she was pretty, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said.
In the photo, Gretchen’s mom was laughing, just a very small parting of the lips, and from the picture you could totally hear the sound of it, a small burst of giggles—very delicate, very tiny—which usually ended with her mother pardoning herself, raising the back of her hand to stifle her happiness. It made me feel very awkward and sad, staring at it like that. I hadn’t seen much of her mom’s stuff around, only one or two pictures really, since she had been gone, I guess.
“You miss her bad still?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
In the photograph, Gretchen’s mother was wearing a long white veil made of the thinnest lace you could imagine, her face covered completely, her dark eyes only spots of very delicate softness, making the veil wet with tears. She looked like a tiny, beautiful angel all in white, sitting there at a table with a white plastic tablecloth, posing demurely in a metal folding chair, her own father in a dark suit and her own mother in pale blue standing behind her, looking grim and looking down. Gretchen’s mother was smiling up at the camera with the small fairy-tale smile her sister now had, her immaculate fingers reaching up to press a small sparkling of tears of laughter away, always, always with the back of her hand. She looked like a ghost, like Gretchen said; otherworldly, you know, that was her kind of beauty: so lovely, so precious you felt bad for seeing it, knowing it wouldn’t last. Gretchen didn’t look anything like her mom. She looked like her dad, I guess, short and stocky. I glanced from the photo over to Gretchen. At the moment, Gretchen’s arms and legs and the tops of her hands were covered in black ink that declared, “I am a prisoner of class politics,” and her forehead had broken out in a number of unexplainable blackheads. But there was still something there from her mom—maybe her laugh or that look in the eyes; maybe mischief, I guess.
We went to Jessica’s room next. In there, on her white wood dresser, Jessica had had a framed photograph of John Denver since she was like seven. It was fucking lame, but hilarious. In the photo, John was holding a guitar and singing. Jessica loved John Denver. Once, their parents had taken both of the girls to see him in concert. There wasn’t anything about it that Gretchen ever told me except that after the concert, her dad had carried her up to bed.
Jessica’s room was the opposite of Gretchen’s: mostly pink and white, with framed photo collages on the wall of Jessica’s cheerleading friends, pressed flowers, teddy bears, other miscellaneous girlie crap. The room was a big fucking sore spot between the sisters. Since Jessica had been born first, she had been given the bigger room. The worst part wasn’t that it was bigger, it was the tree: a big oak that ran right up to the window. Jessica had been using it to slip out at night since she was fifteen.
“So?” I said.
“So,” Gretchen said. She stole a tube of glitter lipstick from the dresser and quickly applied it. Gretchen looked around the room for a minute, wondering, and then there was John Denver, grinning hopelessly back, his plain, smiling face and guitar and long hair looking so out of place and Gretchen leapt at it, laughing.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked.
Quickly, Gretchen slipped off the back of the framed picture, removed the photo of John Denver, set it back down on the dresser, and very carefully, only touching the edges of the picture of her mom laughing, placed it within the silver frame.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Let’s take my mom out for a ride,” she said and I nodded, not knowing what to say.
After a little while, listening to the Escort strain to turn over, the Clash blaring “Spanish Bombs,” Gretchen got the car started. She pulled the framed photo from her purse and placed it along the dash, the ghostly reflection of her mom staring back at us.
“That’s a little
“Yeah,” I said.
In the photo, Gretchen’s mom was laughing, just a very small parting of the lips, and from the picture you could totally hear the sound of it, a small burst of giggles—very delicate, very tiny—which usually ended with her mother pardoning herself, raising the back of her hand to stifle her happiness. It made me feel very awkward and sad, staring at it like that. I hadn’t seen much of her mom’s stuff around, only one or two pictures really, since she had been gone, I guess.
“You miss her bad still?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
In the photograph, Gretchen’s mother was wearing a long white veil made of the thinnest lace you could imagine, her face covered completely, her dark eyes only spots of very delicate softness, making the veil wet with tears. She looked like a tiny, beautiful angel all in white, sitting there at a table with a white plastic tablecloth, posing demurely in a metal folding chair, her own father in a dark suit and her own mother in pale blue standing behind her, looking grim and looking down. Gretchen’s mother was smiling up at the camera with the small fairy-tale smile her sister now had, her immaculate fingers reaching up to press a small sparkling of tears of laughter away, always, always with the back of her hand. She looked like a ghost, like Gretchen said; otherworldly, you know, that was her kind of beauty: so lovely, so precious you felt bad for seeing it, knowing it wouldn’t last. Gretchen didn’t look anything like her mom. She looked like her dad, I guess, short and stocky. I glanced from the photo over to Gretchen. At the moment, Gretchen’s arms and legs and the tops of her hands were covered in black ink that declared, “I am a prisoner of class politics,” and her forehead had broken out in a number of unexplainable blackheads. But there was still something there from her mom—maybe her laugh or that look in the eyes; maybe mischief, I guess.
We went to Jessica’s room next. In there, on her white wood dresser, Jessica had had a framed photograph of John Denver since she was like seven. It was fucking lame, but hilarious. In the photo, John was holding a guitar and singing. Jessica loved John Denver. Once, their parents had taken both of the girls to see him in concert. There wasn’t anything about it that Gretchen ever told me except that after the concert, her dad had carried her up to bed.
Jessica’s room was the opposite of Gretchen’s: mostly pink and white, with framed photo collages on the wall of Jessica’s cheerleading friends, pressed flowers, teddy bears, other miscellaneous girlie crap. The room was a big fucking sore spot between the sisters. Since Jessica had been born first, she had been given the bigger room. The worst part wasn’t that it was bigger, it was the tree: a big oak that ran right up to the window. Jessica had been using it to slip out at night since she was fifteen.
“So?” I said.
“So,” Gretchen said. She stole a tube of glitter lipstick from the dresser and quickly applied it. Gretchen looked around the room for a minute, wondering, and then there was John Denver, grinning hopelessly back, his plain, smiling face and guitar and long hair looking so out of place and Gretchen leapt at it, laughing.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked.
Quickly, Gretchen slipped off the back of the framed picture, removed the photo of John Denver, set it back down on the dresser, and very carefully, only touching the edges of the picture of her mom laughing, placed it within the silver frame.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Let’s take my mom out for a ride,” she said and I nodded, not knowing what to say.
After a little while, listening to the Escort strain to turn over, the Clash blaring “Spanish Bombs,” Gretchen got the car started. She pulled the framed photo from her purse and placed it along the dash, the ghostly reflection of her mom staring back at us.
“That’s a little
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