Skyscraping (11 page)

Need to find Chloe,

need to tell her the truth.

But the school lobby’s mobbed,

kids crying, hugging—

Chloe at their nucleus,

crying the hardest.

Dylan next to her, pale, dark-circled eyes.

I ask him what’s going on.

He says Kurt Cobain’s dead.

Chloe reaches for me.

Pours into my arms.

Walks with her head

bent on my shoulder.

Spring wind goosebumps our arms,

sun peeks out from behind buildings.

I lead her to a stoop.

She says she can’t believe

he’s dead, through

gasping breaths.

She was obsessed with him.

I’m tempted to hide my truth again,

focus on Chloe’s pain,

so sad about this rock star

she’s never met.

But I can’t—

Chloe, I need to tell you something,

grab her hand.

My dad’s HIV has turned into full-blown AIDS.

He was given a month to live.

Today is day 15.

She stops crying right away.

Wipes tears with the back of her hand.

She says

oh my god, I’m so sorry.

Holds me in a hug.

I tell her I’m sorry

for keeping everything from her.

I didn’t know

how else to deal.

I also tell her about Adam.

How hateful he was

just after

I lost my virginity to him.

I ask her if she thinks I’m a liar.

She doesn’t answer,

just says:

she loves me

for who I am.

At home, Dad’s eyes bright,

he’s in the kitchen,

warming soup.

I tell him about Kurt Cobain,

he shakes his head, sits.

Mom and April, in the living room,

practicing lines for the spring play.

Feeling lighter,

after confessing everything

to Dylan, Chloe.

I stick my head out the window,

a breath before I start my homework.

Even though it’s chilly,

faces of green leaves poke out,

sprouts from skeleton trees.

W
ANING
C
RESCENT
M
OON
, 14
D
AYS
L
EFT

Dylan, April and I walk through the park,

the sun, full and pink,

they chatter about the AIDS Walk,

how they can’t wait to be part of it,

my heart sinks a little,

thinking about May.

How can they look forward

to walking with other people

when Dad might not be alive?

Would he even want us to walk?

Show our pride?

Is
he
proud?

When April and I come through the door,

Dad’s smile couldn’t be bigger—

his face looks almost round.

Three envelopes in his hands:

Kenyon, Bowdoin, Dickinson.

We tear them open together,

like kids at a birthday party.

Everything else fades away

Dad beams

the sun sets

leaving a wake of bright pink

in the silvery spring sky.

We toast

me

Dad

April

Mom

with Geneva cookies,

ginger ale,

custard apple.

Celebrate my acceptances to

Kenyon

Dickinson

(wait-listed at Bowdoin).

A year ago

I would’ve been devastated by a wait list,

but not now,

only joy.

Grace even put in a note,

she saw a meteor shower,

hopes I choose Dickinson.

We celebrate with a game,

the four of us, a family.

Chinese checkers:

April’s green.

Mom, red.

I choose blue.

Dad, white.

The board, a star.

None of us say much during the game,

marching pieces from our individual sides,

but for a while

we are all jumbled up,

jumping over each other to get to new spots,

until we settle back in

rearranged   but               connected.

It’s been a month and a half since

I was kicked out of Yearbook.

I still have a key but

it doesn’t feel like my space

anymore.

Knock on the door,

ask the advisor

if I can talk to her

in the hall.

She says they’re trying to make their last deadline,

which is tomorrow.

Deep breath,

tick,

exhale,

tock.

Mr. Lamb says

there are exoplanets that orbit

stars in systems they are not a part of.

Force their way in.

I say I’m sorry

I couldn’t be

the leader I wanted to be,

the leader she hoped I would be.

Say I’d like to help now,

if I can.

She tells me it isn’t her

I need to apologize to—

lets me past her

into the room.

I apologize to the staff,

tell them I cut up

their field day collage,

almost ruined the yearbook.

I thank them for doing my work for me.

Ask if I can help today,

their last day.

They all look at each other,

look at me.

Ask why I stopped caring,

say they respected me.

I tell them I’ve been having problems at home,

maybe they’ve heard.

Tell them I would really like to contribute.

They pull out a layout sheet,

let me in.

The last of the Senior pages—

I draw boxes,

label photos.

Easy

but it feels good,

I do it quickly,

the ruler

cool and smooth,

something solid

beneath my thumb.

Saturday,

April and James volunteering at the GMHC.

Mom at the studio.

It’s just me and Dad.

His energy’s high,

laughs like lightning,

almost like a hyper child,

just me taking care of him.

Hand him his daily herbs and pineapple juice,

he makes a face but gulps them down.

I ask him if he’s up

for a drive.

Slide into the driver’s seat,

hands at 10 and 2.

Adam tried to teach me,

Dad too.

But the rushing traffic,

joggers with strollers,

weaving bikers,

learning to drive in the busiest city in the world?

No thanks.

Here we are,

back again,

me shaking

behind the wheel of a car.

Turn the key slowly.

Dad in the seat next to me.

