"Yes"
"That's your plan?"
"That's my plan."
"You'll go to jail."
"She needs me."
"She doesn't need you in jail."
"She needs someone to rip that animal out of her life."
He turned his helmet's light off. "But we love her. Don't do something so we'll never see her again."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Help her, but not this way"
"How can I help her?"
"We'll think of something," little-Rhonda said, but he didn't know, and I didn't know, and we went quiet, sitting on the couch. I still had the knife in my hand.
Tell Me More
Right eye. Can we talk about your mom, he said. Sure, I said. Did she call, I said. Does she want to visit me, I said. Left eye. She didn't call, he said. I knew she hadn't called. She'd never called. Never written. Never trained a carrier pigeon to fly to Angel-Hair's window and drop a message on the floor that I'd pick up on my way back to my room, a message I'd read over and over, never stopping, just reading. What if she had called, he said, and asked to speak with you. What would you want to say to her, he said. I'd ask where she's been. Where do you think she's been. I think she's mad at me. Right eye. She'd never written, never called, never stood outside the hospital's walls with a megaphone, screaming at me, asking me how I was doing. Never learned sign language and flashed me messages through the windows. Why is she mad at you, Angel-Hair said. Because of what I did, I said. She'd never played the game Telephone with a bunch of the kids from the hospital. Remember the game Telephone? I said. You whispered a secret to someone and then they told it to someone else who told it to someone else who told it to someone else, and by the time the last person got the message the words were wrong. My mom could have told a kid who lived at the end of the hospital's hall, who could have passed it on, the message snaking from kid to kid until finally someone came up to me and told me they had a message from my mom and the kid would whisper in my ear, I've always loved you. What did you do to make her mad, Angel-Hair said. I remember my first Christmas and my first birthday in here with Angel-Hair. I remember wondering if my mom still lived in the drifting house, or if she fled. I remember thinking that maybe she was somewhere missing me because now I was somewhere she couldn't see me if she decided she wanted to. Left eye. I hurt Letch, I said. How'd you hurt Letch, he said. Never wrote, never called, never thrown her voice like a ventriloquist into one of the orderlies or nurses or teachers walking up to me and saying, Baby, it's me. I'd ask, Mom. She'd say through some other person's mouth, Yes, baby, it's me, I've missed you. I'd ask, You have, you really have. And she'd say, Of course I have. Right eye. Angel-Hair said, What did you do to Letch. I said, He hurt me. Angel-Hair said, What did you do to Letch. Maybe my mom could hire a pilot to write her message in the desert sky so I'd be able to see it no matter where I was, words sprawling in the air. Angel-Hair said, You're not answering my question. My hands felt heavy with rocks, like they were going to stretch my arms and drag on the floor. When he'd ask me about Letch I'd get these fireflies jittering in my periphery and a feeling like I might faint. Right eye. Did you hurt Letch, Angel-Hair said. My mom used to write me messages all the time. She'd write them on the backs of old pizza boxes in a black magic marker. They'd say, Back on Friday. They'd say, See you on Tuesday. They'd say, Have a great weekend, and next to her messages there'd be money thumbtacked to the old pizza boxes, money so I could order new pizza boxes. Whenever Angel-Hair asked me about what happened to Letch, my hands turned into tiny cement mixers, weight spinning and flopping and shifting around inside of them. And there would be fireflies dancing next to my eye sockets. And I'd feel like at any second someone might bury me in sand. Left eye. One of her notes on a pizza box said, Gone fishin', and when she got home, I thought it would be funny to ask her if she caught any fish, but all she said was, What the hell are you talking about. Angel-Hair said, Please tell me what happened to Letch. I never knew how fast cement mixers could spin until my hands turned into them, until I felt my hands spinning faster than tires on the highway, the cement tumbling so fast. And there were the fireflies flying next to my eye sockets. And I felt like someone might bury me in sand. My hands went wild with wet cement. I looked at them and I looked at AngelHair and he said, Are you having those feelings in your hands. I said, Make them stop. He wrote something down. He said, Can you tell me what you were thinking or feeling right before they started. I watched my hands. I said, What were you saying about my mom. I said, Is she coming. I said, Did she write. I said, Does she still blame it all on me. Can you answer my question about your hands, he said. But there was no way I could because the cement mixers started going faster than space shuttles and all the fireflies flew right in my eye sockets and I couldn't see anything and couldn't feel anything except my hands and I fell out of my chair and Angel-Hair ran over.
Alone Again
Little-Rhonda and I sat around the apartment, but it wasn't long before I got antsy and said, "I'm going back up there," and he said, "I don't think that's a good idea," and I said, "I don't care what you think," and he said, "Will you leave the knife here?" and I said, "Why would I leave the knife here?" and he said, "So you don't do anything stupid," but I grabbed the knife and walked toward the door, little-Rhonda yelling after me, "Please don't do this."
Some tiny sidewinders slithered through my good hand. I put the knife in my dead one and held it behind my back. I didn't knock as hard this time. They didn't answer. I knocked a little harder, but they still didn't come to the door. I put a little more verve in my knock, but I want you to know that I was calm, only knocking harder in case they hadn't heard me. No one answered.
"Rhonda, it's me," I said.
Still nothing.
I didn't know whether to knock or yell or go away. I didn't even know if they were still in there. Then quiet footsteps coming to the door. The deadbolt flipped. The knob turned. The door creaked open a few inches. The security chain still latched. Old lady Rhonda peeked out.
"I need you to go downstairs," she said.
I had the knife behind my back. "Is he hurting you?"
"I'm fine."
"Can I come in?"
"No."
"Why did he come back?"
"Will you go downstairs?"
"Why's he here?"
"We can talk later."
"Are you two getting back together?"
She looked at me, pursed her lips. "I can't talk right now" Whispering: "I don't know what's going to happen, but I need you to leave."
"Why?"
"He and I need some time to talk."
"Why?"
"We've been together a long time."
"But you weren't happy."
Old lady Rhonda, still whispering: "Will you please leave?"
"I thought I made you happy."
"You do."
"And you love me."
"Yes."
"And I love you."
"I can't talk right now," she said.
"Can I have my wallet back?"
"I'll give it to you later. Here." She reached into her pocket and handed me a twenty. "This will tide you over," and she shut the door, her footsteps stepping away and I was alone again.
Me, Rhonda, getting another dose of the disappearing act. Me, still standing at old lady Rhonda's door, though she'd shut and locked it two hours ago. I stood there for two hours and no one cared. Old lady Rhonda didn't care. Karla didn't care. Handa didn't care. My mom didn't care. Two hours ago old lady Rhonda had shut it and walked back to him, and for two hours I stood with the knife behind my back, praying she'd unlock the door and take me in her arms. I needed to be somewhere safe, contained, nurturing. Standing there, hoping to hear them talk, hoping for clues, a way to understand why she was doing this. Me, Rhonda, ripped up inside like Valencia Street, construction crews chiseling and pounding. And I was tired of being obliterated.