Norman in his walker and walk two whole miles to our favorite spot: Cordwood Beach. We stroll past homes that look like palaces with big wrought-iron gates, finally arriving at the beach. On sunny days it’s filled with kids—splashing around, building sand castles, and screaming when they see a horseshoe crab or a jellyfish. We spatter in the sand and water with them, taking breaks to climb the remains of an old brick house that looks like a castle and jumping off the floating dock. Even on gray days, we’d prefer to get caught in the wind and rain than stay home bored in the glue factory. We squeal, digging in the wet sand for clams with our hands and feet, hunting out mussel beds, and loading up our arms and pockets. On the way home we pick onion grass for a special treat at dinner.
Right after I begin the first grade, our baby sister is born. We’re all thrilled to have a baby girl in the house. Roseanne doesn’t look like any of us, with her pale skin and blond hair—just like Vito has.
Sometimes I like to imagine that my daddy has dark brown hair, just like mine.
For Rosie’s baptism at Saint Philip and James, we dress Rosie in a long white gown. Vito looks funny in his dark suit and sunglasses, and his two friends stay by his side during the ceremony—even for the photos. After Rosie’s christening, we get to take care of her ourselves while Vito takes Mom on a celebration “baby trip” to Lake Havasu, Arizona. It’s Mom’s first plane ride. When they come back, Mom tells us she and Vito had a great time on his “going away” trip but that he won’t be seeing us. “Vito had to go live somewhere else for a while,” she says.
It doesn’t take long before Mom disappears, too. She begins to spend more time away at night, and when she returns from her binges, she brings home a man or a hangover . . . or both. We learn to stay out of her way, because especially when she’s sad or not feeling well, we’ll catch a serious licking. As men come into our home, though, they always comment on what pretty little girls she has. We look down and walk away: If only they knew the trouble their compliments cause. When the men leave, Mom makes sure we all know that we’re just sluts and whores, and Norman is her prince. “You think you’re so pretty?” she says when her visitors leave. “Get over here. You won’t be pretty when I’m done with you.”
Months after Rosie arrives, our mom doesn’t look like our mom anymore. She locks us in her room and cries that, at age thirty, her old go-go dancer body is gone forever and all the stress of raising kids is making her face lined and puffy. “My life amounts to nothing, and it’s all because of you kids!” she screams. As her unhappiness worsens, so does her drinking; and as her drinking increases, so does her weight. It’s Cherie, Camille, or me who take a beating during these tirades. And we never allow her near Norm or Rosie, but Mom’s usually too tired to fuss with the baby anyway.
We teach Rosie to talk and walk and play games, and we shower her with beautiful expressions of love like mia bambina amore and je t’aime . We don’t know how they’re so familiar to us, but we use them a hundred times a day.
All our fawning over Rosie frees Mom up even more, but instead of bringing men home, she’s started bringing in animals to try and cheer herself up. We tiptoe around, cautioning Rosie to avoid the monkeys, turtles, and chickens that Mom attempts to hide from the landlord. The three squirrel monkeys are kept in a cage, and Mom reminds us to put on gloves to feed them—otherwise they’ll eat our fingers as appetizers. Unfortunately, our yellow dishwashing gloves aren’t exactly appropriate for primate-caretaking: One of the monkeys bites off a rubber fingertip and chokes to death, and Mom leads us in an emotional burial service in the side yard. We clean up poop from the donkey that lives up on the tar roof, where we sometimes shower with
Right after I begin the first grade, our baby sister is born. We’re all thrilled to have a baby girl in the house. Roseanne doesn’t look like any of us, with her pale skin and blond hair—just like Vito has.
Sometimes I like to imagine that my daddy has dark brown hair, just like mine.
For Rosie’s baptism at Saint Philip and James, we dress Rosie in a long white gown. Vito looks funny in his dark suit and sunglasses, and his two friends stay by his side during the ceremony—even for the photos. After Rosie’s christening, we get to take care of her ourselves while Vito takes Mom on a celebration “baby trip” to Lake Havasu, Arizona. It’s Mom’s first plane ride. When they come back, Mom tells us she and Vito had a great time on his “going away” trip but that he won’t be seeing us. “Vito had to go live somewhere else for a while,” she says.
It doesn’t take long before Mom disappears, too. She begins to spend more time away at night, and when she returns from her binges, she brings home a man or a hangover . . . or both. We learn to stay out of her way, because especially when she’s sad or not feeling well, we’ll catch a serious licking. As men come into our home, though, they always comment on what pretty little girls she has. We look down and walk away: If only they knew the trouble their compliments cause. When the men leave, Mom makes sure we all know that we’re just sluts and whores, and Norman is her prince. “You think you’re so pretty?” she says when her visitors leave. “Get over here. You won’t be pretty when I’m done with you.”
Months after Rosie arrives, our mom doesn’t look like our mom anymore. She locks us in her room and cries that, at age thirty, her old go-go dancer body is gone forever and all the stress of raising kids is making her face lined and puffy. “My life amounts to nothing, and it’s all because of you kids!” she screams. As her unhappiness worsens, so does her drinking; and as her drinking increases, so does her weight. It’s Cherie, Camille, or me who take a beating during these tirades. And we never allow her near Norm or Rosie, but Mom’s usually too tired to fuss with the baby anyway.
We teach Rosie to talk and walk and play games, and we shower her with beautiful expressions of love like mia bambina amore and je t’aime . We don’t know how they’re so familiar to us, but we use them a hundred times a day.
All our fawning over Rosie frees Mom up even more, but instead of bringing men home, she’s started bringing in animals to try and cheer herself up. We tiptoe around, cautioning Rosie to avoid the monkeys, turtles, and chickens that Mom attempts to hide from the landlord. The three squirrel monkeys are kept in a cage, and Mom reminds us to put on gloves to feed them—otherwise they’ll eat our fingers as appetizers. Unfortunately, our yellow dishwashing gloves aren’t exactly appropriate for primate-caretaking: One of the monkeys bites off a rubber fingertip and chokes to death, and Mom leads us in an emotional burial service in the side yard. We clean up poop from the donkey that lives up on the tar roof, where we sometimes shower with
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