When sister goes Ninja

All I know for sure is one day it just stopped. My brother got out of the hospital and didn't have to go back in right away. My mom stopped being so ashen colored every morning after the phone rang. My parents didn't abruptly stop talking when I walked down the stairs anymore.

The death of a baby is horrifically complicated. Babies themselves can take none of the blame for their own death, so the grown-ups are left blaming each other. Each trying to make some sense out of the fact something so precious was taken from us.

My brother was taking care of him when he drown. My brother said it was only a minute and he realized the baby was nowhere to be found. Only a year old and he scrambled out into the backyard, fell face first into the pond, and drown. A matter of minutes and his light faded out.

The CPR, the 911 call, the ambulance to the hospital, the intensive care unit, the respirator, the medication, and especially the local news coverage of the incident didn't make a difference. The baby died.

Within a month, signs were posted on my brother's apartment door by the maternal grandmother and aunt. "Baby Killer" was scrawled across a picture of him in his blue jumper with the trains on it. Within a month, my brother was hospitalized for suicidal ideation at an inpatient psychiatric facility. He didn't want anyone to visit but mom. He was discharged and readmitted two times. He just couldn't readjust to life without his son. The signs kept being posted fresh on his door whenever he took them down.

Then, it all stopped-- abruptly, perfectly.

"Sister had to go ninja to get the shit to stop," Bev told me on the phone years later. "I left the kids with their dad, dressed in all black, drove five hours through the night to those assholes' house, and told them they were going to stop trying to kill my brother with guilt. 'What are you going to do?' they said. I told them I would cut them and not cry. I told them they would die if they ever hurt a member of my family again."

Death sure is complicated. Everyone deals with it differently.

Handsome boy/Nervous girl

At the pub, moderate noise of happy drunk people, his sister and cousins are coming soon.

Handsome Boy: "So, how many siblings do you have, again? You never really tell me anything about your family."

Nervous Girl: "Oh, really? Well, gosh, I guess it's just a long story, that's all. But, the short version is that I have a lot of brother's a sisters and I'm the youngest."

HB:"How many?"

NG:"Seven in total if you include my step-siblings."

HB:"Are your real siblings all tall with red hair like you?"

NG:"Uh, no, actually. They are all adopted. Uh, long, you know, story."

HB:"Wow! Your parents adopted four children?"

NG:"No-- I'm not adopted, the other three are, my parents weren't supposed to be able to get pregnant, but when my mom was forty she got pregnant. So, it's just kind of a long story."

HB:"That's pretty incredible, she must miss you with you all the way over here in New York."

NG: "Yeah, I'm sure she does. Well, actually, I guess it's me that's missing her. See, she's dead. ...And I try to tell myself that if someone is dead then you never have to miss them because then they are with you all the time no matter where you are and all that, but mostly I think that's all bull shit. I just really fucking miss her all the damn time and it's nearly impossible for me to convince myself I'll see her again in some magical land filled with ferries and possibility and joy and all that. So, that's pretty much it, um, I am the youngest of my siblings and... Yeah. It's a long story.

Mouse on the sidewalk.

While smoking on my fire escape I saw a man digging through the trash cans. At first I thought he was looking probably looking for food. After watching him a while I saw that he was pulling out only shoe boxes and paper bags and large black garbage bags that weren't too soiled.

I do believe that man is building himself a nest to hibernate in for the winter.

No ifs and or buts

If I stare at the doorway to the kitchen long enough she will walk through it.

If I touch her handwriting with my nose she will send me a letter.

If I call her old number on my phone she will answer.

If I squeeze my hand tight enough she will hold it.

If I cry hard enough she’ll feel so guilty for leaving she’ll come back.

And I know everyone dies eventually.

And you're probably in a much better place.

And I had 23 years with you, more than some.

And you knew how much I loved you, right?

And I know you loved me.

But I’m making meat in the crock pot and I'm awful at it. It doesn't taste like yours at all.

But I’m sending Christmas cards to all your friends and it feels so fake and sad.

But I got a new job in the ICU and it's a big deal and you should be so proud me.

But Nick’s having another baby and I don't know how to help.

But now strangers are living in your house.

But you didn’t want to leave me.

