The Ford's parked in the street, Mom up front, Lucas in the backseat, his face turned away from me.

“Where are we going, Daddy?” I ask.

“To our new house. You'll like it, Jessie.”

“But all our stuff—”

“We'll buy new stuff.” He opens the car door. “Get in, honey.”

I slide in beside Lucas. Then I remember.

“Helen's in the house!”

I can't open my door. Very gently Dad says, “It's too late.”

“Helen's in there!” I'm screaming. “We've got to save her!”

But we don't. We drive away. I look out the back window. The house is blazing. Tongues of flame stick out the windows, flames as orange-blue as veins. The walls shudder, then collapse.

I am screaming Helen's name.

My eyes snap open. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. The clock glows like a jack-o'-lantern. Two
A
.
M
.

Helen's bed is empty. My father was right.

9

March 23

Bloomfield and I drove to the ocean today
—
after an hour of instructions from Dad: Drive slowly, wear your seat belts, don't pick up hitchhikers, etc. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if he'd tailed us in an unmarked car
.

Bloomfield was wearing his jeans jacket and looked ultracool in blue
.

It was the first time we'd ever gone out of town together and I felt like
—
It's a good thing nobody can read my mind. I was pretending we were married
.

Oh, I have gotten so sappy lately! I want to touch him and hug him all the time! The other day he said, “Why are you smiling?”. “No reason,” I said. “I'm just happy.”

The car ride made me a little nauseous. For a few dangerous seconds, I thought I was going to puke. Then I told myself: Will you please calm down? And miraculously, I did
.

It was BEAUTIFUL at the beach! Clear and breezy, not too cold, and not many people around. We unpacked our stuff between two big rocks that shielded us from the wind
.

We'd brought chicken and French bread and apples and cheese. Bloomfield ate like the world was on fire. He's always in a hurry; like, if he doesn't grab fun fast, someone might snatch it away. I guess that's what happens when you have a lot of brothers. Bloomfield is the runt of the litter
.

After we ate I felt a little urpy, but the feeling passed in a while
.

We walked along the shore and looked for bottle glass and shells. Bottle glass is my favorite; it's jagged edges smoothed soft by the waves, smoky-colored and mysterious
.