Teaching English after Leonie Died

1. Beginning

Let’s practice this conversation on the PowerPoint:

What is your name?

My name is Leonie.

Shit. I typed this the night she died without a thought. She slept three feet away. I planned this class and ate the beef soup that I would finish two days later, planning a funeral.

Soups outlive some of us. We sip the broth not knowing. We nurse flus that are actually shunts failing.

How do you spell your name?

L-E-O-N-I-E

Es el nombre de su hija.

I pretend I don’t hear them say that.

2.      Intermediate

The simple present is for habits, or for things that are always true.

Use the words “do” or “does” to ask questions.

Let’s practice. You might ask, “How many daughters do you have?”

You might ask me that and then I will answer:

How many daughters do I have?

How many daughters do I have?

3.      Advanced

Hey, Sara. It’s been a few weeks. And hello to your elderly, obese epileptic Chihuahua. Its butt is shaved with stitches because of some complication from a vaccine? That’s too bad.

But she is so strong, you say with a proud smile.

They didn’t say that this time about Leonie.

They shaved her head to drain out the fluid from her brain. The nurse wrung out the blood from her hair and a chunk fell off. She tossed it in the trash and laughed. A snicker.

But yes, great. Good for the dog that looks like a rat. That’s still alive. So hardy, goddammit.

Look at this Chihuahua nervously burying its head in its food bowl and then squatting to pee on its pee pad.

Last week, I put pee pads on Leonie’s bed; on her wheelchair. Packs of them are stacked under the crib. I want nothing more than to unfold one, to lay her down.

Oh look, it’s waddling over so I can scratch its ears. Hello, Kayla. I am calm and polite.

Sara, please tell me all about this Las Vegas trip of yours. About your ride up the elevator to the Stratosphere Café at the top of a pole where you watched people toss themselves over the side on a bungee cord or something, mouths open in breathless gasps as they cheated death.

I pushed hard on Leonie’s chest before I lifted her chin. I breathed into her mouth. The gasp was long and desperate.

Death is gray and gasping.

That was your trip? Amazing. Tell me now about all of your plans for the future, how you’ll be a fashion designer. I’m so excited for you.

I am already an old woman next to the shrine of my dead baby, crumpling the sleeve of her purple sweatshirt in my fist, a keeper of ashes. I have one foot planted firmly in the grave.

Oh yes, I’m sorry, what was it you said about the crab legs?