Hands
My brother Jonah’s nurses
say I have
good hands.
I don’t tell anyone that
my hands are only good
when they want
to be good.
I can feel them changing.
Not thinking whose body
they are connected to—
me, the good girl, Liv.
Not noticing,
when they’re inspired,
how they are
getting me in trouble.
Jonah’s hands are still now,
even though he’s only seventeen.
It’s not his choice anymore—
hands under the covers
or on top.
We get to decide—
Mom, the nurses,
and me,
his fifteen-year-old sister.
Is that how it is in families,
one child with bad hands,
one child with good?
Jonah’s bad hands found a gun
in Clay’s attic.
Waved it in the air,
twirled it around his fingers,
held it to his head.
That’s not a toy.
It could be loaded.
You know my dad,
Clay told Jonah.
Clay is a serious boy,
not a daredevil
like Jonah.
He wouldn’t climb
the cell phone tower
barefoot,
just because it was there.
Clay knows
he doesn’t have superpowers.
Mom’s lawyer says it’s best
if Clay doesn’t come here
anymore.
Even though he lives
right across the street.
Clay
When Clay’s door opens,
it happens.
My hands are above my head,
waving,
then they are beckoning.
Clay takes a step forward
like my hands have the power
to move him.
Then an invisible force
pulls him backward,
back into his house.
I think he smiles at me.
Maybe not with his mouth,
but definitely with his eyes.
After he disappears,
my empty hands
hold each other,
doubling their strength.
Jonah
Jonah’s nurses love him.
They bathe him, comb his hair,
put him in blue shirts
to match his eyes.
Above and beyond,
my mother says grimly,
when I point it out—
like it’s a fault.
I lie next to Jonah
and kiss the palm of his hand.
Smack Smack
His face changes
just a little
when I kiss him.
For the past five months
the living room is Jonah’s—
a hospital bed
nurse stuff
Jonah’s liquid food.
Mom doesn’t like it
when I call Jonah’s formula pump on wheels
his Food Truck
When I call his suction machine
Suck-It-Up
When I call the new nurses
Contestants
in the JONAH PAGEANT.
Mom says we’re lucky
to get any nursing help
at all,
out here in the little mill town
of Maddigan, Maine.
I think,
can you still
call us a mill town
if the mill is closed?
I greet the new nurse, Vivian.
I like her black curly hair
twisting out of its bun.
I like her dark eyes that pause on me,
and her long eyelashes that blink
closed and open, closed and open.
I see her notice the dishes in the sink,
the stains on the linoleum floor,
the laundry piled on the kitchen table,
but look past them to Jonah.
See her pick up Jonah’s hand
and kiss it,
just like I do.
Jonah’s face relaxes,
and Vivian gets my vote.
Mom is suing Clay’s father
for a million dollars
for the loss of a son.
Jonah is still here, I say to her.
She gives me a hard look.
I know you are not that stupid.
I AM that stupid, I answer,
giving her back my own hard look.
I do know how expensive it is
to be helpless.
How many things don’t count
as necessary.
A wheelchair ramp
A wheelchair van
Clothes, air-conditioning, prayer cards.
Everything has to be for my brother now.
Jonah doesn’t ask for anything,
but he needs everything.
The Attic
How it happened.
Clay’s mom, Gwen, says,
Boys, could you please
bring down the boxes of
Halloween decorations
from the attic.
Then we hear the shot.
It’s only afterward
that we know it was
THAT shot—
not Clay’s dad’s
weekend target shooting
in their backyard.
BOOM
It sounds so close.
It’s a Saturday, but
I should have known
this BOOM
was different.
Target shooting is
boom boom boom
boom boom boom
boom boom boom.
This is one BOOM.
Even inside our house,
Mom and I
hear Gwen’s screams.
Then we see her
in front of her house,
still screaming.
When Jonah is carried
out of Clay’s house
there are so many people
around him,
moving so fast
to get him into the ambulance.
My hands hide themselves
in fists.
Part of me
wants to yell at Jonah,
What stupid thing
have you done now?
I’m not going to cover for you
this time.
Clay walks
out of the house,
then is gone in a police car.
His head is down
and I can’t see his face.
Lounge
At the hospital
Mom and I wait
in a room.
Two years ago,
we waited in a room
like this one
after Dad had his heart attack—
me and Mom and Jonah.
The hospital has special rooms
for people to wait
for bad news.
The woman who showed us
to the room
called it a “lounge.”
Would you like something to drink,
while you’re waiting in the lounge?
she asks us.
No,
Mom says,
with not even a thank-you.
What are my choices?
I ask the lounge woman.
Mom hits out at my arm
with a snap of her hand.
Tea, coffee, water, juice, milk,
the woman lists.
I’ll take apple juice,
if you have it.
She brings me a tiny can
of apple juice
and pours it into an even tinier
paper cup.
It’s warm
and tastes like metal.
Different bad-news people
give us updates.
He’s in surgery.
He’s holding his own.
They are getting ready to
close up.
The doctor will be out
to talk to you soon.
Each time it’s just
one person
in the doorway,
Mom lets out a sigh.
I remember, too,
when we waited to hear
about Dad,
and two people came
together.