Glimpse

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FOR

my favorite daughters
(you know who you are)

AND
all the world’s Lizzies

1.

In one moment

it is over.

In one moment

it is gone.

The morning grows

thin, gray

and our lives—

how they were—

have vanished.

Our lives have

changed

when I walk

in on Lizzie

my sister

holding a shotgun.

She fingers the

trigger.

Looks up.

My sister.

My sister just looks

up at me.

Touching

the trigger

of that gun.

2.

My breath goes,

lungs empty,

all the blood

runs up to my face.

My heart pounds so

that it hurts.

It hurts.

What are you doing,

Lizzie girl?

I say,

sounding just like Momma,

only not so loud.

The words are

without air

full of blood

and pain.

What are you doing?

I’m on one knee now

face-to-face

with Lizzie.

Just thinking,

she says.

Momma?

I say over my shoulder.

Momma!

And to Lizzie,

What are you thinking?

I’m not even sure

I can hear her answer,

the blood pounds

so in my ears.

Just thinking,

Lizzie says,
looking me right in the eye,

just thinking about

leaving.

3.

Wait—back up.

Back up and see the story

of Momma, Lizzie, and

me.

Of Lizzie and

me

and how the two

of us

got here

to this moment.

4.

Mama she say, Shh.

She say, Shhh.

She say, Quiet, baby.

5.

I love babies,

Momma says.

I love babies most of all.

6.

In the beginning

it was me

and Liz

and Momma

and Daddy.

The four of us.

Together.

Me and Liz just

babies.

Smiling, no teeth. Bottles.

Saggy diapers.

Sunburned cheeks.

All those old

pictures

Momma has hidden

under her

bed in that

box,

all those

pictures prove

we were a family

before.

7.

He left me,

Momma used to say

(and sometimes does

still

now),

when it was late

and she

felt lighter

from Pabst Blue Ribbon

and the hour.

He left me.

She thumped her chest,

tears making her eyes glisten.

Me and Liz

were quiet

on the edge

of the living room

watching

looking

listening.

Even from this far

away

I could see

the tears

in Momma’s eyes

Me and Liz

we sat quiet.

We stayed

we listened

because we had to.

The more she drank,

raising can after can,

the more Momma talked

and soon

would let out the truth.

She let out the truth

and the reason me and Liz

were still in the room,

like she always does.

He left me,

Momma said,

because I had

two kids.

Then she cried right out loud.

And I couldn’t help it.

I cried

with her.

Lizzie patting my shoulder.

Shhh,

Lizzie said.

Shhh.

You were his kids

too,

Momma said.

I cried along with her,

till she fell asleep, quiet, on the sofa

and Lizzie would say,

Hope, it’s time for bed.

8.

Once

after Daddy left

on his bike

and didn’t come back

Miss Freeman

waddled her way across

the street and

over to our place

with a big platter of fried catfish

and hush puppies and

a dish of potatoes and

a salad.

For you, Ms. Chapman,

she said.

I heared what happened

and I thought

you could use some good

Southern cooking.

Momma cried in Miss Freeman’s arms

and me and Lizzie

ate all the hush puppies before

Momma had dried her

eyes.

Looks like you girls

need some more of them

things,

Miss Freeman said.

And she brought us a whole

bowlful more.

9.

Miss Freeman

taught me

and Lizzie to play

rummy

and Chinese checkers

and let us watch

Wheel of Fortune

at her place

on the nights

Momma worked.

And when Momma

tried to pay her,

Miss Freeman said,

Ms. Chapman, I love these girls

like they was my own.

She laid a heavy hand

on my head

and I felt the pressure

of that hand

long after I had gone to bed.

10.

Lizzie was my job.

And I was hers.

It is your job,

Momma said

to us years ago

when me and Liz

came home from school

one day.

(Almost six

and

seven

years old.)

We were late,

late coming home from

the bus.

Playing in the

huge puddle of

mud and

water

there

in the dirt road.

Didn’t notice the time passing.

Till Miss Freeman—

old as the sun—

hollered out,

You girls know

what time it is?

Your momma is gonna be worried sick

about you two

playing in the road.

We move when we

see cars,

Lizzie said.

She had mud all over,

splashed on her

face even.

I was soaked through too.

I know it,

Miss Freeman said.

Git on home.

We got.

Momma, though,

she was even later

coming in that night,

not waiting for us

at all.

