Monday
I see musicIt’s watery
Like the juice that drips down my chin when I eat a peach
Sweet and fresh
The smell of Mom’s garden
Streaks my hair on summer nights
I swim freely
Slowly at first I dip a finger into the bowl
of piano notes
I swirl it around like honey
Thick and gooey
I taste it
A song glues itself to my heart
And tiptoes through my veins
Until I see the notes
And taste their nectar as they slide down my throat
Inhale the June -
“Soleil!”
The little black book vanished from my sight and my eyes snapped open to the face of my sister peering over me. Her blond hair was in braids and extended down past her tiny waist. She was 27 years old, but her body never grew past 5 feet. Huge sage green eyes dominated her face, and she was wearing her mask. I can always tell a fake smile from a real one.
“Hey, beautiful,” I managed to say. I faltered for a minute, and asked it: “How’s the baby?”
I knew as soon as I said it. Persephone’s eyes held mine for an uncomfortably long time. Then, she turned and stormed out of the room. I watched her jog out into the parking lot through my window (I was one of the lucky patients with a view). Her small white hands covered her face; but I knew she was crying. I stared out the window for a few minutes, numb and speechless until I heard somebody clear their throat loudly. I turned my muddy eyes to the woman stood next to my bed stand. She dressed casually, and had short, spiky hair the color of paprika. I could almost taste it on my sandpaper tongue. Our conversation happened like this:
“Hi, you must be Soleil. I’m Sarah,” she chirped. “How are you? Wow, that is quite a tattoo! I’ve always wanted one, but I could never decide on a design!”
I stared at her. My mind was still processing what had just happened with Persephone, and this woman was a lot to take in. At first, I was mostly shocked that she pronounced my name right. Six months of hearing ‘Soley? Soleei? Sole lee I?’ was beginning to drive me crazy. It’s Soleil, the French word for sun. Persephone despised our names, and our Wiccan parents, but I kind of like our names - our unique names. Then she mentioned my tattoo, which most people are afraid to do, and actually complimented it. It starts at my neck and extends down to my chest and shoulders: a swirling and colorful collection of trees, pentagrams, and beautiful goddesses. It’s the kind of tattoo that gets me dirty looks from older women, and wide-eyed stares from children. I knew she was here for a job, but at the same time this woman was different - I wanted to trust her.
“Um, thanks,” I mumbled. “So which one are you: doctor, lawyer, psychologist? I’ve already seen all of them. And nobody has made progress with me.”
She smiled, but her eyes looked tired. “Technically, I’m a psychologist. I just started working here in the hospital. I‘m here to learn you about and help your situation,” She said confidently.
I laughed half-heartedly. “And they gave you me to work on? I’m sorry, Sarah but you are really an unlucky one. I’ll give you a brief run-down of my situation.”
Sarcasm was not my way of dealing with things, but I felt it trickle into my voice anyway. I expected her to sit down next to me in the hard plastic chair and take notes like a dutiful shrink, but was surprised when she kicked off her Italian shoes and sat cross-legged on the end of my bed.
“Alright, lay it on me,”
Sarah really had no idea what she was getting into.
I talked to her for a long time; it felt like days. I was hesitant at first, skimming the details of why I was in the hospital, about my childhood, about my sister. I stared out the window a lot. It was the outside world, reality, but not quite real. The best time was when it rained, I loved to watch the raindrops on the window. I could stare at them for hours, watching them race and flutter like dancers. Today, I was looking at the trees over the parking lot. They stood, with their old back stooped over, in a mixture of litter and rainwater. I told Sarah about the poetry; I even asked her to write a poem for me, about the decaying trees. I told her about the little black book, too.
“So, tell me about your sickness. The nurse just sort of tossed me in here; I’m still in the dark about a lot.”
I tried to smile. “So am I. The doctors tell me it’s a nerve thing - something in my back got messed up when I was a little kid. Whatever it was grew up with me, and by the time I was 18 everything seemed normal - until I collapsed in my apartment unable to move my legs. I lost control of the rest of my body over time. Since I have to family (other than my sister) the hospital sort of took me in. I’ve been paralyzed from the neck down for about a year now.”
“Apartment?” Sarah asked, but she already knew why.
My mom died when I was 16. Persephone was deep into college, so I had to work things out for myself. I couldn’t imagine sucking the life out of that beautiful college girl - nobody likes their weird little sister crashing parties. I pulled some strings and got my own place, got a ridiculous tattoo, and quit high school. I worked odd jobs, from cleaning toilets at grocery stores to being a personal bookkeeper to a senator. If you told the small girl sitting in that senator’s library that she would lose control of herself and her life in just a few years, she wouldn’t have believed you.
I fell asleep to Sarah’s voice, and woke up a couple hours later to her face an inch from mine.
“Hey, Sunshine. Tell me about your sister.”
I’ll admit it took me a little to figure out what was going on. Usually when I pass out, I don’t remember much of what happened before. Which is why Persephone isn’t speaking to you. Remember you mentioned it, the taboo, the baby.
“Persephone…I have always looked up to her, but we were never close at kids. She was blonde and beautiful, always with the boys. She got into a lot of trouble and never had time for me. And then the whole thing with the…” My eyes suddenly became very interested in a stray box of rubber gloves.
Her face softened, “the baby?”
Persephone got pregnant at 15. Not a huge surprise now that I look back on it, but at age 12 I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. Telling mom was not an option, and she “knew a guy”.
“She can’t have children now…she has tried so many times. She got pregnant a couple months ago…she just found out it was a miscarriage.”
We talked a little longer about my sister, about my sickness, parents, the hospital food, and when we finally got to talking about the weather, I decided to tell her about the book. Because of my condition, I constantly am waking up and falling asleep. The strangest things happen when I do; I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or if I’m awake or if I am just taking medication that’s a little too strong. I am writing poetry with hands in a little black journal with gold letters on the front. The words are always flowing, light and beautiful like they could float off the pages. All I’ve ever wanted to do was be a writer.
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t be one,” Sarah said confidently.
I looked at her, and then motioned to my body with my eyes. “Not exactly the body of a famous novelist, is it?”
I loved the smile Sarah gave me at that moment. She picked up her purse, and slipped out of my room with a wink and the lingering words “Well, we will see about that.”
I can’t wait until our next session.
