of milk in 1984.
She’s holding my left hand in hers, our fingers interlaced, and her hand feels familiar, even after all this time. I’m three, and my hand is in hers when she helps me climb stairs, when we sing “Ring Around the Rosy,” when I have a splinter. Her hands are available, playful, and skilled. After Nate died, at first she held my hand a little tighter. I’m seven, and my hand is in hers when we cross the street, when she leads me through a crowded parking lot, when she paints my nails. Her hands are confident and safe. And then I’m eight, and my hand must be too awkward to hold along with all that grief, so she just lets go. Now I’m thirty-seven, and my hand is in hers.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“Let me get Martha.”
“I’m fine. I can do it.”
Now, since the accident, I have yet to get up and use the bathroom on my own, so I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I’m perfectly capable of this. Maybe it’s because I feel normal, and I have to pee. I don’t feel like I’m paying attention to only half of me or half of my mother or half of the bathroom. I don’t feel like anything’s missing. Until I take that first left step.
I’m not sure where the bottom of my left foot is relative to the ground, and I can’t tell if my knee is straight or bent, and then I think it might be hyperextended, and after a shocking and herky-jerky second, I step forward with my right foot. But my center of gravity is wildly off, and the next thing I know, I go crashing to the floor.
“Sarah!”
“I’m okay.”
I taste blood. I must’ve cut my lip.
“Oh my God, don’t move, I’ll go get Martha!”
“Just help me up.”
But she’s already out the door.
I’m lying on the cold floor, trying to imagine how to get myself up, licking my wounded lip, and thinking that it might take longer than two weeks to get back to work. I wonder who’s handling the Harvard recruiting for me. I hope it’s not Carson. And I wonder who’s overseeing annual evaluations. That’s a huge project. I should be tackling that right now. My shoulder’s throbbing. I wonder what’s taking my mother so long.
Since giving birth to Linus, it’s become embarrassingly difficult for me to contain a full bladder. Much to Bob’s annoyance, I can no longer “hold it until we get there,” and I have to beg him to pull over at least once whenever we’re in the car for more than an hour. I drink twenty ounces of coffee at a time at work, which means I often spend the last ten minutes of any hour-long meeting tapping my feet under the table like I’m an Irish step dancer, consumed with a desperate plan to sprint to the nearest bathroom the second it ends.
I’ve abandoned any delusions I had of getting up on my own and am now devoting 100 percent of my energy and focus on not peeing right here on the floor. Thank God my bladder or whatever part of me I’m concentrating on is in the center of me and not somewhere on the left. I pray I don’t sneeze.
My mother finally rushes in with Martha behind her. My mother looks frantic and pale. Martha sizes me up with her hands on her hips.
“Well, that was impulsive,” she says.
I can think of a few choice things I could do or say right now that would be truly impulsive, but this woman is in charge of my care, and I need to get to the bathroom before I pee, and I need to get back to work before I lose my job, so I bite my bloody lip.
“I should’ve helped her,” says my mother.
“No, that’s not your job. That’s my job. Next time, press the call button. Let me be the therapist, and you be the mother.”
“Okay,” says my mother, like she’s just taken an oath.
Be the mother. Like she has any idea what that means. Be the mother. All at once, those three words irk me and amuse me and pinch a delicate part of me. But most of all, they distract me, and I pee all over the floor.
CHAPTER 11
It’s early in the morning, before breakfast,
She’s holding my left hand in hers, our fingers interlaced, and her hand feels familiar, even after all this time. I’m three, and my hand is in hers when she helps me climb stairs, when we sing “Ring Around the Rosy,” when I have a splinter. Her hands are available, playful, and skilled. After Nate died, at first she held my hand a little tighter. I’m seven, and my hand is in hers when we cross the street, when she leads me through a crowded parking lot, when she paints my nails. Her hands are confident and safe. And then I’m eight, and my hand must be too awkward to hold along with all that grief, so she just lets go. Now I’m thirty-seven, and my hand is in hers.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“Let me get Martha.”
“I’m fine. I can do it.”
Now, since the accident, I have yet to get up and use the bathroom on my own, so I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I’m perfectly capable of this. Maybe it’s because I feel normal, and I have to pee. I don’t feel like I’m paying attention to only half of me or half of my mother or half of the bathroom. I don’t feel like anything’s missing. Until I take that first left step.
I’m not sure where the bottom of my left foot is relative to the ground, and I can’t tell if my knee is straight or bent, and then I think it might be hyperextended, and after a shocking and herky-jerky second, I step forward with my right foot. But my center of gravity is wildly off, and the next thing I know, I go crashing to the floor.
“Sarah!”
“I’m okay.”
I taste blood. I must’ve cut my lip.
“Oh my God, don’t move, I’ll go get Martha!”
“Just help me up.”
But she’s already out the door.
I’m lying on the cold floor, trying to imagine how to get myself up, licking my wounded lip, and thinking that it might take longer than two weeks to get back to work. I wonder who’s handling the Harvard recruiting for me. I hope it’s not Carson. And I wonder who’s overseeing annual evaluations. That’s a huge project. I should be tackling that right now. My shoulder’s throbbing. I wonder what’s taking my mother so long.
Since giving birth to Linus, it’s become embarrassingly difficult for me to contain a full bladder. Much to Bob’s annoyance, I can no longer “hold it until we get there,” and I have to beg him to pull over at least once whenever we’re in the car for more than an hour. I drink twenty ounces of coffee at a time at work, which means I often spend the last ten minutes of any hour-long meeting tapping my feet under the table like I’m an Irish step dancer, consumed with a desperate plan to sprint to the nearest bathroom the second it ends.
I’ve abandoned any delusions I had of getting up on my own and am now devoting 100 percent of my energy and focus on not peeing right here on the floor. Thank God my bladder or whatever part of me I’m concentrating on is in the center of me and not somewhere on the left. I pray I don’t sneeze.
My mother finally rushes in with Martha behind her. My mother looks frantic and pale. Martha sizes me up with her hands on her hips.
“Well, that was impulsive,” she says.
I can think of a few choice things I could do or say right now that would be truly impulsive, but this woman is in charge of my care, and I need to get to the bathroom before I pee, and I need to get back to work before I lose my job, so I bite my bloody lip.
“I should’ve helped her,” says my mother.
“No, that’s not your job. That’s my job. Next time, press the call button. Let me be the therapist, and you be the mother.”
“Okay,” says my mother, like she’s just taken an oath.
Be the mother. Like she has any idea what that means. Be the mother. All at once, those three words irk me and amuse me and pinch a delicate part of me. But most of all, they distract me, and I pee all over the floor.
CHAPTER 11
It’s early in the morning, before breakfast,
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