I put on the blinker,

pull out into the street.

It starts to drizzle,

raindrops fall slowly

into each other,

taking their time.

Others run quick.

Dad says learning to drive

in inclement weather is essential.

Focus my whole self on the road.

For him, for me.

This time it’s not as scary as I remembered.

I glide up 96th Street.

Roll back down to 79th.

Do one exit on the highway.

Though my right turns are a bit wide,

my braking a bit slow,

Dad says much improved, good job,

we’ll do it again soon.

I hear his voice catch,

soften,

wobble,

like a drop sliding down the dash.

My view now obstructed by more than just the rain.

April

SESSION SEVEN

Okay, Dad, I want to ask you some more general questions about all of us.

What do you love about April?

Her playfulness. Her openness.

Her courage and passion, her soulfulness.

But I worry about her too. Sometimes she feels things really strongly.

Makes her a great actress.

It does.

I worry about her too.

(Pause)

Dad—why did you marry Mom?

(Coughs)

I fell in love with her while watching her work.

Your mom—she has an eye for beauty like no one else I know. A desire to show it to the world.

So you admire her?

I do—of course.

I hope, one day, you will see what I see.

And you know what I love about you, Mira?

No.

Your insightfulness, your perception,

how deeply, and sensitively, you take in the world.

Yeah?

When you were little

you would watch the kids play at the playground

for a while before you joined in.

You didn’t just rush right in,

but you didn’t stand watching forever either.

You did it your own way. When you were comfortable.

I always thought that was smart.

Thanks, Dad.

And there’s another thing that I love.

What’s that?

That you’ve made these.

The recordings?

Yes. That way I can always be with you.

N
EW
M
OON
, 11 D
AYS
L
EFT

When we were little

April and I used to climb

Dad’s huge body. He would say

girls, I’m not a piece of furniture,

laugh anyway.

Now acupuncture needles slight as whiskers

climb over his wide forehead,

his naked calves,

dry hands.

Mom asks how it feels and he says

some are a quick sting, just a mosquito bite,

others like opening a gaping hole.

Gloria says every time his tummy grumbles,

it means his Chi’s moving, it’s a good sign.

With each grumble,

each dancing needle,

I dare myself to

hope

like a child,

hands crossed

at her windowsill,

eyes locked

on a wishing star.

April, in her room,

newspapers, magazines,

glue, scissors, tape

at her side.

I ask her what she’s making,

she looks up,

says she’s making a collage for the Walk.

She’s trying to get more people involved.

Says I should come to the meetings.

I tell her I’m not so into hanging with James in my spare time.

She shrugs, says she might join ACT UP

next year, a group that’s more hard-core than GMHC.

Cut

cut

glue.

Says
Mira, they’re so thin.

Whoever they are.

Africans.

Children who had blood transfusions.

Men, like Dad.

I tell her she needs a break,

pull her up,

look down

at all the photos,

so many people,

different colors

ages

races,

but all with the very same

face.

We hit the closet on our way out,

cloak ourselves in Mom’s jackets, big shoulder pads,

April in cheetah print,

me in shiny coral,

grab umbrellas, huge purses.

See
Four Weddings and a Funeral
,

expecting more laughs than tears,

eat peanut M&M’s,

popcorn,

drink Cherry Cokes.

We laugh until we cry

and my heart gets that stony feeling—

not knowing the death would be from AIDS.

On the walk home,

April says even if Dad lives

longer than we thought,

I’ll still be leaving.

Guilt rolls in

thick like fog.

I swallow hard,

keep in my cry,

point to purple and yellow crocuses,

poking their heads out around a

concrete-imprisoned tree.

I tell her not to worry,

she can come visit me—

and I tell her a story of

two city girls picking flowers under a starry country sky.

W
AXING
C
RESCENT
M
OON
, 7 D
AYS
L
EFT

Friends chant in the hallway:

count down the days,

the hours,

till prom,

graduation.

My clock counts time by T cells,

which seem to be holding for now:

dancing needles,

crystals around his neck,

the smell of sage hanging

in the apartment air.

I count time by platelets

and Dad is at 5,000—

only one-thirtieth the amount

of a healthy person.

Do I dare

at 5,000 platelets

with no date

pick out a dress?

Do I dare

look to the future?

rush across the sun?

gallop past the moon?

F
IRST
Q
UA
RTER
M
OON
, 2 D
AYS
L
EFT

My Astronomy textbook says

open clusters of stars

are easier to study

than isolated stars

because they are almost

the same age

and have almost the same

chemical composition.

Scientists

get to know stars better

when they live in these clusters

than when they live

out

isolated

alone.

Then they are hard to study,

hard to tell

when they fade or glow.

I come out of my room,

to find April.

She’s drawing flyers for the AIDS Walk.

I sit down with her, ask her, please, if I can help.

She says
sure,
hands me white paper and a black pen.

I write in

black

bold:

FIGHT AIDS. WALK TALL.

Line my poster with

clusters of stars.