NINA by Diana McCourt

It has been a long, long time. Fifty years. Visits have always been difficult but sometimes Nina is quiet and calm, especially if her ipod is going.

After Nina had been living with us for a few years and we had to face that there were no schools or services available for her, we found her a home in Pennsylvania with six other girls. My husband and I would stay in a nearby motel, the cheapest one we could find. We picked her up at her house, brought her back to the motel and tried to engage her in some pleasurable activity that could intervene in her constant rocking from foot to foot and swinging her head from side to side lost in a world of rhythmic sensations. Nina could not speak though she was already 6 years old. There were no ipods in those days so I turned on the car radio for her. She liked the music and pulled at us to dance her dance with her, side to side, foot to foot. I brushed her hair and gave her a long luxurious bath, leaving the water running which made her giggle with delight. Then there was not much more to do and, sadly, we drove her back to her house, a cheerful country home in which each girl had her own bedroom, decorated with pretty curtains, cheerful quilts and stuffed animals. Nina never responded to any toys except for the collection of plastic bracelets I tied together on a string. She liked to hold it up to her ear and shake it so the pieces clicked all at once.

Through the years we visited with Nina as often as possible, to see if she was safe, to give what pleasures we could. After the Pennsylvania home closed there was another private home, then, in desperation, the notorious New York State institution, Willowbrook. I put passionate energy into the political struggle there, demonstrations, organizing and break-ins to show news people the conditions. I was giving a big chunk of my life to my daughter in this way, but still searching for a way into her guarded, quiet, trancelike world. I felt I was always circling her, looking for a way to connect, but only able to offer her support.   

As a result of a historic federal court action closing Willowbrook and reforming the system of care, Nina now lives in a home suited to her needs. Her apartment has two bedrooms, one for her and one for her roommate. The walls are painted with earth colors, golden yellows, sun set orange and melon. Last night I rushed to get to Nina’s place, anxious to be on time for her session with the young musician, Cori.  Cori is playing the Chopin piano music he has gathered for her on a disc. I am so happy to see Nina, Cori and Louisa, her aide. I greet Nina with a hug and kiss and receive a wide smile back. Nina and I share a love of Chopin, for both of us the music calls to us from an earlier time when her grandfather sat with her beside him at his baby grand playing for hours. It seemed she could sit there forever, humming her flat hum which was her only speech. She lets me hold her hand and sit with her.

Then we go to her room where the real session begins. Cori plays another CD, this one of whale songs, to which Nina hums smiling peacefully. I rock the ocean drum and Cori plays a gentle beat on the frame drum. Nina sees Cori’s didgeridoo and jumps on her bed in anticipation, lies down on her back like someone readying for a massage. Cori plays the four foot long drone pipe for twenty minutes with continuous circular breath, holding the end opening a little above Nina’s body, first over her feet, slowly  traveling  up her legs to her abdomen, her heart center and then her forehead. Nina is laughing and smiling basking in the droning throbbing sounds that fill me too with life pulsating in sync with Nina.

A MEMORY by Lucy Barbera

I’m outside in a garden and the kids on the other side of the fence are teasing me. I am crying and calling Gino. Gino comes out, runs over to me and lifts me up onto his shoulders. I can walk but am still virtually pre-verbal. I hear Gino yelling at the kids, but I don’t understand a word he’s saying. Whatever it is, they run off.

Growing up, Gino’s my hero, my protector, my big brother. He’s tall with black hair and a beautiful shy smile. I am one of the very few people that make him smile and I know it. He swings me around and flips me with a quick motion, a sensation I have grown to love. He is unlike any of my other brothers. He doesn’t slap me around just because he can. He doesn’t shame me for cheap thrills. He doesn’t touch me where he shouldn’t. He doesn’t play me like a pawn in his sick game, even though he can.

