For Tamara Page 5

  T., as a kid I used to talk to myself on my way to school. / Writing this book has me doing this again. / You’re making me myself again.

  I know, darling, / I could wake up every day at 7 and have a shower and put my hair up and go for a run. / That is never going to be your Mum.

  I’m annoying. / I kiss you over and over / because you are a miracle, Tamara / forgive me.

  You know I’m telling you all this / for when (not if) / I die. You’re going to have to keep on / and if your Dad gets here / slap him for me.

  Should I be telling you about Cinderella or The Little Mermaid / or should I be writing new fairy-tales. / I wish you could tell me.

  Mum’s tired of explaining everything she can think of. / She misses home, Dad, / and for this not to be her job. / She wants a day off.

  There are other ways to test for and treat / infection. / Smell, infections smell. / All kinds of smells. / Cut it out. / Dress it up clean.

  Okay, I’m taking T. out to look at the moon. / You magically are looking up at it too, okay? / She’d like that. / As would I.

  Learning how to say “no” is one of the hardest and most important things you can learn.

  Your Mum is real good at reading people, / even in their sleep & dreams. / I do not wish this on you; / you should have a say.

  Do you like your hand? / The rest of your arm? I am way too tired to do an amputation today. / Do you think that blood infection can wait? / My Darling Dearest, My Beautiful Idiot: know I will never, ever forget you. / Darling I am very, very tired. / Even if your Dad were here. / Simply too much work. / I need to sleep.

  Tamara, suicides will not be uncommon. / I do not want you to think of them as irrational. / Try and help / but these people have lost everything they’ve got. / n times over.

  I haven’t written enough about how to protect yourself. / Don’t scream. / Take a breath. / Jam a screwdriver in his eye.

  I know after 9 years I’m supposed to be over you. / Sadly no one can compete. / Plus Tamara still wants to meet you.

  I want to be able to reach my hand out / and have you hold it. / I know. / Not my biggest concern. / I would just like it.

  Even when you were here, you would leave me scraps of paper with a note before you left for work. / I still have those. / Leave another.

  T., ppl are going to remember and develop rituals. / Let them. / Yourself. / Just don’t let them into the gov’t. / Respect, but have law for all.

  You know I would move the moon for you. / Although that would screw with orbit, tides, etc. / So at least a moon rock, / My Beautiful Idiot.

  T., I’m sleeping in your bed tonight. / As much as I protect you / you make me able to.

  Ok, teams: pharmacy; hs lab; latrine; water; food; fortification. Go.

  He’s my husband: he’ll be fine. He married me. I think he can deal with this.

  I have this life of extraordinary memories. It could be far, far worse. I’d like to think you can hear me. / That we are looking at the same moon. / All that romantic crap. / But I just want you to send us a message, ok?

  I end up sleeping on the sofa. / I have all these beds / but when I turn around / you aren’t there. / No one is.

  When I’m not wearing my wedding ring / for work, whatever. / It is because I still love my husband. / That does mean I don’t care for you / but that I do still very much love my husband. / And yes, you may think that foolish / but I know that man and he is very much alive.

  Climb up / past the treeline / as high as is safe. / Survey the land. / We could do with a map.

  Shut up. / I don’t care. / See this girl here? / Yeah, I have to teach her to survive. / So hush.

  T., when you are really thinking of someone you miss / run the back of your thumb from the centre of your temple to the bridge of your nose. / No, it won’t bring them back. / It is just what we do.

  I hold you like a child. / But you can’t be one anymore, T.

  Smell is an excellent way to determine the type of infection you’re dealing with. / Have the patient lick the inside of his/her wrist. Smell that.

  Darling, sometimes there are simple questions about who you should be with. / Brush my hair?

  T., I know you’re going to want someone to take care of you. / But this is it, Darling. / Rest up. / You can do this.

  Always repeat an order. / This is like a ship. / We can’t lose anyone / and every order has to be understood.

