Certainly our family could reach a place of absolute, unchangeable bliss at Brew’s expense; but the moment we arrived, the moment we stopped moving, joy would become as stagnant and hopeless as perpetual despair. Happily ever after? What a curse to have to endure!
Time doesn’t move at the same pace when I’m swimming, so there was no telling how long I swam. More than half an hour, less than two. Maybe. By the time I was done, I had found a sense of balance to all my emotions. I knew there had to be a way to hold on to them even in Brew’s presence. There had to be. Uncle Hoyt had done it. I’d never seen a man so angry, and he held his anger even with Brew around him every day.
As I climbed out of the pool, my inner balance didn’t do much for my outer balance. All those laps had tired my legs and made me just a little bit dizzy. I found myself leaning a bit too far back; I overcompensated, and then my feet slipped off the ladder rungs.
I fell into the pool, but never felt myself hit the water.
Instead, I felt my head hit the concrete edge, knocking me unconscious. And in that instant, everything—happiness, sorrow, peace, and anger— were all snuffed silent in the implosion.
(I)
I did not choose this gift.
I cannot help what I am, what I do,
I do not choose to rob others of their pain.
At best I can mold it, and even direct it,
Use it myself, before others use me.
I have made that my secret aim,
But confessing to Brontë,
Scars me like acid rain,
Leaving me to drown.
In its rising waters,
As she leaves.
And in that moment,
I see my own glaring truth,
Her gift to me, there in her eyes.
You brought us a new light,
But that light is false.
So is darkness better
Than a heartfelt lie?
There’s a rift,
Deep in my soul,
Between what I wish
And what I’ve become,
The anger begins to swell,
All my own and no one else’s,
At the stark, undeniable truth,
That my brand of healing
Brings only misery.
I am defeated,
I am lost.
She leaves,
The door slams,
Mobilizing Tennyson.
He comes down to my room,
To find out what he has missed.
He sees my ruined back, chest, and arms.
“Put on your shirt,” he says, and tosses it to me.
“Sorry,” I tell him, “I know I look horrible.”
“No,” he says, “it’s cold, that’s all.”
I slip the shirt back on.
“Thanks.”
I have to admit
Tennyson has changed
Since the first time I met him,
For the better, but also for the worse.
He’s much kinder, more honorable somehow,
But humbled by an addiction to painkillers.
We both know that painkiller is me.
“She hates me now,” I tell him.
“She’ll get over it,” he says,
“I’ll go after her—”
“No!” he says,
And in his eyes
A certain disquiet
A distinct desperation
At the thought of me leaving,
Clear evidence of the addiction.
And he looks away, hiding his shame,
But I’m more ashamed than him,
Because I made him this way.
I am not what he needs.
Not what they need.
“So,” he asks,
“Will you stay?”
Meaning much more
Than just tonight or tomorrow,
Or this week or next. “Should I?”
He looks away again. “Yes…,” he says, then adds,
“But I don’t know if it’s really me talking.”
I nod, an understanding reached.
“I’m going out to find her,
To make things right,”
Or at least
Properly wrong.
(II)
Alone with my own thoughts,
Searching through a chilly night,
Full of memories….
When I was five years old,
I spent a week in the hospital
For three broken ribs and internal bleeding,
Because our dog was hit by a car,
And I took his pain away.
Mom had to lie and say I was the one hit,
And as I lay there recovering, she told me a story
About the world’s greatest warrior,
Who could take on armies single-handedly.
The gods feared his power,
So they gave him a diamond sword,
Which fused to his fighting hand.
And every blow he struck
Would come back upon him.
Until he realized that the only way to win
Was not to fight.
When I came home from the hospital,
Our dog went to a good family,
And we never had a pet again.
Where would Brontë go,
To be alone with her thoughts?
One more place to look…
When I was eight, my teacher had pneumonia
Only she never knew.
My fever climbed so high,
I hallucinated;
My fingers were glittering diamond daggers
That everyone wanted for themselves.
Once my fever broke,
My mother and I had a serious talk.
“Guard your heart,” she told me.
“That is your hero’s sword.”
I approach the pool,
There’s something in the water,
And it’s not moving….
I was ten at my mother’s funeral.
Uncle Hoyt stood beside Cody and me,
His arm was on my shoulder,
He told me it would all be all right,
He would always take care of us,
He would protect us,
Protect me,
And I loved him for it.
I almost died a month later
From a kidney infection that began as Uncle Hoyt’s
And quickly became mine instead.
That’s how he learned what I can do,
That’s when his drinking became a problem,
Because his guilt consumed him,
And he resented me for it.
Brontë’s in the pool,
Facedown in the cold water.
I can’t stop screaming.
(III)
How long?
I heard a splash as I approached.
Didn’t I? Didn’t I?
And the water’s still rippling.
Maybe there’s time.
I lean over the edge,
But she’s too far away,
“Help! Somebody help!”
But there’s no one but me.
And I can’t swim.
Denying my fear,
I leap into deadly water.
My legs kick, my arms flail,
My head bobs down, then up, then down,
Coughing, spitting in the face of gravity.
I kick off my shoes,
And somehow I stay afloat,
By sheer force of will.
Closer now,
Almost there,
She’s just out of reach.
My head stays above water,
But something’s wrong.
Why is my chest so heavy?
Why can’t I breathe?
If I’m finally swimming, why can’t I breathe?
And suddenly I know!
Take it away.
Take it away, boy.
This is your purpose.
Take it away!