Jenna

11/25/09

Jenna:  Jenna is from the novel I’m writing, Spun.  Jenna is a recovering meth addict and poet.  Here she writes about being in love, of course, but also about being straight, and reconnecting with her mother.

     Me,

       I totally

       think love

       is like a heartful

       of pregnant dreams, a

       waiting room full of worries,

       hungry and hoping for something,

       like the red-faced baby who

       changes the trauma of

       laboring birth into

       a life full of

       believing.

Maree

Maree first showed up in OGW 10/8/09.  In this entry, we learn that Maree’s alienation from her family stems from her being adopted.  As Maree’s story evolves, perhaps her birth mother will reappear in her life.  Perhaps Maree will find peace with her adopted family.  Who knows?

Maree:  Everyone thinks I’m Godless, but I’m not.  Even I have called myself Godless, have fought with Julia over Jesus (me:  he doesn’t exist!  You’re stupid!), have told Hannah that nobody in any religion believes God lives in McDonald’s so she better just shut up before the men in white coats come to take her away (Hannah:  Boo hoo bawl cry, I’m telling my Mama). 

But here’s the truth.  I do have a God, a secret Goddess.  In my heart, I call her Mom.

I know it’s crazy.  I know my real Mom didn’t want me and that’s how I ended up with this crazy Christian band of do-gooders I call my adopted family.  But here’s what I do:

I lie down or sit up in lotus position.  I put in earplugs and all I can hear is the steady, slowing pulse of my own blood in my ears.  I go deep, down into my heart, and there is a door.  When I knock, it opens. 

Gently, softly, quietly.

Sometimes there is a bed suspended on a porch by the beach (saw that in a magazine), and I lie down on it.  She lies next to me.

Sometimes there is a velvet couch in a small room full of gauzy hanging scarves, windchimes and purple pillows.  She waits for me there, and I crawl onto her lap.

My favorite is the open room, wooden floors.  I take off my shoes, and suddenly I’m dressed in a long, flowing gown of layers and layers of sheer material, and I begin to dance.  She joins me.  She lifts me up, high above her head.  I float, I spin, I fly.  She is with me, and when we’ve finished dancing, she applauds me, even though she did all the work.

She is my Goddess.  I call her Mom. 

Rain

Rain:  Rain is Kayla’s (OGW 2, Oct.1,2009) best friend.  Rain’s mother recently took off to become a dancer in NYC, Rain’s father is an alcoholic.  This is the morning of the belly button piercing and the party Kayla was so eager to attend.

Rain:  My mother didn’t come home today.  She said she’d be here for the weekend, but she didn’t show up Friday night, and Saturday morning she called to say, “I’m performing at Dancespace tonight!  Remember that piece—“

I didn’t remember.  I didn’t want to.  Tears leaked over my cheeks.

“You can come to the city and see me tonight and stay at my friend Wendy’s apartment, you can sleep on the couch.  Are you happy for me?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m proud of you.  You’re really making it on your own now.”

“I am.  It’s wonderful to feel the real me peeking out again, you know?  Not a wife or a servant or a – well, I’ll always be your mother, of course.  Can you make a ten o’clock train?”

“No thanks Mom.
“Oh! ...Oh.”

“You said you were going to take Kayla and me to get our belly buttons pierced before the party!  And you said you were going to be here!”

“Well Rain, I’m sorry, but this performance is important to me.  I have to dance, I just have to.  It’s my spirit, it’s my soul, it’s--”

“I gotta go.  Love you Mom.” 

Then I slumped against the wall, slid down to the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees and softly cried.  My father came in, sat next to me, put his arm around me, and held me while I cried harder.  “She never wanted to be my mother!  I ruined her life.”

Dad pat my back.  “You could never ruin anyone’s life.”  He got up.  The last remaining flap of hair on top of his head was standing on end. 

I smiled.  Getting up, I asked, “Juice?”

“The usual,” he said.

I made him a strong screwdriver that was mostly vodka, two ice cubes, and a splash of OJ.  “Can you take Kayla and me to get our belly buttons pierced today?  Mom was gonna do it.”

“I don’t know, noodle.  I’m not feeling so well today.“  He took a long swallow, then stared down at his hand, which was still shaking.  After finishing the drink, he was steadier.  “I’m not so sure I approve of you mutilating your body anyway,” he said.

“Dad…”  I poured him another drink, and just orange juice for myself.

“Yeah, okay, I guess.  If I’m feeling better.  I think I’m coming down with something.”

He said that every day, and I paid no attention.  “Oh Daddy, you’re the best!”  I said, and meant it.  If it weren’t for him, what would I do?  Sleep on some stranger’s ratty couch in New York City?  Not me.  I hated dancing, too, hated it!  Dad would never take off to find himself when I needed him.  He would never do that to me.

