Switch, page 17
“Emotion causes such hunger!” Daddy says. Richard hands him the plate of tiny sandwiches. We all sit, carpet beneath us, backs against the walls—some plywood, some plaster—and recover. Daddy passes the sandwiches around. Mama puts the wineglasses in the five-gallon bucket Daddy has been using as a sink in the kitchen.
I look at the switch—covered in boxes. I look how Daddy built the rest from there / secured the boxes with each layer / made it impossible. The only way to get to the switch is to collapse the whole structure / he is a very smart man.
I walk to box #7 and find my crowbar in the corner of my turned bedroom / go back to the living room / Daddy still slumped on Carmichael’s shoulder..
“We destroy the boxes today,” I say. “All of them.”
Richard leaves and reappears with two crowbars and claw hammers from the shed / hands them out.
We begin the search for our precision-built home underneath planks of denial and shame / each of us in a different room. Mama starts in the foyer. I start in my room. Richard starts in his. Carmichael and Daddy do the kitchen first / not much work to be done after the last week / and the living room. Daddy says he will go to the hardware store for supplies at four o’clock.
When N3WCLOCK tells Richard that it’s four o’clock, we all meet back in the kitchen. Nothing has collapsed yet / Daddy used too many nails.
My phone rings. It’s Carrie.
“Hey, I just got a call from some woman at 60 Minutes. Did you know they’re doing a special tomorrow night?”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Not really,” Carrie answers. “I just told her that you’re amazing.”
“You didn’t tell her about last night, did you?” I wonder whether the javelin is circling the Earth now / a satellite / not a missile / no target / just flight.
“No. Last night is Psych Team’s secret.”
“You’re not mad at me anymore?” I ask / immediately feel like a needy, brainwashed victim of trickery. But then / to understand anything is to understand energy / good energy is important / provides information about who I should spend time with.
“I wasn’t mad at you. Like, you didn’t do anything but be great. I guess I was jealous? I don’t know. I was mad that you didn’t tell me,” she says. “Anyway, the chick I talked to said that the special is happening tomorrow. Brace yourself. Could be more news vans.”
“Yeah.”
“My mom wants to know if you want us to record it for you,” she says.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
We hang up. I ask Daddy to get paint at the hardware store so we can repaint the walls once we find them.
“I want candy,” Mama says. “I need sugar.”
“I will get your favorites,” Daddy says / kisses her sweetly on the cheek.
Everything seems so normal / we still live in a series of half-broken plywood boxes / nothing is normal.
The minute Carmichael and Daddy leave the driveway in Carmichael’s pickup truck, I decide to collapse the house on my own / stop time and leave Mama and Richard frozen where they stand / start pulling nails.
When I look out to the street, I can see Carmichael’s pickup truck frozen at the first stop sign / Carmichael frozen at the wheel / and Daddy / and Daddy walking back to the house.
Tiny Bombs
ARGUMENT
I have never seen Daddy angry. Even when my sister still lived here and accused him of every torture he never did, he stayed level. As he walks toward the house, he looks furious.
I can’t decide whether to start time again or not. Mama’s still frozen working in the foyer / Richard is frozen somewhere in the hallway between box #11 and his bathroom.
I take my crowbar to the plywood near the switch / rip out as many nails as I can / he walks in / takes the crowbar from me. For a split second, I think he might hit me / he hugs me instead.
“You cannot just do this trick,” he says.
“You do it all the time,” I say.
“It is different for me,” he says.
“How?”
“I—I am man and you are girl and it can hurt you.”
I give him a look like his brain has turned to processed food / pathetic.
“Your brother and mother will be harmed.”
“Fine,” I say / start time again / zing!
“Back already?” Mama asks Daddy / looking for Skittles / Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Daddy says, “Just forgot a thing. Will be back soon!”
When he leaves, Mama says her hands feel weird. “Like pins and needles. I’m going to sit down for a little.”
I go to Richard. He’s ripping nails out / an anger machine in the southwest corridor. I start ripping nails out right next to him. We get a single eight-by-four sheet of plywood down / expose a section of tiny bombs.
“I’ll go flip the main box switch. We can rip that conduit out and go from there,” I say.
“Let’s get the other wall first. Daddy can figure out the wires. He’s the one who rerouted them all.”
We work on the next wall, and the next, until box #11 is nearly collapsed.
“Something’s holding them all together. I can’t figure it out,” Richard says.
We move to the foyer. Mama is back up on a chair, pulling nails gently and slowly. Richard tells her to go sit outside for a while / get fresh air / we rip apart box #1 / the foyer / find the pretty wallpaper underneath the plywood.
My room. Because it was next to her room, was more fully boxed. I want to see my carpet again / I start on the floor pieces. Richard starts in the hallway where the bulk of the building was done to keep me safe.