Gino was the first to leave home, although no one ever just left 4th Avenue. Everyone knew that to get out of there, you had to run away. “I’m never coming back” were his parting words and he never did.  He only stopped by if he could fit it in when Jackie summoned him. Haranguing him by calling him at work incessantly, embarrassingly… somehow his place of employment leaked through the grapevine, and she would continue to call him there, fancier and fancier uptown restaurants where he worked as head chef. He was cool and reserved with her, working hard to avoid any traps, show any emotion, fall for any bluff, shell out any cash. He showed up involuntarily for weddings and funerals only.

Jackie is in a coma at Northern Dutchess Hospital. She had come to visit for Thanksgiving and stopped taking her medication. She wanted to be left alone, she said, to die in peace, but she was rushed to the hospital instead and Gino was called because her death was almost certain. Her chronic leukemia had completely taken over and in spite of all the transfusions she continued to slip into the next world.

“What’s all the fuss about, Lu? I have been at this lady’s death bed for the last 50 years. She doesn’t die, never did and won’t now.  Relax, she’ll be back.” We are in the waiting room of the intensive care unit. “Okay, let’s see what’s going on here," he says as we are walking into the room. Jackie has been in a coma for days. She opens her eyes when we come in and sits up in bed.  

“What are you doing here?” she says accusatorily to Gino. He looks at me and laughs. “What did I tell you?” he says. 

“What is he doing here?" she says.“I want him out now!” He turns around and walks out of the room. She puts her head down on the pillow and closes her eyes.  “Keep him away from me,” she mumbles. “He hates me."  

I sit on the bed and take her hand. It's ice cold and the heart monitor is beeping wildly. Gino walks back in.  “Go get the nurse,” he says.

THE SPACE BETWEEN by Wendi Beck

Hang up the phone with the writing group and we're off.  Think about the non-topic for a few minutes waiting for "Ring." Right on time.

Hello Dad...Back from church... Great...

Had fun as always... Good.

Guest speaker... Great.

Yes, writing class is every Wednesday for 5 weeks... Yes, I still enjoy it.

Take care. Bye, Dad.

A quick run to the kitchen for a TV dinner... Even better: Michelena's pizza bites.  Start writing while that cooks... check the time doing good so back to my room to start writing again for a bit.

5...4...3...2...1

MOM?

What Bri?

Morgan is getting mad and I don't know why.

Pause a moment. Bri... Morgan show sissy what you want..

What’s he doing, Bri?

He's moving his fingers...

Is he signing milk possibly sideways?

Yeah. I will get him some milk, Mom.

Thank you, Bri.

Get several minutes to write then "Ring" again right on time.

Hello Mom... home from church... great.  Yes, I know. I read your email... yes...yes Mom... okay... Mom I need... Okay I will see what I can do... First weekend of the month I know... I have to go now Mom... fine one more thing... what?  I know... I know... I know...Okay... yes... okay... I will tell them... yes I am trying to write for class... Bye Mom.

More writing finally getting it all out.

"MOM!"

Can it wait, Bri?

Message from Dad.

What is it, Bri?

Reminder that he is going to Roosters after work for the pool game with Scott and Jason.

Tell him I know I don't care... WRITING CLASS!

He said sorry and he will see you tonight.

Try to get back to writing and take a look at the time... 8:44... Made it!

THE DAY OF FRUIT AND ROSES by Rosalyn Z. Clark

Fruit and roses, roses and fruit.
It became my mantra.
Roses and fruit, fruit and roses.

My Friday morning routine of first going to Sunfrost and then to the Bank of America. The reason I was going to the bank now was because I was having a show of my paintings there during the month of February. In this show, under my wall of ten paintings, there is a table with my sign-in book and a vase holding three roses. Therefore, before I go on to shop for my weekly purchase of organic food every Friday morning I stop at Sunfrost to buy some fruit and three roses. Then on to the Bank of America to replace the three roses I bought the Friday before. One of the main reasons for the vase of three roses is that one of my paintings on this wall is of a vase with three roses.

