There is no holding back time— not then, not now. I turn the page, not really wanting to know what Hannah had written next, but curious. I thought maybe she would have written about the surgery, her time in intensive care, her move to the rehab hospital. Maybe she did write about that somewhere, but not in this journal. Here, the next entry is dated a little more than three months after the accident. It’s all about the day Mom and I took Hannah to the barn for a visit. It had been my idea.
Saw Crackerjack today. Some lady is riding him.
Hannah was still in a wheelchair. We didn’t know if she’d ever walk again. The physiotherapists pushed her hard and Hannah seemed to be up to the challenge. I remember once she said, “Even if I could walk with crutches, I’d be happy.”
She didn’t write again until about a year after the accident.
Things I Can’t Do
1. Stand. Must hang on to something or I topple over. Need crutches and leg braces.
2. Walk. Obvious, if I can’t stand. What I do is way beyond a limp.
She goes on and on, a dark list of loss. My throat tightens. Why did Crackerjack have to fall? Why didn’t Hannah sail off, as she had plenty of times before, and suffer nothing more serious than a few cuts and bruises?
I flip to the next page, and it’s like Hannah throws acid in my face.
Read this, Tara. You proved that I am finished as a rider. You helped me see there really is no point going on. For that, I thank you.
Oh god. The blood drains from my head so fast the room tilts.
You helped me see there really is no point going on.
She must have been talking about the few lessons I’d arranged with her old coach, Rena. Rena and I had worked out what horse Hannah would ride, how to get her mounted, how to help her come back to the world she loved. But in the end, everything I had tried to do was so, so wrong.
You helped me see…
How could I have been so stupid?
For the next couple of days I march from place to place like a zombie. At the bookstore I ask the customers, “Bookmark? Did you find everything you were looking for? Bag? Cash, credit or debit?”
I ask myself, Did Mom read what Hannah wrote? Did Hannah mean for me to read her journal? If she didn’t, why did she write it? And if it’s true what she wrote, and if, say, the police read it, does it somehow make me responsible? If I caused her suicide, then am I a murderer?
At home I cook—lentil soup, three-bean chili, stuffed baked potatoes. I clean the bathroom, sweep off the balcony, dig out my sweaters from the storage locker in the basement. I crank up my mp3 player and try to drown out any words with a roar of music. Hard as I try to shut them out, Hannah’s words push through.
You helped me see there really is no point going on.
What did she want me to do with those words? Apologize? How? She bailed on whatever conversation we might have had.
Screw you, Hannah! I take shower after shower, each one hotter than the one before. What do you want me to do, Hannah? Follow you? I don’t know if I can.
Is this how she felt? Desperate? Her guts churning?
I polish the bathroom mirror and stack the spare toilet paper rolls in a neat pyramid. If I follow Hannah, I will not leave a mess behind. I tidy and organize and talk to Hannah, asking her questions she refuses to answer.
I don’t answer my phone or check my email. I don’t do poetry.
On Friday, the night of the team meeting, I pretend to be sick. Rosie can go. I don’t care.
I’m in bed when someone bangs on the door. Ebony’s voice is loud out in the hallway. “Open up!” Bang. Bang. Bang.
They’re all there. The whole team plus Ossie and Maddy. Ebony barges in.
“Welcome to Tara’s place,” she says. “Maybe you should get dressed?”
Bare feet, pajama bottoms, baggy T-shirt. Crap! I retreat into my bedroom, smoothing down my hair. Stupid Ebony. What the—?
“Hurry up in there,” she calls. “We’re hungry! We want to order something in.”
I think of all the food I’ve been cooking. “Don’t! I’ll be right out.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re all crowded around my dining room table.
“This is really good,” Karl says, polishing off his second piece of apple pie.
Ebony nods and adds, “We decided to bring the team meeting to you.”
“You know it’s almost midnight, right?”
“We won’t get rowdy,” Ossie says, grinning.
“They’ve decided you and Rosie are going to compete at Persephone’s on Sunday,” Ebony says. “The winner will take the last spot.”
“Sunday? As in the day after tomorrow?”
“That’s usually how it goes,” Karl says.
“Are you okay with that?” I ask Rosie.
She shrugs. “It’s not like we have any choice.”
“I haven’t been to Persephone’s for a long time,” I confess. I clear my throat. “Maybe Rosie should just take the last spot.”
Rosie picks at the edge of a placemat.
“For the good of the team—I’ll never be able to—” I stumble over my words. Make the poems harsh enough. Beautiful enough. Clever, funny, deep, whatever enough.
“No more talk of that!” Ebony says. “You’re both going to Nationals—you both need to be ready. Persephone’s is extra practice.”
Rosie nods.
“So it’s settled. We’ll all be there on Sunday. Don’t let us down,” Ebony says.
“Fine. Okay.” What Ebony and the others don’t know is that’s what I do best: let people down.
Thump. Thump.
“What’s that?” Ossie asks, looking around.
“Upstairs neighbors,” I say, pointing at the ceiling. “You guys should go.”
“But we just got here!” Ebony says. She’s too loud, apparently. The upstairs neighbors pound on the floor again.
“That’s harsh,” Ossie says.
“It’s an old building,” I say. “Not much insulation.”
“Sorry. We never planned to eat and run,” Karl says.
Before I know it the dishes are stacked and everyone’s at the door saying goodbye.