“Tru,” he calls / nearly whispers. I step out of my room / he points to the wall he’s just disassembled. It’s covered in tiny bombs / a million tiny bombs / a billion tiny bombs.
We move toward her room / box #9 and it’s still gone.
“What the fuck?” Richard says.
“I collapsed it last night,” I say, “from the basement side.”
“How can there be nothing here, and from the outside, the house looks fine?”
I shrug because I really don’t know / too many questions / this explanation will do.
I stop time again / Richard freezes / Daddy should be mid–hardware store / no time to run home.
I take out every last nail around the whole east side of the house. I do the same to the west side / I don’t even count nails / the whole place is ready to collapse / still bound by Daddy’s secret conduit / to understand anything is to understand energy. I start time again / Richard looks at me and says, “That’s weird. I can’t feel my feet.”
“Go out with Mama and get some rest. Drink water,” I say.
US
It’s just me and the switch / staring at each other.
x equals me knowing what the switch is.
x equals not knowing what to do about it.
Here’s my dilemma / Psych Team / 60 Minutes / little Jennifer in Nebraska who can fly / I may never throw a javelin / myself / again. Religions could be built around the existence of this switch / every person in the world would want to own it / the government must never know.
When Richard comes back in, he starts moving plywood panels to the backyard. Mama stops me in the kitchen and looks in my eyes / sees all of it / looks toward the switch.
“Truda.”
“Yes.”
“When did time stop?”
“June twenty-third, 2020,” I say.
“And when did I move out?”
“June twentieth,” I say.
“And when did he leave his job?”
“Two days later—the twenty-second.”
She nods / walks back outside / sits in her front yard / Miami chair.
I stare at the box / am sad I will stop a little girl from flying.
CARMICHAEL’S FAST-FOOD DINNER MENU
Carmichael and Daddy arrive home with fast-food dinner.
“Everyone gets chicken sandwich,” Daddy says. “It was only logical choice.”
No one complains / we eat chicken sandwiches / French fries.
Daddy says, “You have taken boxes down.”
“Most of them,” Richard says.
“We need your help with the wires,” I say.
“And the bombs,” Daddy says. He looks at his Wendy’s chicken sandwich / hands it to Carmichael / stands up.
“And the bombs,” Richard says.
BAYONET
Richard / rifle / cannot stab ideas / Mama hands him a bayonet.
“It’s time to start over,” she says.
“You can’t just start over,” Richard argues.
“You can,” Mama says, “if you want to. You can do anything you want to. Anything.”
Richard chews on this along with his chicken sandwich.
“You start by letting go of your mistakes,” Mama says.
x equals Joy / Trust / Fear / Surprise / Sadness / Disgust / Anger / Anticipation.
x equals everything you ever felt / believed / heard could be a lie.
x equals stab that shit / those lies / with a bayonet.
REASSEMBLY INSTRUCTIONS NOT ENCLOSED
Richard says it’s six o’clock N3WCLOCK time. We get back to work.
Mama handles the tiny bombs / land mines in the walls / expert detector / puts them in a hippie sling-bag she’s wrapped around her body. I follow behind her, freeing conduit and wire as we go.
Daddy and Carmichael trace rerouted wires and disconnect them / back to precision energy / boring but efficient / the idea is to change the world outside your house / when you come home the little men in the wall sockets will say “Ooo!” / your water heater will work / will not be in the backyard.
Richard starts to patch holes in walls and ceilings / is in deep thought / letting go of his mistakes / coming to terms with the danger he once believed he was in.
Carmichael begins to rebuild bathrooms / replaces my broken shower door / gets one toilet working / collects the full bathroom buckets from the backyard / flushes / flushes / flushes.
Mama and I move the last plywood pieces out to the yard / she finds the vacuum cleaner / I look forward to sitting on my carpet again / maybe going to the podiatrist one day about the splinter.
We work into the night / putting things right—small things. Beds / chairs / sofas / dust / ballpoint pens in a mug / we paint over sanded spackle and replace fixings for the window blinds.
Richard asks, as Mama and I move through the house replacing light bulbs, “Are we even going to sleep tonight? It’s two in the morning!”
I say, “Let’s just finish and call it an all-nighter. Worth it.”
Richard still looks wary.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
ON / OFF
On off on off on
Off on off on off.
Richard is crying again
and the moon is
extra big tonight—
On off on off on off on off.
When you look at
a light switch upside down,
when it’s on,
it reads NO.
I think Richard’s light switch
is upside down.
GHOST
Mama and I hug him. I take the right side; she takes the left.
“Is it really over?” he asks.
“That’s up to you,” she says.
“It’s really over,” I say. “And you didn’t deserve any of it.”
Daddy walks in and wraps his arms around all of us. Carmichael left an hour ago / we have working plumbing again / he kissed me on the cheek and told me to beat my own world record this week.
