of the soup kitchen.
Her hair is all white,
even though she doesn’t look
much older than Mom,
and she wears a white apron
that is longer
than her dress.
She gives me an apron
that matches hers.
I think Elinor’s been warned
about me,
because right away
she keeps me busy:
rolling silverware into paper napkins,
loading the dishwasher,
serving shepherd’s pie
with a long-handled spoon.
I like that
Elinor doesn’t ask questions,
doesn’t try to be my friend.
The rhythm of the work
is like a dance:
roll, roll, in and out,
ladle, ladle, ladle.
If my hands are tired enough
maybe they will sleep.
At the end of the shift,
I cut food.
I guess my hands passed some test
to be trusted with a knife.
First potatoes, then carrots,
then onions.
Elinor stares at the cutting board
she gave me.
The pieces don’t all have to be
the same size. This is not a
factory,
Elinor comments.
Okay, I can do that,
I answer.
Snowman
Jonah’s nurse Johnny
has a big laugh,
strong arms,
and a shaved head.
He’s from the South
and this is his first winter
in Maine.
When he says the snow
is sticking in the trees,
it gives me an idea.
I remember that
sticking snow
is snowball snow.
I build a snowman
next to the holly
in the side yard.
It’s been a long time
since we rolled snowballs—
Jonah and I—
but it’s not rocket science.
Big one for the bottom
Medium one for the middle
Smallest one on top.
From behind the holly,
I study Number 24.
This past Thanksgiving
and Christmas,
there weren’t any decorations
on the house
or the lawn.
No cardboard turkeys
or pumpkins.
No big red bow
on the mailbox.
And no Clay knocking
at our door
with a homemade apple pie
from Gwen.
I speak my words
into the swirling snow
but they don’t reach
across the street.
It’s me. Liv.
I’m still here, Clay.
I decorate my snowman
with Jonah’s sunglasses
for the glare—
and put one of Jonah’s Red Sox hats
on top,
brim facing backward—
his signature look.
The next morning
I laugh
when I see that the snowman
has earbuds.
Why does laughing
feel so much like crying now?
Jonah
Sometimes the cries are different—
Wah-AH Wah-AH Wah-AH
It’s dark out, and
I stand there in my Hello Kitty pajamas.
Johnny, out of nurse tricks,
shakes his head and
raises his hands in the air.
This time it feels like Jonah
is calling to me
from a distance,
trying to get back home,
but the ground cracks open
before him
each time he takes a step.
Sometimes,
there is nothing anyone can do.
Line
There’s an invisible line
in the middle of the road
between my house and Clay’s.
When I go out to wait
for the school bus,
Clay’s mom
comes to the middle of that line.
Liv, please leave Clay be.
I’ve seen how he looks
across the street.
Don’t make things worse
than they already are.
Really, Gwen, I take a step forward,
do you think things could be WORSE
for us?
She looks down at the pavement.
I see her mouth open
like she wants to
say something—
but doesn’t.
Hunter
Hunter from school is there
at the soup kitchen.
He’s homeschooled,
but he goes to school
for what he wants—
like orchestra and
civil rights team
and French.
I can’t see Mom
letting me have a deal
like that.
Hunter knows the drill.
He takes an apron
off a hook
and puts it on.
He ties it in front.
The white apron
makes his red hair
seem even redder.
What did they get you for?
I ask him.
What do you mean?
he says.
Why you’re here?
Throw your sandwich on the floor?
Spit out your lunch?
Play with your food?
I’ve been volunteering
this past year—
when it fits into my music schedule,
he says.
Yeah, I know,
you got that violin thing.
Hunter gets his own knife
and cutting board.
I push the bag of onions
toward him.
It’s time for someone else
to cry.
Birthdays
When is Jonah’s birthday?
Vivian wants to know.
We could have a little party.
Jonah can’t blow out candles
but does he have a wish
somewhere deep inside?
If Jonah doesn’t use his wish
can I have it?
Big planning starts for Jonah’s
eighteenth birthday
next month.
The nurses love a party.
Vivian tapes a food sign-up sheet
on the fridge.
So far, there’s brownies,
broccoli quiche, and fruit punch.
No worries about what
to serve Jonah.
All his food
goes in his tube.
My birthday is the same week—
Sweet Sixteen.
This year
will be the first
without a present
from Jonah.
He used to hint
that my sixteenth
would be extra special,
but now
I’ll never know
what he meant.
Dead End
Believe it or not
at the end of our street
it says DEAD END.
When we moved in,
that was good news.
Mom said
DEAD END meant safety
riding bicycles
skateboards
trick-or-treating.
Besides DEAD END,
it was extra cheap—
the paper mill
right behind us
belching a stench
we got used to.
Does it always smell like this?
people from away would ask.
No, we’d joke,
it usually smells worse.
The smell was sulfur
from the pulping process,
making supercalendered paper
for the New York Times
Sunday supplement.
Now the mill is closed,
and it’s hard to get a job.
Unless you’re lucky enough
that your dad owns
Bugz Away Pest Management.
The brick mill
with its tall smokestacks