Dear, Jesus
Dad says I shouldn’t be askin’ you for things, even if they’re really important things, like whether or not Jack Hobern has a crush on me. He always tries to sit next to me at lunch, and yesterday, I even gave him one of the peanut butter cookies me and Dad make, which is a big deal because I really like those cookies. But Dad says it’s good to not be selfish, ‘specially in my prayers, so maybe instead of helping me, you can help Dad. Ever since Sissy left, his eyes get real red whenever I ask about when she’s coming back.
Amen.
Someone’s hands are in my guts, wringing shit and blood out of them through tight fists. I don’t even care that the little sunbeam voice is back, ringing through my head. An echo from the great beyond. I’m just trying to keep us between the lines, the faded white, highway lines—almost invisible beneath the badly plowed snow. I can’t. We cut over again, and rumble strips shake my insides like soda dropped from the top of a vending machine. But it’s fine, as long as we stay on the road, it’s fine. No one else is out today.
“How much longer?” my girlfriend asks. My angelic girlfriend. She’s laid back in the passenger’s seat, pressing her faded boots against the glove compartment. “God.” Something on the radio tries to break through the static, while the antenna on my car jerks with the wind.
“Soon,” I lie.
A rush of winter air slaps my face, and I pinch my eyebrows together. She’s squeaking her window open. But since the damn thing’s busted, it only rolls down far enough for her to wrap a couple fingers over the top. She lifts her face to the crack.
This is when my girlfriend, my darling girlfriend, vomits foam out her mouth like badly poured beer. But the piss yellow goo doesn’t make it through. Instead, it smears against the inside of the window, and her knuckles turn white from trying to hang on. She gives up, laying back in the reclined seat. Beer bubbles pop down her chin and liquid collects in the little pool in her throat.
Dear, Jesus.
Dad says I should try being more grateful, even though I always tell people ‘thank you’ when they do something nice for me. But then I realized all the nice things you do for us. So thank you for this beautiful world, and for cookies, and for helping me pass my spelling test today. Oh! and the snow. Thank you for the snow! Dad says they might even cancel school tomorrow.
Every now and again, more voices break through the static. The radio reception is slightly better out here. Please bless my mom. Please bless this food. Please forgive me for sleeping with the intern, and bless me with the strength to tell my wife. I park the car behind some abandoned building. Snow banks flank us on either side, wrapping around telephone poles that stretch up to heaven. The little sunbeam voice cuts through all the rest.
Oh, Jesus. I almost forgot. Jack Hobern left me a note today too! Can you believe it? Well, I guess you can since you’re Jesus. He gave me his own cookie at lunch, and although it wasn’t peanut butter, I didn’t even make a face. And! The little sandwich bag it came in had a pink sticky note stuck on.
My fingers tremble, tugging hard against the knotted baggie, I can’t keep them still. My nails are chewed to flesh, and sweat coats the plastic. I can’t get a grip—can’t open it.
“Jesus Christ,” my girlfriend mutters beneath her breath, so I won’t hear how much pain she’s in. My blessing of a girlfriend. She hasn’t stopped clutching her stomach since the sun went down.
I give up with the knot, cutting the dope free with the teeth on one of my keys. The bag’s thick, like almost-no-room-to-fit-anything-inside thick. “Shit,” I whisper, so my girlfriend won’t hear how disappointed I am by the amount. A few crumbs, hardly enough for one. She asks what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” I lie. “You go first.”
I waited until I got home to read it. I was too nervous. My fingers were dancing like little jelly-beans all day. But the second I shut my bedroom door, I took it out. It said, “Thank you for the cookie. It was the best flavor I’ve ever tried.” But guess what else, Jesus! He also drew a small stick-figure of himself holding the cookie with a little heart next to it. A heart!
Her chest is still rising, my girlfriend’s. Even though there wasn’t a lot, it must have been cut with something good. She’s laid out flat in the passenger seat, managing at least one breath per prayer, or what I assume are different prayers. It’s getting harder to tell when one ends and the next begins. Dear God, thank you for your wisdom. Your forgiveness. God, I’ll never hide my camera in the locker room again. Oh, God, thank you for blessing me with these beautiful children.
My girlfriend’s heart glunk-glunks against my palm like it’s pumping through sludge. I rest my other hand on my own heart, which works just as hard. How much longer could we go? My stomach groans, echoing through my hollow rib cage, and I look around the empty lot for any dumpsters that aren’t covered with snow. Nothing. No chance at dinner. A rush of wind shakes my antenna, and I realize no one’s praying anymore. It’s all static. Fuzz. What time was it? My hand wasn’t moving up or down.
Jack Hobern’s drawing reminds me of Sissy’s boyfriend. Every time he came to visit, he’d bring me one of those gas-station cookies. The big ones, with pink frosting. He’d also bring Sissy these tall glass cans of soda with cool drawings on the side. Sissy said I wasn’t allowed to have any though. Maybe that’s what love is, giving the people you like your own food. Not that I love Jack Hobern, though. Ew.
