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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.

&n
bsp; 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