“It’s so vague,” Richard sobs. “We all know what the problem is. Why don’t we just talk about it? About her?”
The terror in all of our eyes right now would make you hide in your closet / we are about to pull off a bank heist / roped you into being the getaway driver. The room goes quiet. Sister is like carbon monoxide / seeps through the floorboards / you never wake up.
Richard and I knew deep down. To understand anything is to understand energy / bad energy is important, too.
It hits you at the most important times / all the times / all times are important. All times are important until they aren’t anymore. Take away time / life without time / own the arrow / it is yours / you can fly.
In the Arrow
N3WCLOCK 5:00 A.M.
We are purging / already purged the sister / took one hour / easy work / lies disintegrate when shared / we have moved now to regrets.
Mama says, “I’m so sorry for all the pain I caused when I didn’t come home. I meant to,” she says. “I really meant to come home. But she would tell me that you all were so happy I’d gone. She told me I’d be better off dead than by myself. I nearly did it. Nearly.” She cracks / is suddenly sobbing. Richard moves from his spot on the sofa / stands next to her / rubs her back.
Daddy says, “It is shameful that my family is broken. I have not listened.”
Mama keeps sobbing / catches her breath. “Honey, I left you for no reason. Isn’t that awful? I mean, sure, you were a pain in the ass with all this weird safety stuff, but you always loved me. You all did. And it’s so hard to believe!” She bends into a sob again. Richard rubs her back.
“Do you know what I want to know?” Richard says. “I want to know what to do now.”
EXTERMINATOR
There are no exterminators for some things. No medication. No doctors or cures. No vaccines. There are no police for some things. No jail. No probation or community service. Some things are ghosts / insects in the brain. Some things have to die in their own time.
I say, “We have insects in our brains.”
I am in the arrow. Everyone is frozen in their answer to this / there is no answer to this.
FLIPPING PANCAKES
I say to all of them, in answer to Richard’s question, “You used to tell me that changing my mind was like flipping pancakes. Let’s use this meeting to flip our pancakes. Heal, you know?”
“Heal? You’re sixteen. How do you even know about healing?” Richard says.
“Your sister reads psychology, son. You forget project,” Daddy says.
“We need to heal a lot,” I say. “And Daddy will come to therapy with us. We’ll go as a family.”
“How do we explain it?” Richard asks.
“We tell our stories. That’s it.”
“It will hurt,” Mama says. “And it won’t be instant.” She looks at me / I know why.
We sit in silence and breathe.
I look at Richard. “I miss you even though I’ve lived with you my whole life, and I don’t think I really know you,” I say.
Richard nods. “Me too.”
In my head, there is a switch. It controls the past and the future / negative / positive. It can’t control the present, but the present is always moving / in the arrow / which is fine because it only takes a second to make it into past.
WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR PAST
Serve it with lemons and curdled milk
with shortbread biscuits
make the day gray
spots of rain.
Make a quilt out of the villains
crochet the heroes together in a hat
Wear the hat. Use the quilt
as a picnic blanket.
Bring your friends.
Watch the squirrels be tiny monkeys
dare-deviling the trees.
Exclaim things!
Each lemon, sup of tea, cookie
is a bite into the future /
will digest, exit, and swim.
Digest. Exit. Swim.
Drink the curdled milk and get sick
watch your friends clean up
hold your hair back / hat on
hand you a tissue.
When you wash the vomit
out of the villainous quilt
each time it gets weaker.
Picnic often.
Richard and Mama go to bed while Daddy and I keep working on the kitchen. His goal is to get the cabinets up by dawn / we both know it’s too close to dawn to succeed. We are a dilemma / a solution standing in a bare-bulb-lit kitchen / we know what to do.
“We can’t,” he says.
“We can,” I say. “Brunch right here tomorrow seems like a good start to a new life.”
It’s a standoff / neither of us wants to show the other that we have power.
Finally, I do it. He gives me a mixed look—concern and pride / says every father to every powerful daughter / no cheap American high school hors d’oeuvre / no fancy toothpick. He is predictably Somewhere Else / protective of daughters / The Man of the House. I’m fine with it / have needed protection / will need it until the insects are all-the-way gone.
PLUTCHIK’S SUNDAY POTLUCK BRUNCH
Richard brings Surprise. “How did you get this done in three hours?” he asks us.
Mama brings Joy. “Look at it! It’s like nothing ever happened,” she says.
Daddy brings Anticipation. “We are new family now. So many things will we do!”
I bring Trust / smile a lot / don’t say much / love every one of these people not because they are family / because they love me / because they allowed me to fly.
We are in the kitchen / in the arrow in the kitchen / Daddy and I didn’t count the hours it took, but I’d guess it was six hours by the time we got the countertops reinstalled / caulked in / under cabinet lights working. We didn’t talk at all / communication in time is different / psychic / Mama probably dreamed it all as she slept.