Pale-blue spreads over her lips like a frown. I hit the dim cabin light on and lurch over the center console to dig through the trash littering the backseat. McDonald’s french fries. Broken clothing sensors. I throw them out of the way. Hangers catch on my coat and several empty bottles of beer clatter to the floor. Where was the damn Narcan?
Those tiny cracks of blue reach up her cheeks, my girlfriend’s. My dying girlfriend. Her faded boot slumps from the dashboard where it had been resting, hitting the glove compartment on its way to the floor. The glove compartment. I tug it open. Pens and band-aids fly out, scattering across her jeans. Finally, a small, white cross. The Narcan.
The thing fits perfectly in her nostril, and I’m straddled over her, holding her neck up. Her eyes are wide-open, staring into her own forehead, and their color matches the dead vessels crawling over her face. I plunge the medicine into her nose. It fizzles between her eyes, and clear snot leaks into her mouth. I press my ear to it, the mucus and her lips, waiting for breath. Her snot clings to the side of my face like I’m listening for the ocean through a wet shell. The radio hisses. I wait.
But I’ve been talking too much about myself again when I’m supposed to be thankful and not selfish. I’m sorry, Jesus. Umm, I guess I would ask if you could still help Dad, if that’s your will. Can you just let him know that Sissy is ok? I heard him crying through the wall earlier, but maybe he was just watching a sad movie. If Sissy’s with her boyfriend, I don’t know how she wouldn’t be okay. But maybe you could help Dad feel better. Thank you for all your blessings.
Amen.
A woman cries the same thing over and over again. Multiple women? Men? Radio reception is much stronger in the suburbs. Lord, are you there? Lord, bless my grandsons. Lord, if this pregnancy test is negative, I promise I’ll go to church every Sunday. The little sunbeam voice gets buried beneath them.
I guide my car beneath the street lamps. They illuminate the road ahead in bright white halos, so I don’t even need my headlights as I search the silhouettes of houses trying to remember which one was hers, my girlfriend’s. My saint of a girlfriend. Cold sweat seeps into the cracks in my hand as I grip the wheel harder. What am I doing? I contemplate turning around, but her dad’s bright red truck appears through my vomit-veiled passenger window.
She’s an undefined shadow now, melting into the blackness of the car. I pull over, away from the streetlights and beneath a tall tree tangled in utility pole wires. Buzzing. Heavenly Father, grant me the strength. Amen. Heavenly Father, please get me home without another DUI. Amen.
“It’s going to be ok,” I lie.
The cabin light clicks on, revealing my girlfriend’s banana-bruised body. As I step out of the car and walk around to her door, the cold shakes my bones like an empty can of spray paint. Would I be able to carry her? My knees crack as I bend down and grip under her armpits, tugging. My legs wobble at first, but since she weighs barely more than a stick figure she slides right out.
Her boots bounce along the gravel driveway, and our reflections bend in and out against her dad’s truck. I drag her all the way to the porch. A giant cross hangs from the front door next to the security bar windows, and I rest her body up below them. Eyes closed. Pale skin. Ghosts were more opaque. A rush of wind blows the hair from her face. But no less angelic. I press one hand to her heart and the other to mine. Glunk-glunk. Glunk-glunk.
Dear Jesus,
Thank you again for answering our prayers. With all this excitement, I even forgot all about Jack Hobern. Can you believe it! Anyways, do you think you can help Sissy feel better? She hasn’t come down for dinner a single night since she’s been back, and she looks kinda like one of Dad’s Halloween decorations. I told him we should make her some cookies, since I know that sometimes that’s all I want to eat. But he says I should trust that you know best.
Amen.
Someone’s foot kicks my coffee tin into the parking lot—launches it like a Hail Mary. “Get a job,” the person says as they stumble into the grocery store. I don’t bother getting up, the tin’s empty anyways. Another rush of winter air slaps my face, and I pull my scarf up higher.
How much longer could I go? People weren’t throwing away as many leftovers as they used to. No stale french fries. No half-frozen beer. A woman with silver hair click-clacks right past me. No eye contact. Lord, keep me safe from these criminals. Jesus, show these sinners the light. God, how can we help them? My stomach groans, crumpling further into itself.
I said, can we help him? This voice cuts through all the rest, and I look up. The sliding grocery store doors had whirred open, but this little girl just stood there. She’s pointing a finger at me with one hand and nibbling a cookie with the other. “Dad, can we help him?” she asks again. The older man beside her hesitates, pinching his eyebrows together and staring as if he could see straight through me. I pull my scarf over my nose.
Instead of waiting for an answer, she waddles across the badly plowed sidewalk, this little girl. “Here you go, mister,” she says, presenting her cookie to me like an award. “Sorry I already ate a little of it, but my Dad says it’s good not to be selfish.”
Crumbs tumble down my fingers and against my jeans as I take the dessert. “Bless you,” I say. She smiles, this little sunbeam, before turning around and skipping back to her dad.
The End.
Ooh this one gave me chills. Loved how you weaved back and forth from the little sister's prayers to the scene in the car. And how at the end it all comes together. Vivid imagery. Great chorus lines. Really nicely done, Matt. Write on!
This was really good, Matt. I was uncomfortable the whole read--and we need more of that.