He takes four bites. It feels like a gift.
***
I pick him up from school and the first thing he says is, “Brian Welsh’s mom overfed their hamster and it died.”
His tone is tinged with accusation.
“I think you overfed.”
I don’t know what to say. I know one cause of heart attacks is being overweight. I know his dad was the champion of many meals; the evidence hangs heavy in our kitchen. It weighs down our fridge.
Our lives.
The sight of the part of one of the things I have tried not to look at blackens my insides. A torrent of blame washes over me and I begin to drown.
Tears I have tried so hard to hide from him take over. I put them on display: flashing neon arrows, air horns, yellow highlighter strokes.
It takes him a minute, but eventually he reaches over and holds my hand.
I am the Champion of Failure.
***
I keep him home from school and make him nest with me in a fort made of blankets. Pillow walls pile around us; soft, protective.
My T-shirt rides up during fitful sleep. He pushes my ribs with his thumbs, counting me awake. He asks if he can make me a pizza sandwich. I do my best not to cry when I decline his offer.
“I bet I can eat it faster than you,” he challenges, his voice, sing-song and steadfast.
“Mommy’s not hungry anymore, baby. How ‘bout we play some XBox?”
He looks at me the way I normally look at him. It’s disjointing seeing my worry on such a young face.
His sunken eyes should have all the power to sway me, to make me care, but I am spent. I am empty. I am the air inside the blanket fort. We are out of supplies and the enemy never leaves our gates. We continue our standoff.
Father’s Day
I called my dad because it’s Father’s Day. He still calls me princess. “Hey, princess! How’s it going?” Whenever he calls me princess I smell him on me even when I hold the phone at arm’s length. It’s almost suffocating. I swallow and say, “Hi, Dad, happy Father’s Day. What’s on the agenda?” My dad always used the term, “agenda.” I think it made him feel smarter than he really was. “Not much. Claire just took in the laundry and we’re folding it. Larry King’s on.” His hands were the thickest, biggest, and dirtiest I’d ever experienced, even until this day. Even after being with construction workers and plumbers. “Sounds great, dad. Just thought I’d call and all… Check in and whatnot.…” He had this leather tool belt that made a sound like hell was about to break loose each time it would hit the floor. His pants would fall down along with the tool belt because they had no choice. I knew how they felt. “Thanks, princess. You take care.” He’d have already loosened his work boots. He’d step out of them and they’d sit there with his pants piled on top. I would stare at them imagining he’d melted. “Bye, dad.” He’d always be the opposite of melted and I’d never feel like a princess. Even when he’d call me princess soft and soft, then louder and louder as if he were trying to make it true.
Marci is Going to Shoot Up Meth With Her Friend
Throwing candy out to the crowd. I want to see all of their colors. I want to fall into the spray of them. I feel there is a cure there, somewhere, in the warmth and wet.
I now know my words won’t make you love me.
But I will keep trying because every wall in the world is waiting for the impact of my head.
The blood is still no consolation. Can you believe that?
When we finally go out for coffee it will be uneventful. My hands will still tremble because that’s what they do when they get close to the truth.
Uneventful means, “not what I need it to be” and, “not as good as I hoped it would be.”
I don’t know where to put my punctuation.
I know that no matter how cute I would be or how pretty you thought I was, you wouldn’t reach across to touch my face.
If all I want is lying beside you and you not wanting that moment to stop, even with more than enough clothes on, is that not such a small wish that could be granted?
I bought lollipops for strangers once.
I told an ugly girl she had the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen.
I get things off of high shelves for short old ladies.
Why can’t I get granted a fucking wish?
I am hiding from my gardener now. He is mean and brown.
She Who Subjected the Sun
The auction was hours over. The Coveted were made ready and released to their Keepers. The Buyers, who could now relax, settled in around the edges of the room, boasting their profits to one another behind the backs of hands, taking care not to sit near any of the Dispatchers. A confetti hum rose and fell as tense excitement built in the dim; the testing had begun.
Mine took me with an owner’s grip to a stool at the bar. I sat, hands folded, eyes down. I knew to be quiet and become small (Canon 14) as he went through my documents, asking me several questions about similar subjects — a drilling. He gave only what he wanted. I took it, which was my place (Canon 17). I told him my truth when asked, trying to give my voice strength, not wanting it to sound as feeble as it sounded to me. The Trials had already been so hard; I just wanted to get through the testing as quickly as possible.
Forty minutes later he says, “It’s time. Look at me.” And I know I have to. My head is stone heavy like the ends of my hair are tethered to the ground. His face will be forever and I don’t want to see it yet, there are years to see it, decades, and I am afraid of what I will find there. I must take care to breathe.
He repeats himself, more forcefully this time. I tilt and look, my neck cramping with the new movement. He is dark, as expected, his face wide, skin smooth, head, bald. He looks strong, bullish, and younger than I expected. His eyes grip mine and I shiver, feeling the intensity of his stare run through my body like a current. I now know the testing will be easy. He is a Keeper most Coveted would long for, I am a lucky one. I search his eyes for any kindness but he is not showing any yet. I know that won’t come until later, after the testing is through and my classification confirmed.
I know to keep my expression even (Canon 12), but he is a force and I am alone now and nervously blurt, “I was the top ranked in obedience during my Trials.” I cringe with the mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Then why do you speak without being asked? Do you not realize this is testing? Do you not see your file in front of me?”
I nod and look down. “I am sorry.” Feeble. Again.
“Cage fodder,” he slurs and the words create a pit in my stomach. What have I done? Have I already failed? I fear the cages. We all do.
I bring my drink to my lips, taking a long sip through the little red straw, and immediately regret the swallow as I am starting to feel tipsy. I should not drink to excess (Canon 13). My eyes cross, fighting to stare at the ice crowding the surface. I am upset I gave words without permission (Canon 6). It is one of the most basic of the Canons. My Trial Master would be irate.