was eleven and just starting to develop, I felt quite peculiar about it. I didn’t want anyone to know. When I was alone I’d sometimes look at myself in the mirror, without my clothes on. Then I’d put on a T-shirt or a sweater to see if I showed. I never wore T-shirts to school though. I certainly didn’t want everyone gawking. I’d leave the T-shirts to the grade nine girls, Rosie Boychuck and her group. They seemed to enjoy letting the whole world know they were developing.
Anyway, I had a fairly pleasant morning after that, looking at National Geographic s and at the icicles melting outside my window, falling asleep and waking up and drinking juice. If you’re not in pain it can be quite enjoyable sometimes being sick.
Then, in the afternoon, it happened. I can’t understand to this day how my mother could have done that to me. But she did. She came upstairs in the afternoon, when the sun was warm on my bed, and said she would change my mustard plaster. She’d make a fresh batch and after that I’d be finished. She pulled down the quilt and sheet, unbuttoned my pyjamas, and lifted the cloth from my chest. My chest felt icy cold, and bare. I pulled my pyjama top together quickly without buttoning it and snuggled under the covers. My mother left the room carrying the used mustard plaster, folded like a book, in her hand. I heard her walk down the stairs into the kitchen. I heard the cupboard door opening and some pots banging. I heard her chatting away to my father about nothing in particular. And I thought no more about it until I opened my eyes and saw him standing in the doorway. My father. My father holding the fresh mustard plaster. My father coming to put the new mustard plaster on my chest. I looked at him and felt my face getting hot and my heart beating faster. Was he actually going to do it? Open my pyjama top and see me? And press that bulging cloth against my chest? Had my mother sent him up for that? I felt my eyes sting and I knew I was going to cry. I felt the wetness press against my eyeballs and drip over the edges of my eyes down the side of my head, into my hair. I couldn’t say anything. I just lay there and cried.
“You’re not feeling well at all, are you,” he said “It’s no treat being sick. But maybe this will do the trick.”
He lifted up the quilt and sheet. He spread open my pyjama top. He looked down on my chest. I looked up at his face and saw his eyes open a little wider, and I knew he saw my development. It was pretty clear to me that he saw.
He laid the cloth on me, smoothly and firmly, and his hands were heavy on the roundness there. Then he buttoned my pyjamas and covered me with the sheet. He wiped my eyes with the edge of the sheet and told me I’d be better soon and not to cry and mother was cooking vegetable soup with dumplings for supper.
In the evening I felt better, and on Saturday I was fine except that I had to stay inside all day and couldn’t go downtown to buy a Mother’s Day present. My mother told me not to feel bad; if I stayed inside and got completely well by Sunday we could go to church together, to the special service.
On Mother’s Day I got up early. I washed my face and combed my hair. I put on my green dress with the long sleeves and white cuffs and went downstairs to make breakfast for my mother and father. I set the table with the blue placemats Aunt Hanna had sent from Sweden. I boiled eggs and made cinnamon toast because that’s what I’m best at. My parents were pleased with the breakfast.
After breakfast my father went to his desk to play chess with someone in India or Yugoslavia. And my mother and I went to church.
I do worry sometimes about my father. His indifference to spiritual matters suggests a certain arrogance. And you must have heard what the Bible has to say about that: “Pride goeth before a fall.” Of course, my father is not the only person who feels this way. Many people, at least in our part of the province, have
Anyway, I had a fairly pleasant morning after that, looking at National Geographic s and at the icicles melting outside my window, falling asleep and waking up and drinking juice. If you’re not in pain it can be quite enjoyable sometimes being sick.
Then, in the afternoon, it happened. I can’t understand to this day how my mother could have done that to me. But she did. She came upstairs in the afternoon, when the sun was warm on my bed, and said she would change my mustard plaster. She’d make a fresh batch and after that I’d be finished. She pulled down the quilt and sheet, unbuttoned my pyjamas, and lifted the cloth from my chest. My chest felt icy cold, and bare. I pulled my pyjama top together quickly without buttoning it and snuggled under the covers. My mother left the room carrying the used mustard plaster, folded like a book, in her hand. I heard her walk down the stairs into the kitchen. I heard the cupboard door opening and some pots banging. I heard her chatting away to my father about nothing in particular. And I thought no more about it until I opened my eyes and saw him standing in the doorway. My father. My father holding the fresh mustard plaster. My father coming to put the new mustard plaster on my chest. I looked at him and felt my face getting hot and my heart beating faster. Was he actually going to do it? Open my pyjama top and see me? And press that bulging cloth against my chest? Had my mother sent him up for that? I felt my eyes sting and I knew I was going to cry. I felt the wetness press against my eyeballs and drip over the edges of my eyes down the side of my head, into my hair. I couldn’t say anything. I just lay there and cried.
“You’re not feeling well at all, are you,” he said “It’s no treat being sick. But maybe this will do the trick.”
He lifted up the quilt and sheet. He spread open my pyjama top. He looked down on my chest. I looked up at his face and saw his eyes open a little wider, and I knew he saw my development. It was pretty clear to me that he saw.
He laid the cloth on me, smoothly and firmly, and his hands were heavy on the roundness there. Then he buttoned my pyjamas and covered me with the sheet. He wiped my eyes with the edge of the sheet and told me I’d be better soon and not to cry and mother was cooking vegetable soup with dumplings for supper.
In the evening I felt better, and on Saturday I was fine except that I had to stay inside all day and couldn’t go downtown to buy a Mother’s Day present. My mother told me not to feel bad; if I stayed inside and got completely well by Sunday we could go to church together, to the special service.
On Mother’s Day I got up early. I washed my face and combed my hair. I put on my green dress with the long sleeves and white cuffs and went downstairs to make breakfast for my mother and father. I set the table with the blue placemats Aunt Hanna had sent from Sweden. I boiled eggs and made cinnamon toast because that’s what I’m best at. My parents were pleased with the breakfast.
After breakfast my father went to his desk to play chess with someone in India or Yugoslavia. And my mother and I went to church.
I do worry sometimes about my father. His indifference to spiritual matters suggests a certain arrogance. And you must have heard what the Bible has to say about that: “Pride goeth before a fall.” Of course, my father is not the only person who feels this way. Many people, at least in our part of the province, have
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