Lizzie and me

we changed our clothes,

dried the dirty places

off our legs

on a towel,

and waited.

We watched us some TV,

turned up real loud,

and waited

some more on the sofa.

And when the sun was set

coloring the sky a thin

line of hibiscus red,

Momma pulled into the

drive.

Both me and Liz,

we looked at each other,

and I felt so glad that Momma had made it home.

I let out a breath

I’d been holding all afternoon.

Now we could

eat

and not be afraid

or worried

that she

might leave

like Daddy did.

Might not come back

at all.

You make any dinner?

Momma asked Lizzie

while looking through

the fridge.

No,

Lizzie said.

Momma’s lips made a line

—like a dash—

and she said,

I got me a new job.

Then she smiled.

A good job.

It’ll take time,

this job. I’ll be

busier.

Momma walked over to us,

smoothed my hair,

patted on Lizzie’s shoulder.

We’re gonna have us some money.

More than now.

She squatted down till I could see,

in her eyes,

a bit of me

and a bit of Liz

and the light

from the fridge.

I’ll be working more and more,

she said.

And I expect you two

to help out around here.

Lizzie nodded.

Okay, Momma,

she said.

And I said,

Okay, Momma,

too.

Momma thought.

Then she said,

It is your job,

Liz,

to take care of your

little sister.

And you, Hope,

Momma said

her finger pointing like

she meant it,

you take care of Lizzie.

You hear me?

I nodded. So did

Lizzie.

Then we grinned at each

other,

showing our teeth.

All right then,

Momma said.

We are a team.

The Chapman Girls’

team.

Let’s go get us some

McDonald’s

for dinner

’cause I got money.

And she waved two twenties in the air.

I was so glad

she was home

and safe

and we were headed

to McDonald’s,

a team.

11.

Daddy,

I know,

did not mean

to leave us—

though

Momma sometimes

sees it was

me

and Liz

that sent him away.

He was coming

home

to all

of

us,

bringing

cough syrup for Lizzie

from the Piggly Wiggly,

when

he got himself

killed on that

motorcycle

of his.

Damn motorcycle,

Momma

said.

Damn cough that

Lizzie had.

Damn

damn

damn.

And I agree.

12.

It’s my job now

(like it was then

when we were

almost six and seven),

I know it,

to make Lizzie

happy.

No matter that I am

younger,

that I am

almost thirteen and she’s

fourteen.

The two of us

work hard

for

the two of us.

And have

since

the olden days,

with Momma

changing

more and more

as time passed

and it became clear

that all the praying

she did

would never bring

her dead husband back

and all the praying

in the world

me and Lizzie did

wouldn’t keep

Momma from falling

in her own work

and away from us

more and more.

13.

So we grow up alone

without Daddy

with Miss Freeman

looking in on us

from time to time

with Momma busy

more and more.

Me and Lizzie.

Together.

Until it all begins

with that

gun.

14.

Last night

me and Lizzie

sit

in the dark,

sit on my bed,

in the quiet of

night.

We’re all grown up,

I think.

But we are

having us some

troubles.

Now all I can hear is

our breathing,

and from outside,

the frogs and crickets

singing nighttime songs.

I can see the shadow shape of

trees. A light wind
moves the leaves

like a waving hand.

I talk soft at the

side of Lizzie’s head.

Right now I

think of her like the tiny baby she was,

drinking green Kool-Aid

from a bottle,

biting the nipple so

it hung from her mouth,

and slapped her

baby chest.

The picture tucked under

the bed with

the rest—

the picture that proves

a father

a mother

and two sisters.

My own bottle of Kool-Aid.

Me on my back.

Feet supporting that

bottle.

(And Momma laughing.

Laughing!)

I say to Liz on this night,

I say,

’Member last night how

I was upset at you

’cause you couldn’t sleep?

Liz nods.

She stares off

away

like she sees past the walls

of our

room.

I smell VO5 shampoo

in her hair,

balsam flavor.

’Member I told you,

I say,

to get on out of our room

if you wouldn’t be quiet?

She cried long into the night.

Has been

weeping

for days now.

Crying when the sun

settles to rest itself

past the lip of the world.

Even in her sleep,

crying.

I was just tired then,

I say.

Thinking of that

baby

picture.

Thinking of the

Before

photos and what

they prove.

’Member afterwards I snuggled

you up,

I say,

and then we went to sleep?