One day not long ago, I decided to create a small painting of fruit. A white bowl of fruit. Now that this painting is finished, it is hanging on the wall over my kitchen table and under this small painting sitting on my kitchen table is the white bowl of fruit. At the other end of this table sits a vase holding three roses.

Ah. Roses and fruit.
Fruit and roses.

SOMETHING FAMILIAR by Deborah Joy

“Hello, mom?” that voice coming through the phone speaks with a warm but eerily familiar lilt.

I see an Italianate armoire across a room taller than wide, the tiled roof beyond the patio outside her window thousands of miles from here.

But that voice is full with this moment and, at once, with all the years poured into that sound.

The sparkle-eye toddler drunk with joy flapping her arms as she runs across the yard.

The skinny sad-eyed preschooler in a whirl, a world of conflagration – a missing father – still tender deep pain and confusion in her brow.

Growing, skipping and running, summer school…

Forcing laughter. Pounding fists. Sitting silently slowly eating lunch, not noticing that everyone else had gone inside.

It’s Friday morning – before school with a rush to fill the fading blue Jansport pack with all the essentials for her weekend travel. Ticket, check. Snack, check. Book, check. Pad and crayons, check. Pajamas, check. I drop trinkets (sussies we call them) wrapped in colored tissue paper beneath her clothing. Hat, jacket. Call Gary to make sure he’ll get her on the bus – known locally as “the divorce express”—carrying those wistful wayward Woodstock children from the garden to the macadam. The dad to pick up the tender “cargo” in Port Authority.

Decades later – after her own divorce – I learn how many times she stood there waiting alone in Port Authority. Waiting too long.

RETURNING by Heather Marsten

A year after the courts sent me to live with Diane, she starts talking with Mom on the phone and learns that Maria and Howard bring their kids to visit our parents.

One day, after I get home from school, Diane says, “My kids are getting cheated from visiting their grandparents because of you. Don and I decided we’re going there for Christmas and you’re coming too.”

This is the stuff of nightmares. “Can’t I stay home?”

“No, it wouldn’t look right.”

“I don’t want to go back into that house.”

“I don’t give a damn. You and your feelings make me sick. They’ve caused me no end of trouble.”

Should have chosen an orphanage.

Christmas Day we get in the car. I can’t stop shaking and it’s hard to get a full breath. I wear a turtleneck, long pants, and a sweater over that. I don’t want him to see my body. Why can’t I stay home?

We go in by the front door, more like guests than family. I have to kiss them on the cheek; but don’t hug. Dad sits on his couch as usual, king of the living room; but he has pants on. Mom sits in her chair, fiddling with her cigarettes and orange juice. Don takes the only other seat in the living room, so Diane, the kids, and I sit on the floor near the tree. The tension in the air is palpable. The whole house looks dingy and smells of cigarette smoke. I’d forgotten that aroma.

I glance at the sofa, looking for weapons. Dad said he would kill me if I told, so maybe there’s a hidden a gun under the sofa cushions. He could take us all out. There’s no knife or letter opener on the coffee table but that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

“Miserable weather,” Diane says. “Worst winter for snow.”

“Had to hire a neighborhood kid to shovel.” Dad says.

Weather talk, the universal antidote for discomfort.

Everyone looks at the two boys and Connie who are excited by the piles of presents under the tree. Kids are another safe area.

Diane grabs Keith’s arm and forces him to sit. “Settle down, now,” she says through clenched teeth.

Her hand is shaking. I don’t get why she’s putting herself through this torture. If I ever have kids, I’d never bring them anywhere near my parents. Maybe to Mom, but I wouldn’t take a chance with Dad.

Mom asks, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yeah!” the kids shout.

Diane and I grab the kids’ hands and follow Mom to the kitchen. I glance toward my bedroom. It’s exactly the same. I shudder, remembering his visits, the hurt, fear, pain, and smothering. Even the bedspread’s the same. It’s like they think I’m coming back. I see the mark of the gunshot, near the cuckoo clock in the hallway.

