on his desk,
smaller than the O machine,
and quieter,
making a whooshing noise.
What’s that machine called?
We have a machine at home
that sounds
a little like that,
but louder,
I tell him.
The counselor squints
at the machine.
This?
It’s just a white noise machine.
White noise?
I never imagined noise
as a color.
For privacy, Liv.
Anyway, your results
showed excellent hearing abilities.
Yes, the woman told me.
I hear as good as a bat
or a dog or something,
some animal.
So what is next?
Colleges do care about
sophomore-year grades.
It’s not like there’s money
for college.
And I’ve been thinking,
I’d like to do something
different—
something
with my hands.
I tap the top
of the counselor’s
wooden desk.
The counselor looks down
at my hands.
For a counselor,
he is slow to understand.
Then he does.
YES YES, HANDS-ON,
the counselor says
really loud,
like he’s figured me out.
I check
to see if the
white noise machine
gets louder
when he shouts.
It doesn’t.
I can look into that.
See if there are any spaces
available
in our tech programs.
Do you have a
personal preference, Liv?
Automotive technology
Welding
Electrical
Construction
Culinary arts
The programs are geared
toward work in those fields.
And of course there is not
just hands-on training,
but also an academic component.
I tap the desk again.
If I knew Morse code,
I could tap out
my answers,
help him understand.
Hmm.
Automotive, maybe.
I am pretty good with
machines.
And just to prove it,
I reach out and turn off
the white noise machine.
Rooms
After the accident,
after Jonah came home,
we all switched rooms.
Jonah’s room off the kitchen
is tiny.
Dad said it was
a pantry
or summer kitchen
or woodshed—
something
old-timey
that got turned into a bedroom.
Jonah’s room was too small
for the nurses
and machines,
so he got the living room.
Mom and Dad’s room
upstairs
is the big one
facing the street
and Clay’s house.
Mom wouldn’t sleep
in that room
anymore,
so she took mine,
in the back of the house,
the one that looks out
over the river.
You can see the train tracks
that run along the river,
though no trains
run there anymore,
and you can see
the sky over the river,
and when the leaves fall
in winter,
you can see the river.
In our backyard
there are wooden steps
going down
the steep bank
to the river,
but the path to them
is all overgrown now.
I’m glad Mom
has the river
instead of Number 24.
I have Jonah’s little room
downstairs.
When the nurses need me,
I don’t have far to go.
Daredevil
After the accident
everyone had the same question.
Did Jonah do it on purpose?
They said to Mom,
Can you tell me about your son
and why this might have happened?
At first I thought
Mom wouldn’t answer,
but then she did.
Because he’s a teenage boy.
Because he didn’t think first.
He never had time for thinking,
even as a baby.
Not when he tipped himself
out of his crib
headfirst.
Ran straight into the swings
at the playground.
Tried to jump out of shopping carts.
Cut his head open
sledding into a tree.
I didn’t mention
the other things—
the ones Mom
doesn’t know about:
Walking the metal railing
of the train bridge
over the Kennebec.
Falling through
thin ice
in spring.
So impatient
to start his big life,
to make people laugh,
to see what would happen.
Doing anything
for a dare.
So afraid
he’d be stuck
in Maddigan, Maine,
for the rest
of his life.
No
Mom could teach
the school counselor
how to say NO
with one word.
Liv, he says,
I’m afraid those involved
raised concerns
about the vocational programs
we discussed.
It was mentioned
that a certain degree
of attention
is needed
to ensure safety.
Unfortunately,
the consensus
was that it is not
a good fit
right now.
Mom would have just said
NO.
I feel a little sorry
for the counselor.
He doesn’t
look me in the eyes.
That’s okay, I say,
I’ve got some
independent projects
that are taking up
a lot of my time
these days, anyway.
This cheers him up.
Oh, really.
What kind of projects?
Well,
for one,
I am studying the
Kennebec River,
and then
there is party planning
for Jonah’s birthday.
The counselor looks
down at his desk again.
I see.
I see.
Logs
If Dad were here,
he’d like my
Kennebec River
independent study.
I would ask him
about the logs
on the bottom
of the river.
If they’ve been
lying in river water
all this time,
why aren’t they rotted?
Is it something
about the water
that does that?
It’s like the logs
are in a time machine
down there.
When they’re brought
to the surface,
the whole world
has changed.
The Nurses Talk about Me
From Jonah’s little pantry room
off the kitchen,
I hear the nurses talking.
It is dark out
when Johnny comes
and Vivian gets ready to go.
I always leave my door
open a little.
I like how the light
from the kitchen
shines into the room.
Johnny and Vivian
talk about Jonah—
his numbers, his machines,
his sounds.
Then I hear my own name—
Liv . . . way too much . . .
responsibility . . .