Again Liz nods.

Good,

I say,

I just want you

to remember.

And I remember,

I remember,

how I promised

before

to take care of

Lizzie

who is not

as strong as me.

Momma says so.

15.

And then

this morning—

all bright for a minute—

turns dark on me

turns in on me

when

I walk into

the bathroom and

see my sister

fingering the

trigger

of the

shotgun

Momma uses to kill

pygmy rattlers

when we go

to the lake.

Lizzie looks at me

her finger just touching that

trigger

and I say,

What are you doing, Lizzie girl?

I sound just like Momma,

only not so loud.

What are you doing?

16.

I can’t see it right.

I can’t see it clear.

Did I do this wrong?

17.

She’s

fourteen

and

has tried to kill herself.

I cannot see it.

I cannot see the why.

Why?

Momma says,

loud in Liz’s face.

We stand in the living room

all of us,

with that bright

sun splashing

on the floor at

our feet,

waiting for the police

to carry my sister

away.

I didn’t shoot,

Lizzie says.

But Momma’s called the cops

anyway.

(It is my responsibility to take care of Liz.)

I won’t do this,

Momma says. I won’t do this.

I won’t lose

anyone

not even

one

more

time.

(And Liz’s

supposed to take care of

me.)

Liz,

my Lizzie,

she does not answer.

But she does look

at Momma.

She looks at her

so hard

so long

that Momma

finally turns away.

18.

I am old with living.

So much older than almost thirteen.

And things aren’t right.

Not at all.

Is Lizzie nuts

like Momma says?

(It runs in the family,

you know?

No, Momma, I

didn’t know.)

Is Momma?

Is it me who is crazy,

twisted tight with all of this?

So tight

I am not sure I can

breathe.

There’s been

a spiral in time,

things changing so

fast

I don’t know my sister

anymore.

Oh, Liz.

Stop that thinking so you can

come back.

19.

Before all this,

before Liz grew

weary of living

we used to laugh.

Once,

Momma

put me and Liz

in the car

and said,

We are going

garage sale-ing

and you can get yourselves

whatever you want.

Me and Liz,

we whooped it up!

Laughed out loud.

Momma flung us

some money to the backseat.

Lots of ones,

folded so many times

they were soft

as an old blanket.

We rode up and

down the streets

of Ormond,

passed the 7-Eleven,

passed the Piggly Wiggly

looking for signs.

All around us

the smell of pine

and the salt of the ocean,

the clatter of palm fronds

when the wind pushed through,

cooling the air

for us.

There’s one,

I’d say.

There’s one,

Lizzie would say.

And Momma,

she would throw

her head back

and laugh.

Then

help us dig

through boxes of

toys,

the hot sun simmering,

to find just the right thing,

just the thing

me

or Lizzie

had been hoping

for.

20.

That very afternoon

of the gun day,

Momma and me

stand at the edge of a parking lot,

the end-of-school

weather throbbing

around us,

hot.

Oaks dip toward the ground,

lining the lawn

shading the sidewalk.

This grass is like carpet.

I cannot recall the time we step in

the hospital

but

it’s chilly in the building,

dark

after outside.

A

goose runs over

my grave.

Don’t think that.

This way,

Momma says,

and walks right past

the front desk like

she knows this hospital.

No one questions her.

No one stops us.

Somehow

we sneak down one hall

then another

and another,

in the green coolness of

the hospital,

until we

stand in

a corridor

with a sofa that has no back.

Momma holds an unlit cigarette

to her lips.

Shhh, she says, shhh.

I nod.

Down some,

there’s a huge door,

pale green.

The sign,

printed in block letters,

black letters:

LOCKDOWN UNIT

I can see it

from where I sit

and I shiver

again.

Up high

in the door

is a window,

big enough for just eyes

to look through.

And there is wire inside the glass.

Who can get through there?

I say to Momma,

nodding to that

window.

Can’t no one squeeze through

that little rectangle.

But she doesn’t answer.

Just waves her cigarette at me

and chews at her nails

that bleed from

torn cuticles.

I am

scared and

sick

so that I might throw up.

I sit on the edge of my seat,

try to catch just a glimpse

of that huge door

by looking at things through one

squinted eye.

With one eye

the sign looks even

farther away.

LOCKDOWN UNIT

My momma,

out of nowhere,

she sobs.

But I don’t shed a tear.

I am the strong one.