Skyscraping (6 page)

Next morning, still in my dress,

smelling of pot, bubble gum smoke

and that gross guy.

On the drive home,

Chloe and Dylan talk

about being Second Semester Seniors,

Chloe sending in her art school application.

My applications still crowd my desk.

I’ll do them today, I think. For three schools.

All away from the city.

The highway runs

gray and long—

Dylan yawns, says he’s sleepy.

Chloe puts on Nirvana.

Close my eyes too, try not to think of

Ponytail’s quick hands.

I dream:

We’re young. April and I, the carousel.

I’m counting the clown faces that go by,

trying to predict which will come next,

it’s hard, their hair keeps changing colors,

but Daddy’s there. He waves each time we pass.

Except for the last time—

it’s like we came too quickly

or he forgot.

I see him before he sees me:

his limbs start disappearing,

I yell for him,

but my horse passes by.

When I wake up,

I don’t know where I am.

Then everything rushes back in.

Dad, James,

what a marriage means

when it’s “open.”

How they tried to keep it

closed.

Hidden from us.

The city looms,

I want to grab the wheel,

turn the car, drive the other way,

away from this place,

what I used to call

home.

I glance at the halo around the sun

before I go in the lobby.

Mr. Lamb said they

can be warnings: storm moving in.

But the sky is otherwise clear.

At the front door,

turn the key,

no one comes to greet me.

Finally:

empty house,

no one to tell me lies,

make pretend.

Head straight

to the bathroom

to wash away

Ponytail’s prints.

Open the door—

I am not alone.

I see a figure crouched in the corner

of the shower,

faucet just dripping.

A hunched body

shivering in the water’s pool.

Dad.

I freeze.

Two thoughts fight to win

a battle in my brain—

he’s naked

he needs help.

Unfreeze.

Grab a towel.

His body has become so thin.

Ribs sunken in.

Not like the dad I’ve known.

Dizzy, stars fall in front of my eyes,

he manages a weak
thank you,

I wrap him in the towel.

Hunching over him,

my feet wet,

I see his skeletal body.

Pause.

A deep breath in,

I pull him up.

I guide him to bed,

still in his towel,

tuck him under the comforter,

he mumbles
sorry.

Before I can tell him it’s okay,

he’s asleep.

I linger for a minute,

standing over his

thinning hair

sunken-in ribs

covered now

but still there.

I leave.

Breathe heavy.

Dad.

Something’s wrong.

Cross the avenues.

I think about the past few months,

him weak, more tired,

coughing,

up all night

sick.

Pick up speed.

Race across the street.

Down the subway stairs.

Catch the 9 downtown.

Right there in front of me

neon colors:

an advertisement.

Keith Haring cartoons dancing,

telling people to practice safe sex.

I cling to the silver pole.

The train rocks me.

Condoms in the nurse’s office now.

Next stop: 72nd Street.

Red ribbons.

I turn from Keith Haring’s drawing.

Another train passes.

Slices of other people’s faces.

59th Street.

Articles in
People
magazine.

Fathers denying dying sons, rock and rollers falling from stardom.

Refusing to sit on toilet seats,

take sips from other people’s glasses.

Sucked-in cheekbones,

sunken ribs.

42nd Street.

How did he get so thin without me noticing?

34th Street.

The new plague.

More people dying in this city than ever before.

28th Street.

I look around at the car full of people.

Think about infection, how it stirs inside.

23rd Street.

A death sentence.

And I know.

Get off,

take the 9 back uptown.

Home.

April meets me at the door.

Gives me a huge hug, pulls me further in:

Dad’s laid out on the couch.

Mom holds his feet, rubs them,

yellowed, gray.

Dad says he’s glad I’m back.

That he was worried about me.

He’s sorry I had to see him

like that.

He tells us to sit down.

Girls, there’s something I need to tell you.

My stomach knots around his words.

He wipes a tear.

I take April’s hand.

Try not to cry,

but I know what he’s going to say.

I am HIV Positive.

April sobs,

drapes herself across his knees.

I whisper
how long?

Years
he says.

My breath comes quicker.

Mom says they wanted to protect us,

didn’t want us to worry,

to take on more responsibility.

He’s been okay for a long time.

I can’t breathe.

Dad goes on, says he’s on new meds,

could still live for many more years.

Mom smiles, says yes, he could,

that they’re working on cures all the time.

Says she doesn’t have it, James does.

April sobs and sobs.

Mom rubs her back.

Dad says
I’m still your dad, the same man I’ve always been.

But whoever this is,

this man

who parades his lover around the house,

who doesn’t prepare his children

for what’s happening,

who isn’t honest until it’s too late,

who doesn’t realize preparation is protection,

whoever this is,

yellowed, gray,

he is not my father.

Get out of there.

Go.

Mira, where do you think you’re going?
Mom calls out.

But I just close the door.

Walk the streets, cry.

No destination in mind.

Wish I had my Walkman.

Wish my head would erase itself.