If I write this all down and you knew how much I need you you would be here, but you left to somewhere I can't go.

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to say this stuff.

I guess for her it really is about the cover and not the book. She would rather not read the book at all actually, she’d prefer to have someone summarize it for her and point out the parts that were the most shocking. Happiness, of course, means that you have a great answer to the question “How are you doing?” To her, it matters most what your life circumstances sound like while they hang in the air in front of another person.

She can’t tolerate loneliness. She finds no need to dig deeper into life’s complexities, she avidly seeks distractions from heavy silence and things resembling solitude.

There are cracks in this persona, however. There are times when all her efforts fail her and I can see something trapped in a cracking egg she stuffs deep in her pockets. It is a long, keeling wail that is partially visible when she opens her mouth in genuine awe. When she is caught off guard, there is a person who is present in my company.

She may never scream the way she deserves to; she may never empty her pockets all the way to the bottom, but I see how real she is. She clings to her life by absorbing herself in distractions and I don’t blame her. It is so wound up in her. The knots inside her couldn’t have been tied by human hands. The rope is too tough to cut and the slivers of twine cut your hands as a warning to leave things alone.

She protects the world from her secrets with 150 pounds of armor that she shamefully drags with her everywhere she goes. She is judged by strangers and her insides say, “Don’t you know I’m doing this for you?” She attacks them back by commenting how lovely the fall is and how stunning Oprah looks on the cover of her latest magazine.

This is the best time in the whole relationship.

I've got a date tonight. I'm actually excited about it. The guy seems like a real winner.

He is tall.

He has a job.

He knows people I know and they don't think he's an asshole.

He seems to really like me.

He is witty over text message (very important attribute).

He is in graduate school.

Did I mention he has a job?

I've been mentally listing all the things I'm not to say tonight.

"Well, since my parents died..."

"When my brother got out of rehab the second time..."

"Due to my step-dad's severe depression and unemployment..."

"After I got divorced..."

"Because of my brother's persistent mental illness..."

"When my sister got arrested for her third possession with intent to distribute charge..."

I'm thinking to refer to "Family" very broadly. As in, not mention any member specifically, except to mention benign facts about them. As in, "My sister is an excellent cook." Not mentioning, "My sister cooks meth in her bathtub in Spokane."

I'm also thinking of what questions he will probably ask.

"Why did you move to New York?"

Real answer: "My four year relationship exploded into a thousand shimmering pieces, my mother died without warning, and everything in Seattle reminds me of the wonderful and awful things about both of them."

First Date answer: "Just wanted to go on an adventure! And, it was an excellent career move."

Are you lying if you aren't telling all your business? I feel phony when I don't spill my guts, but I sound like a lunatic when I give the Oprah Winfrey tell-all ten seconds after knowing someone.

We'll see if I can stay planted on the barstool, not fall off and land on Oprah's couch.

UPDATE: The day after

Beside the fact that I slept with him, I did pretty well.

Didn't mention narcotics or death at all.

Ode to Smoking

I fucking love smoking. From what I hear from, well, everyone, smoking is real, real bad for you. But, God! Oh, Jesus, smoking is so beautiful in so many ways.

I love getting that feeling of dark brooding and then knowing that I have a dear friend who will always brood with me. Who will smell horrible, who will envelope me in foul, curling smoke. It winds and sways with the wind. I feel sweet guilt the entire time that I’m inhaling the nicotine/rat poison cocktail.

Phillip Morris' little soldiers are always waiting for me at the mini-mart on 35^th and Roxbury. I walk, talking on my cell phone to people I don’t want to know that I smoke and smoke and smoke.

The feeling of, oh yes, everything is going to be fine. Forcing me to do methodic breathing, but in the most ironic way. A deep yoga breath that is filled with foul and everything that I’m sure any yoga master would disapprove of.

I mean, what are commercial breaks made for? What are awkward social situations made for? What are long, hot lonely August days made for? What are walks around the block made for? What is legal, rebellious, bad for you and not allowed withing 25 feet of a public building? What leaves you with the linger of death in your mouth and single handedly removes every sweet smell from your hair and hands? What fits in your purse, allow you to play with fire and inspires drunken conversation with skeezy men outside of bars?

Smoking, of course. Smoking.