And I hope

I hope

Lizzie didn’t

plan on us coming.

56.

When did Momma

get like this?

Cheating an old woman,

a neighbor who’s helped us,

and then laughing about it?

I don’t remember

when that

happened.

And I usually

remember

everything.

57.

The next time

Momma and me

see Liz

she’s up,

tied in a sitting/leaning position

in a wheelchair.

Why is she tied?

I ask, but no one

answers me.

Momma’s

spent some time

whispering at Liz,

right in her ear.

Liz’s head never moves.

She never says

a thing to our

momma

who gets angry

and stays that way

the whole visit.

When

it’s my turn

with my sister, I hurry

to her side.

Lookit what I can do, Liz,

I say.

I push her to the stereo.

Momma’s gone,

I say.

Went to take a smoke.

Liz opens her eyes

slow.

Her head doesn’t move

at all.

I put on the CD

Singing to You,

her favorite Ian St. Clair

song,

and before the music begins

I say,

Me and Mari have been practicing.

Then I roll a magazine tight

to use as a microphone,

look around to make sure

no one’s watching,

and sing with Ian,

because she likes him,

and I like him,

and so does Mari.

I step here and there

on the blue-green carpet,

swing my hips,

slap my hands in time

with Ian’s voice,

in front of chairs

empty of people.

Liz watches from half-open eyes.

When I’m done,

three nurses

step from the doorway

and clap.

My face burns.

Real good, one says.

I bob my head

thank you

and want to melt away.

I kneel at Lizzie’s feet.

I’m thinking about

dancing at the talent show,

I say,

once school starts.

What do you think?

You’d win,

Liz says.

Her voice almost not

there.

I hug her up close.

Love mixed

with pain

rises in my

chest.

I sure do miss you,

I say.

I sure wish you’d

come home.

So does

Momma.

Liz’s body goes tight.

She says,

Never,

so no one

but me can hear.

She says,

I’ll never go back

home.

What’s going on?

Momma’s voice startles

me, makes me

jump, but not Liz

who still

doesn’t move.

You talking, baby?

Momma leans so close

I can smell cigarettes

on her breath.

Liz

lets her head hang.

She’s not speaking,

I say.

I can’t keep the

lie-sound outta

my voice.

So I see,

Momma says.

Her eyes squinch

into a line.

All that ride

home I hear

in my

head, Never.

Never.

Never.

I’ll never go back

home.

So where will

Liz go?

And what will I do

when she gets there?

58.

We get home

late that night.

Momma swings into

Burger King for me,

then

stops at Sizzler

and gets herself

a thick steak,

baked potato,

and steamed broccoli.

Part of my pay,

Momma says

when she runs the

carry-out boxes

to the car

and I wonder who

she knows here

at the Sizzler.