The kitchen still has hideous yellow walls and a red ceiling. It’s like stepping into a time warp. I lean against the kitchen doorframe and remember telling Mom what he did. I wonder if he beat her over those notebooks.

The kids sit at the table drinking sodas and chattering.

Diane hugs Mom, “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you, too.”

Mom looks my way with accusation blazing out of her eyes. It’s as if all this is my fault.

“You guys are getting so big.” Mom smiles at the kids and they sit taller in their chairs.

Diane says, “Connie’s a great dancer, Keith plays T-ball, and Gary’s already in kindergarten.”

“My, I’m so proud of you.” Mom says. “So how’s school, Shirley? Diane says you’re getting good grades.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” I mumble, as I focus on making silly faces at Gary so he smiles and doesn’t wiggle too much and get Diane mad. If I could, I’d dig a hole and crawl inside.

After the kids drink sodas, we go to the living room and they tear into their presents: dolls, trucks, and a fire engine. They get clothes, but those are tossed aside in favor of the toys.

Dad sits on his throne and watches the havoc as the living room is buried under crumpled wrapping paper.

Mom gives me a few shirts and a skirt. I didn’t get what I really wanted – an apology.

I feel Dad’s eyes looking me over. It creeps me out. Sometimes I wonder if he would have stopped his abuse? I don’t think so, judging from how he’s looking at me now. I cross my arms to hide my chest and remember how dirty I felt with his hands on my body and the horrid things he made me do.

Daddy tickles the kids. They think Grandpa’s great. Little do they know.

After an eternity of two hours, we say our goodbyes complete with kisses and hugs.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we drive away.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Diane asks me.

“No.” I’m afraid to say the truth.

At home, I take a shower to wash that house and the smell of smoke off of me. I especially scrub my face to remove any trace of their kisses. What I can’t wash off are the memories that came from being in that house and seeing them again.

IN BETWEEN by Polly Howells

I see my father doing his morning exercises, but they are not calisthenics in the usual sense of the word. He has black ballet slippers on and he is doing plies and ronde de jambes. He is there where the kitchen, the den, and the hall to the bedrooms come together. No one else is up. He has just cleaned the cat box – he has taken care of the cats, and now he is taking care of his body.

I have huge respect for him, the way he takes care of things. He takes care of people too. He takes care of me. I love these mornings when he and I have breakfast together. It is such a precious time. Before Mother wakes up. She always comes out of their room grumpy and rumpled. She doesn’t take care of her body. She doesn’t take care of her soul.

Father designed and built this house, high on a rock ledge in a woody suburb outside of Boston. It is nothing fancy – a long low rectangular structure with picture windows. I have chosen my room, at the far end of the house. I have chosen the colors of my room – blue and beige. Toni’s room is next to mine, a smaller room because she is going away to college. Her curtains are red. There is a closet between our two rooms and I have urged my father to put a door on both ends, to make a secret passage between our rooms. He does. So we can visit without telling them? So we can have a secret life together?

I feel myself pushing past her clothes and I smell the oil of her paintings which are stored in there, but I don’t remember ever hanging out with her in her room. I see her room empty, uninhabited. She has left for college. I go into her room, from the door in the hall, not through the closet, and I read everything there is there to read. I read her journals. I play her 45 records. I take them into my collection. For years she is angry about what I have stolen. I see it as borrowing. I see it as trying to get inside her, trying to know her better. But she is gone. I am home. Of course it doesn’t feel that way to her.

I am lonely that my sister has left, even though we are no longer close. When we lived in our former house we used to visit one another in her room, and we tickled each other’s backs. She used to draw letters on my back and ask me what letters they were. And put objects on – ooh cold objects, paperweights perhaps, or scissors – and the game was to guess what they were.

After she leaves I am all theirs. Mother tells me, much later, that I begin to talk after Toni leaves. Of course I literally talked before, but now I talk more. Am I all theirs? Or am I alone?

I wander in the woods behind our house, down a dirt road.