“I’m gonna shower.  You, eat something!  You’re too thin!” he said, peeling my arms off where I’d thrown them around him, and topping off his drink before heading upstairs.  “And make some coffee!” he yelled down.

“I’m gonna call Kayla and tell her she can come over.”

He didn’t answer.  I knew what he was doing, he was crying.  Crying over my mother.  Crying that we were left out of her new life, and because he had a pounding headache, and he had to deal with me and my friends – make us happy – anyway.

     Sighing and setting my face to “impassive,” I stopped thinking, and busied myself with making a pot of coffee.  I would drink it black today.  Thick and black to grow me up, and I wasn’t going to tell anyone, even Kayla, that I was afraid.

Nancy

Nancy,originally from Crosses, was my first outsider girl.  Now Nancy is grown-up, with an outsider girl of her own -- daughter, Casey, fifteen.  Fifteen… the age when Nancy met Katie, the age when Nancy began cutting herself in earnest, when she started drugs, dating.  Will Casey follow the same path her mother did, or will she find her own?

Nancy:  With everything I’ve done, I still have no problem at all saying to Casey, “Promise me you will not ever, no matter who gives them to you, no matter what they’re for, you will not ever take a pill.  Not from me, not from a stranger, not from your best friend.  Whatever you do—“

“I know Mom!  I won’t ever take a pill!  I won’t shoot heroin either—“

“I know you think I’m saying this just because I watched that Intervention—“

“I know you’re just saying it because you don’t want me to go out with Kayla this weekend.”  Casey lights a cigarette, and I want to cry, because it's my fault.  She took the smoke from my pack after all.  

I never made her promise not to smoke.  You have to choose your battles -- “If you want to try drinking or pot, we can talk about that—“

“If it’ll make you happy, I’ll talk to you before I take a sh—“

“What’s that on your arm?  Have you been biting yourself?”

“Mom, it’s not like that—“

“I can’t believe after all we’ve been through in this house—“

“Mom!  I’m not trying to hurt myself!”

“Don’t you think I would—“

“You don’t know everything, Mom.  It’s just a hickey.”

“Oh Casey, don’t you know it’s not cool to be branded, who’s the guy—“

“There’s no guy—“

“The girl?”

“Mom, I did it to myself!”

“Isn’t that what we were just talking about!  Casey, sometimes you drive me crazy!  Please, let’s talk about this.”

“Mom, no one needs to drive you crazy, you’re already there.”

I rush to the freezer to get two ice cubes, which I grip hard, one in each hand, while I breathe deeply, cooling-down breaths.  Casey sighs, comes closer, and wraps her arms around my waist.  “Kidding, Mom, kidding!  I love you!”

I smile.  I breathe.  “And another thing,” I say, “Never, ever get in a car—“

“With someone who’s been drinking.  I know, Mom, but holy crap, I’m only fifteen!  It’s just a party.  It’s no big deal, Mom.”

OhmiGod.  Fifteen.  “When I was fifteen—“ 

“I know! I know all about you and Katie, you’ve told me a thousand times—“

My face tightens, and ice water streams from my hands as I squeeze the cubes, a trick I learned, a trick Katie and could’ve used.

“Mommy, I’m so sorry!  I shouldn’t have said—“

“It’s okay, Case.  I’m sorry I’m such a basket case. I just love you so much.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll be home by midnight.  Jonas will drive me home.”

And there it is.  And now it begins.  

Gemma

Gemma is back!  Gemma first appeared in an unpublished short story, “Wings.”  Gemma’s mother abandoned her when she was a child.  Mom was addicted to smoking faery dust, and now that Gem’s an adolescent she has what all the daughters of dusters got – wings.  Horrified and outcast, Gemma has left home for NYC to find her mother, others like her, and maybe herself.

Gemma:

“Truth or Dare,” I said to Luke.  I didn’t really care which he picked.  I was so f*cked up, I didn’t care anymore.  I just wanted to go home…

Wait.  I couldn’t go home.  I was here.  Here was home now. 

Whoa.  I was really loopy, really a mess.  If I’d just taken the dare or told the truth I wouldn’t have had to keep drinking.  But even with all the magical weirdness in the room – the deformities or whatever – the horns, the tails, the wings, the scales – it still felt freaky to be me.  It still felt like everyone was staring at me.  Wait, was everyone staring at me? 

Lola definitely was.  Well ha ha to her.  I leaned on Luke and asked him again, “Truth or Dare?”

“Or consequence,” said Lola.  She looked like she regretted starting this game.

Luke’s tail lashed back and forth as he thought.  “Truth,” he said, smiling at me. 

Was he really smiling?  At me?  It might’ve been the wine.  Or the schnapps. 

Ooo!  That was definitely Luke’s hand on my knee.  My wings fluttered.

