Goldengrove by Francine Prose Page A

heavy book back onto the shelf left me so exhausted I had to lie down on the floor. I opened my eyes to see my father leaning over me.
    “Nico!” he said. “What’s wrong?”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “I was taking a nap.” I glanced at the shelves, where the incriminating anthology had faded back into the rows of books. I almost said, “I found the poem. I know what you and Mom did.” But what would that have led to besides a conversation I didn’t want to have, looking up at my father from the bookstore floor?
    I said, “I’m trying an experiment. A sort of osmosis thing. I’m seeing whether if I take a nap next to the poetry books, maybe a few lines will seep into my brain and make me understand poetry better.”
    Dad said, “My little scientist. So does it work? Did anything stick?”
    “Not a word,” I answered.
    “Too bad,” my father said. Clearly, he didn’t believe me. But at least he didn’t ask why my experiment had left me in tears.
     
    I HAD TO BE CAREFUL WHAT I SAID, LEST ALL MY LIES COME TRUE . My experiment in the poetry aisle had been an accidental success. Something lodged in my mind, so that for the rest of the day, that line, “ It is Margaret you mourn for ,” bashed around inside my brain like a bird trapped in a house. I knew it was insane to think that naming my sister after a morbid poem meant that she would die young. But the line stayed with me, and I wanted to get rid of it, the way you can pass along a tune that’s driving you crazy by singing it so that it leaves your head and enters someone else’s.
    That evening, at dinner, I kept quiet as long as I could. Then I asked, “So are you going to change the name of the store now, or what?” It wasn’t what I’d said so much as the way I’d said it, the aggrieved, sullen teenage tone my parents hadn’t heard since my sister died. They sat up and listened as if they were hearing the voice of someone they used to know.
    Dad was the first to realize that it was only my former self. “Why would that be?” he said.
    “Goldengrove,” I said. “Isn’t that from the poem you named Margaret after?”
    My parents looked puzzled. Could they have forgotten? Did they think Margaret was just a name they’d liked when they were hippies planting vegetables by the light of the full moon?
    I said, “Would you like me to bring the book home and read it to you?”
    “That won’t be necessary,” Dad said. “I remember it perfectly well.”
    My mother said, “Margaret’s a beautiful name.”
    “ Was ,” I said. “ Was a beautiful name.”
    “ Is ,” she said warningly.
    “I still think Margaret’s a pretty name,” said my father. “As is Nico, for that matter.”
    “Pretty?” I said. “Pretty?” I looked to Mom for support even as I felt my case collapse. How could I accuse them of harming my sister by naming her after a poem? Soon they’d insist on sending me for professional help. I wondered if Aaron’s mother had told him I’d said he should come visit me at the store.
    I said, “Speaking of doctors,” though we hadn’t been. “Did you guys make that appointment for me to see the specialist in the city?”
    “What appointment?” said Mom.
    I said, “I can’t believe you forgot.”
    “Nico, sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with you,” said my father.
    I said, “The sooner the better, okay? The heart specialist?”
    “Will do.” My mother gave me a trembly version of Margaret’s Ginger Rogers salute.
    And though it was still early, I went to my room and got into bed.

Seven
     
    T HE NEXT MORNING , I WOKE UP DRENCHED WITH SWEAT FROM A night of troubling dreams. In one, a blotchy purple stain seeped in from the edges of my field of vision. I’d never had a nightmare like that, of gathering darkness and blindness. I was afraid to open my eyes. I opened one. I could see. Then I remembered the line from the poem.
    I whispered, “Help me. I need your help. Tell me what to do.”
    Margaret and I