impossible for Carole. But it was what Deborah wanted.
“I can do it,” Carole said. “I really can.” And so she began.
CAROLE’S STORY
I
I CAN TELL a story that doesn’t have to do with um … er … the
h
word, but I can’t tell you a story that happened to me before I rode
h
words, because I started doing that when I was so young that I don’t remember anything at all before that. Or maybe I just never have considered anything that happened before I first rode
h
words to be worth remembering. But I will tell you something that happened to me the summer I was nine. That makes it nice and even, doesn’t it? Lisa told a story about when she was ten, Stevie was eight when she met up with Madeleine, so it seems properly balanced that I be nine when this happened.
This is almost as much a story about my mother as it is about me. None of you ever knew her, and I don’t talk about her much with you. Sometimes Ithink you’re afraid I’ll be uncomfortable talking about Mom, but really that’s not the case. Dad and I talk about her often. It’s a nice way of keeping our memories fresh. Even though she died a few years ago, I remember a lot of things about Mom, and most of them are really nice. I don’t think I’ll tell you about the time she bought me a sundress that was the wrong size or the time she tried to help me learn Roman numerals, only she got them all mixed up and I never have been able to tell the difference between D and L. Sometimes she’d forget to do things she really meant to do. There was one time she locked the keys in the trunk of the car when we were ready to leave on vacation, and she was forever forgetting to pack things she needed, like a toothbrush.
Carole had to stop her story for a few minutes because Lisa and Stevie were laughing so hard. They weren’t laughing at Carole’s mother, they were laughing at Carole. Forgetfulness was one of Carole’s best-known traits—next to being
h
word–crazy, of course.
“All right, all right,” said Carole. “So now you know that I can’t help my faults. They are inherited traits!”
“Oh dear,” said Deborah. “Does that mean that my child is going to make all the same mistakes I do?”
“Not necessarily,” Stevie assured her. “In our family
, Mom
and Dad are always astonished at the new kinds of mistakes my brothers and I make, so don’t worry. There’s hope.”
Deborah didn’t seem comforted by those thoughts, but there wasn’t anything Carole could do about it, so she went on with her story.
Mostly, though, my mother was wonderful. Sometimes I think I can still hear her laughter. She loved to laugh and she loved to make me and my dad laugh. It always seemed to me that when I was feeling blue, for whatever reason, Mom found a way to make me laugh and feel better. Just sitting on her lap or watching her work in the kitchen or sew on a button made me feel that I was loved and safe. Mothers can be like that, you know, only often we don’t stop to think about it. Now I think about it a lot.
Mom and I spent a lot of time together when I was little. It wasn’t just because I don’t have brothers like Stevie—or sisters, for that matter. And it wasn’t just because Mom was a stay-at-home mom like Lisa’s. Even though both of those things were true, we were often together because we were sometimes the only people around that we knew.
Dad loves the Marine Corps, and Mom and Iboth liked a lot of things about his job, too. One thing we all agreed on, though, was that we hated having to move, and we did a lot of that. There was a time when we were moving every three years or so, and that means that by the time I was nine, my parents and I had already lived in three places. And then the summer I was nine, we were moved to the fourth.
Most of the time when we moved, it wasn’t so bad. For one thing, we were living on bases where there were other families who moved a lot, other kids who had learned to make friends quickly,
“I can do it,” Carole said. “I really can.” And so she began.
CAROLE’S STORY
I
I CAN TELL a story that doesn’t have to do with um … er … the
h
word, but I can’t tell you a story that happened to me before I rode
h
words, because I started doing that when I was so young that I don’t remember anything at all before that. Or maybe I just never have considered anything that happened before I first rode
h
words to be worth remembering. But I will tell you something that happened to me the summer I was nine. That makes it nice and even, doesn’t it? Lisa told a story about when she was ten, Stevie was eight when she met up with Madeleine, so it seems properly balanced that I be nine when this happened.
This is almost as much a story about my mother as it is about me. None of you ever knew her, and I don’t talk about her much with you. Sometimes Ithink you’re afraid I’ll be uncomfortable talking about Mom, but really that’s not the case. Dad and I talk about her often. It’s a nice way of keeping our memories fresh. Even though she died a few years ago, I remember a lot of things about Mom, and most of them are really nice. I don’t think I’ll tell you about the time she bought me a sundress that was the wrong size or the time she tried to help me learn Roman numerals, only she got them all mixed up and I never have been able to tell the difference between D and L. Sometimes she’d forget to do things she really meant to do. There was one time she locked the keys in the trunk of the car when we were ready to leave on vacation, and she was forever forgetting to pack things she needed, like a toothbrush.
Carole had to stop her story for a few minutes because Lisa and Stevie were laughing so hard. They weren’t laughing at Carole’s mother, they were laughing at Carole. Forgetfulness was one of Carole’s best-known traits—next to being
h
word–crazy, of course.
“All right, all right,” said Carole. “So now you know that I can’t help my faults. They are inherited traits!”
“Oh dear,” said Deborah. “Does that mean that my child is going to make all the same mistakes I do?”
“Not necessarily,” Stevie assured her. “In our family
, Mom
and Dad are always astonished at the new kinds of mistakes my brothers and I make, so don’t worry. There’s hope.”
Deborah didn’t seem comforted by those thoughts, but there wasn’t anything Carole could do about it, so she went on with her story.
Mostly, though, my mother was wonderful. Sometimes I think I can still hear her laughter. She loved to laugh and she loved to make me and my dad laugh. It always seemed to me that when I was feeling blue, for whatever reason, Mom found a way to make me laugh and feel better. Just sitting on her lap or watching her work in the kitchen or sew on a button made me feel that I was loved and safe. Mothers can be like that, you know, only often we don’t stop to think about it. Now I think about it a lot.
Mom and I spent a lot of time together when I was little. It wasn’t just because I don’t have brothers like Stevie—or sisters, for that matter. And it wasn’t just because Mom was a stay-at-home mom like Lisa’s. Even though both of those things were true, we were often together because we were sometimes the only people around that we knew.
Dad loves the Marine Corps, and Mom and Iboth liked a lot of things about his job, too. One thing we all agreed on, though, was that we hated having to move, and we did a lot of that. There was a time when we were moving every three years or so, and that means that by the time I was nine, my parents and I had already lived in three places. And then the summer I was nine, we were moved to the fourth.
Most of the time when we moved, it wasn’t so bad. For one thing, we were living on bases where there were other families who moved a lot, other kids who had learned to make friends quickly,
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