“What did you do the first time you knew you were different?” I asked.  I did care, in spite of all I’d had to drink.  Not only did I care, I had to know.

“I know what I would’ve done,” he said, smirking.  “I would’ve done this –“ 

And then, just like that he kissed me!  His lips were just right too, not too soft, not too rough, not too wet or dry.  Perfect really.  I sighed as his shaggy bangs brushed my nose.

“Your turn, Gemma!  Your turn!” Lola was so pissed off. 

I didn’t dare grin.  But Luke had me all fluttery and smooshy and suddenly glad…

I shouted so loud that everyone laughed, “Dare!” and then I threw off my bomber jacket and let my wings free!

I flexed, shook them out, and… and… and…

I flew!

Juliet

Juliet struggles to find her own voice, while caring for her bipolar mother.  Juliet began as a character in a novel, Let Her Cry, which is waiting for a rewrite, perhaps will be my next big project.

Juliet:  Last night I was writing a song.  It was about Michael, and it was going along fine, if a little corny.  I was singing and strumming my guitar, “You are the riches/You are the king/You are the future/Whatever that brings…”

     Slam!

     Then came pounding on the front door, and Dad trying not to yell, just to be heard – “Marnie, open up!  Marnie, please –“

     Dad’s river-wild, stage-strong movie voice was cut short by the door

     Slamming!

Open again, and then

     Slam!

Shut.

     My mother was crying in her show-voice, the one I think of as her desperately-crying-for-attention-and-love voice, this time melting into her for-the-audience-in-the-back-rows-too-darling voice.  Her combat boots pounded down the hall past my room and on into her own, where I heard her throwing, tearing, destroying.  And of course crying.  Gasping, sobbing, sucked-up screaming…

     My strum changed to minor chords, loud and abrupt and accompanied by “Shut up shut up shut up now!” angrily sung by me in my quietly-absorbing-everything-and-never-complaining voice.  My parents wouldn’t hear me.  I didn’t want them to.  I didn’t want to make things worse.

     But of course my mother couldn’t keep everything to herself, nope, she had to begin shoving photo after photo under my door, pictures she’d torn herself out of.  She knew how to make an entrance.  I wished I could be so talented, grabbing all the attention for myself -- and then Michael would love me, I thought as my mother scratched the outside of my door with her long fingernails. I dropped my guitar and my selfish thoughts, and ran to her, flinging open my bedroom door and allowing her to fall against me.  She was so tiny, and I was so gi-normous, her head tucked under my chin, and her drippy, sobbing, scrunchy-face pressed against my chest as if she were the child and I were the adult.

     “She shouldn’t – you shouldn’t –“ My father said from just behind her.

     “It’s okay, Mama.  I’ve got you now.”

     “They hated me!  I hate myself!  Everyone hates me!”

     “I don’t hate you Mama—“

     “Jules…” my father said, then sighed and backed away, disappearing back down the hall and into the living room.

     He turned on the stereo, and now it was as if Mama and I had a soundtrack.  Our lives were a play or a movie, and maybe this wasn’t how normal kids lived, but at least in this movie, I was a star.  Not like my mother, but a leading role at least.  A pivotal part.

     “Let her cry… if the tears fall down like rain/ Let her sing… if it eases all her pain/ Let her go…”

     Oh no!  Not Hootie!  I stepped back into my room as my mother ran down the hall to go and kill my father.

     “And if the sun comes up tomorrow/ Let her be…”

     “Oww for fuck’s sake Marcie, you—“

     I closed my door, realizing sadly that I might have to settle for a supporting role after all.

Jenna

Jenna is the main character in my upcoming novel, Spun.  She is a recovering meth addict with an alcoholic mother, a dead father, a torn-up life and an uncertain future.  Jenna is also an aspiring writer, carrying a notebook with her at all times in which she expresses her dreams and hopes, fears and desires, poems, images and observations.

Jenna:

Paige has Kevin.

Even Mom has Frank.

Is there, and if so, where and when is there, someone for me?  I’m filled with longing, or, rather, emptied of everything else.  “There isn’t any me anymore,” said Hemingway.  So say I, when I’m going home, alone again.  I say to myself, Paige loves me, my mother loves me, but do they really?  I scrawl in my notebook: 

     Paige has Kevin.  Kevin has Paige.

         I always go home

                                                      Eventually.

         Mom has Frank.  He has Mom.

                                                      Who has me?

I would’ve liked to make P.’s rm. a genie bottle, cause rgt. now, I feel like a genie trapped in a bottle,

bottle = home, but it confines me to its glass belly, no one gets in or out, and the most I can hope for is the glass breaks.

I want to be in love.  That’s what everyone else has, rgt.?  Paige/Kevin, Mom/Frank.  They hate each other but if they weren’t in love they wouldn’t still be together, or would they?

Who would I be willing to throw myself under?