My uncle knows about the things I can do—the pain
that I take—and knowing makes him still crazier
and more protective, but of himself, not of me.
I muffle the screaming wound with a white gauze
square; but nervous, tense, I press too hard and
wince, a small twitch almost imperceptible, and
he’s looking at me with searing intensity, seeing
all.
“Hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It don’t look like nothing.”
“It’ll heal.”
“You gonna tell me how you got it?”
He, with zero trust, zero tolerance,
zeroes in on my eyes that once knew only how to betray me but
lately have learned the wicked wartime trick of
holding secrets in a darker place and coding
them to a cipher my uncle isn’t clever enough to
crack.
“I told you it’s nothing. Some girl in the hallway.”
“Some girl?”
“Coulda been something sharp on her backpack; I don’t know.”
“And you’re saying I should believe that?”
“I’m saying you should take your dump and let me be.”
And, as I leave the bathroom, my uncle hurls a
warning scowl to remind me that mouthing off will
buy me a world of punishment, but not today,
because it’s not worth his time, then he closes the
door to take the call of nature, leaving me to
stride, giddy with relief, down the hall and into the
room I share with my brother,
Where Cody plays with plastic army men, and he,
the general of a pigsty battlefront,
glances at my bandaged hand but asks no questions, sibling-
smart in his willful ignorance, knowing he can’t
know, because eight-year-olds don’t just tell
secrets, they sing them on every unwanted
wavelength, and since Cody’s mouth betrays him
even more often than my eyes betray me, he
doesn’t ask, because he knows he can’t sing to
our uncle the things I haven’t told him,
So the wound remains secure as I lie on my bed, like
a blood oath aching a sweet reminder of the
secret I share with Brontë, this moment marking
the first time I’ve seen my gift as a wonder and
not a curse,
For standing between Cody and his pain is my
obligation, and standing between my uncle and
his pain is my rent, but the pain I coax from Brontë
is my joy.
25) EPIC
I will not give in
To an interrogation
Even from Brontë
On a day in the park where wind-torn clouds sweep
a frenetic sky in vivid Van Gogh strokes, while
Brontë and I read Homer on the grass, studying
for an epic exam of cyclopean proportions, I will
not give in to the interrogation,
As Cody jumps from a tree, oblivious to the strain he
puts on my shins, then climbs again recklessly, no
thought of consequences, his survival skills a
casualty of his painless existence, I will not give in
to the interrogation,
While Brontë leans into my lap, and I read The
Odyssey aloud, feeling her need to know grow
stronger the longer I avoid it, until she notices that
I’m reciting the book entirely from memory, and
she finds the first question to begin the barrage—
but just as Odysseus resists the sirens,
I will not give in to the interrogation.
“You memorized The Odyssey?”
“So what? Homer did it, and I’m not even blind.”
“The whole thing?”
“Only the parts I’ve read.”
“That’s amazing, Brew.”
“It’s just something I do.”
“Like the healing?”
“It’s not healing; it’s stealing.”
“Excuse me?”
“The pain doesn’t leave; it just jumps to me.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I don’t.”
As the sun hides behind the shearing clouds, the
temperature plunges and frustrated mothers race
to their children, coats at the ready to battle the
schizophrenic day, and Brontë ignores the
breeze, knowing the sun will strobe on again in a
moment; yet if she’s cold she does not care,
because she’s begun the inquisition,
And I wonder if her need to know is stronger
than my need to remain unexposed.
“How did it start?
Do you choose who you heal?
How do you choose?
Who do you choose?
Does anyone know?
How does it work?
Do you have to be touching?
Why won’t you answer?
Aren’t you listening?
Brew?”
Even as I offer Brontë nothing but silence, her hand
ventures beneath my shirt, roaming my back to
make a gentle accounting of my wounds—asking
me if it hurts, telling her that it does, just a little—
then her hand moves around to my chest, and just
as I realize she’s not feeling wounds anymore,
she tickles my neck, giggles, and pulls back her
hand, and I think how different this is—how I’ve
never been teased, at least not like this, not the
way a girl teases her boyfriend,
And the raw power of that thought makes me surrender,
giving in to the interrogation,
willfully spilling forth things I’ve never told a soul.
“For as long as I can remember I’ve stolen,
Ripping all the hurts from the people I love,
And from no one else.
I don’t choose it,
I don’t want it,
But because they found a place in my heart
I steal their pain as soon as I’m near them,
And all because I got caught caring.
But those others,
ALL the others,
Dripping their disapproval like summer sweat,
They’re on the outside,
And I will never let them in.
Never.
Let them keep their broken bones,
Shed their own blood,
I hate them.
I have to hate them, don’t you see?
Because what if I didn’t? What if I suddenly started to care?
And their friends became my friends,
And every ache and pain,
Every last bit of damage,
Drained from them to me,
Until I was nothing but fractures and sprains,
Cuts and concussions,
But as long as I keep them on the right side of
resentment,
Despising them all,
I’m safe.”