  I’m lonely as fucking shit all. / Is that what you want to hear? / And with all that tech you can’t use a shortwave to even tell me you’re alive? / I know you are working very hard to fix things. / But that doesn’t negate the fact I’m stuck here / trying to remake everything / do surgeries I can barely do / on a good day. / And that the end of that day / I want you there. / Sue me for being selfish.

  Headaches: check: 1–10: worst ever; like thunder; new after 40; anything getting worse; numb, weak, vision, tingling; stiffness of the neck.

  No wax goes unused. / We are going to heat that together and make new candles. / Understood?

  Always keep a fire going. / Cut it or learn to tie, braid whatever your hair back.

  When skin is pinched and doesn’t bounce back: get that person water. / There are other signs, from cramps to dry mouth. / But get water, now.

  There were festivals where people would gather to watch a cherry tree bloom. / I don’t even know where to find one. / Even before this I was working on new traditions. / I believed in only a few of what were called “holidays.” / Birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Hallowe’en. / That doesn’t mean I don’t miss some things. / Smell of a tree in your house. / Never St. Pat’s in Penn Station. / Now we get to make new ones.

  The sun rises / and I think “why another day?” / Can we keep doing this? / Is it too much to ask for respite?

  Because that’s why I loved you: I could talk to you. / So yes, this potted plant isn’t quite the same.

  I could speak in any dialect of English, and even a couple other languages. / Your French sucked, but no matter. / I never had to explain myself to you.

  I can write you this book because I’ve never seen time as linear. / I get it, / but I don’t get why I can revisit any time I want: / I give you this.

  See the little lines coming of that wound? That is a blood infection, sepsis. / We have the choice of antibiotics or cutting off that limb.

  People don’t much change. / Even with all this. / Love them as they are.

  Sometimes I’ll see a torn image of somewhere we were / and I remember it completely. / And I know it is gone. / And I can’t even tell you.

  Not with a concussion, Darling. / Trust me twice.

  Drowning is like a head injury, you can slowly die a day later. / Constantly check on those patients.

  Darling, that girl is ODing. / We don’t have charcoal, so let’s think of other ways to get that stuff up. / Her airways need to be clear.

  I wish I could just sync our brains, / and give you everything in mine. / Then again if humans could do that / we wouldn’t be so human.

  Darling, when saving someone in the water / the time it takes to take off (most of) your clothing / will save you more time in the water.

  We have an outbreak. / It does not seem to be airborne. / So everyone gets extra water to heat (for three hours), / to wash hands. / If anyone has bleach, / now is the time to share. / We have to identify and quarantine at this point. / We’ve got this far, / let’s keep going. / And we are tired.

  Currently, I’m too tired to talk to you about this. / But yes, while I know you need to be a “normal” kid, / “normal” means something else now. / I need to sleep. / You have to understand that, / and for the record you do too. / Just let’s make it through tomorrow.

  Everything isn’t going to be fine. / As much as I’d love to tell you otherwise, / it ain’t. / And you have to learn that soon
er rather than later.

  You see those dark lines on your arm? / You are septic: / your blood is infected. / We have to make a choice: antibiotics or your arm.

  I never believed in guns — nor did your grandmother — so no, I have no idea how to put that thing together.

  The smell of a Mayday tree. / Tea roses. / Me.

  I wanted a supply list of meds and weapons.

  I remember saying goodbye to your Dad. We both knew his work was more important than us. Bigger than us.

  Dad is working on helping us all. / I promise. / Right now, eat those carrots I grew.

  Hot soap and water is key. / Bathe. / Wash the dishes, cutlery.

  Postal System: an infrastructure designed to send and deliver physical materials, like letters, from sender to recipient.

  The explosions were brilliant, blinding. / Then clouds. / We’ll never know.

  Author photograph: courtesy of the author

  Sarah Lang was born in Canada. She completed an MFA at Brown University. Her debut poetry collection is The Work of Days.

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”