Rewind.

A car runs a red light.

The first time

Dad tried to teach me to drive,

I sideswiped

a STOP sign,

knocked the mirror off the car.

His face grew red when he told me

he wouldn’t always be there

to grab the wheel.

Miranda, you need to be careful.

Now I know:

he wasn’t just talking about me,

he was talking about himself,

telling me not to be reckless

like him.

And I realize,

every moment until now has masked this truth:

Dad was sick when he helped me with science projects,

essays on
King Lear
,

the
Odyssey.

Dad was sick when we made eggs benedict,

black-eyed peas, angel hair.

Dad and James fell in love while sickness stirred inside them.

All this time Dad was one thing; I thought he was another.

Things can shift so quickly,

like the flick of a light.

Or maybe they’ve been changing longer, steadier,

like a sunset,

colors dragging, day left behind,

a long fade into night.

Crossing the avenue,

the light goes yellow.

A warning.

I dare myself.

Run.

Hours later,

after wandering the park,

up and down Broadway,

I duck into a phone booth.

The cloudy glass

surrounds me on

three sides.

Through the front pane

I see a little girl with her dad,

holding tight to his hand.

A pang of jealousy nips me.

I fiddle with the quarter in my pocket.

Call Chloe.

She says Nonna called my parents,

told them all about New Year’s,

asks where am I anyway,

she’s been trying to reach me for hours.

I tell her I went to the movies,

better get home now,

thanks for the warning.

Hang up quick,

keep walking,

home.

This time when I come in,

April’s not waiting at the door.

She’s still on the couch,

watching TV, tissues all around.

They sit me down again.

This time, at the dining room table,

by myself.

Mom says how dare I

walk out on our family,

on something

so serious.

I almost laugh in her face:

Were we not serious enough?

Is that why you walked out on us?

Mom says what’s done is done,

now is the time

for truth, family togetherness.

She says they know I went to Massachusetts,

they’ve decided that between that and running away just now,

I’m grounded again.

Suddenly she’s a disciplinarian. A real parent.

Dad says he knows I’m upset,

I have a right to be,

but he has lots of time left, don’t worry.

As if it’s possible not to.

I mumble
sorry,

ask him how he’s feeling.

He says he’s been better, but he’s okay.

I say that’s good,

though I know he’s lying.

An awkward silence,

the air hangs heavy,

I head to my room,

leave them there,

her, him

all masks off,

no more lying or hiding

their brand of togetherness,

the signs and marks

of who they really are.

I take that ridiculous drawing

of my dream of a family

out from under my pillow,

rip it to shreds,

like kindling.

I open the window,

throw the pieces into the wind,

tossing my own dream

into the raging

firestorm

of trash.

April knocks,

drags in a bag of Doritos.

Tells me she’s scared.

I nod
me too
from my windowseat,

she comes and sits,

we munch chips.

Just like we used to,

we pretend apartment lights are stars.

Count them,

tap the glass with our nails.

Maybe he’ll live so long they’ll find a cure,

she says.

Maybe we can help,

she says.

I say

How? Find a DeLorean?

Go back in time?

That night April sleeps in my bed,

and for one brief moment,

like the steady light

of this ever-glowing city,

it feels like

nothing has changed.

January

SESSION FOUR

I’ll try to keep this short today. I know you need to rest.

Question eight:

Do you have any advice for me as a Peer Mentor?

Teach by example.

Okay, and question nine:

What’s the hardest part of being a mentor?

Watching people fail and not being able to help them.

Just like being a parent. Watching your kids make dangerous choices and not being able to prevent them.

(Pause)

What about when parents make dangerous choices?

Miranda, I know you’re scared. We all are. But we will get through this . . . day by day. All of us, as a family. Okay?

Okay.

Last day, winter break:

April and I, Celestial Treasures,

Dad said I could accompany her,

even though I’m still grounded.

Gloria, behind the glass counter,

huge silver hoops swinging from her ears.

April palms an Animal Spirit book.

I trace Andromeda on the map.

Suddenly, I overhear: April telling Gloria Dad’s HIV Positive,

asking if there’s anything she has in her store to help him.

I yell her name. Tell her
no.

But Gloria’s already there,

arm around April, tears sparkling, earrings twinkling.

She starts naming funny-sounding pills and herbs:

selenium, St. John’s wort, astragalus.

She says this is what they do for their HIV patients

in the Netherlands, India.

Says our dad is one of millions of cases worldwide.

That we need to give him the strength to endure these tragic times.

Shows us crystals, talks of Reiki, acupuncture, homeopathy.

Can’t listen to

these impossible remedies,

this invasion of privacy.

I leave. Wait for April outside.

Finally, she emerges, bundles of herbs in her arms,

crystals dangling around her neck.

I ask her how she could do this to us,

tell a total stranger something so personal,

so private,

April says
this
is our DeLorean,

this is our chance to save Dad.

She walks quickly home.

I walk twenty feet behind.