moment, communing like angels in the middle of that room, in that warm, shared light of mind.
Say: “He was okay.”
“You shouldn’t be bitter,” your mother snaps. “He financed you and your brother’s college educations.” She buttons her coat. “He was also the first man to isolate a particular isotope of helium, I forget the name, but he should have won the Nobel Prize.” She dabs at her nose.
Say: “Yeah, Mom.”
1958
. At your brother’s wedding, your father is taken away in an ambulance. A tiny cousin whispers loudly to her mother, “Did Uncle Will have a hard attack?” For seven straight days say things to your mother like: “I’m sure it’ll be okay,” and “I’ll stay here, why don’t you go home and get some sleep.”
1957
. Dance the calypso with boys from a different college. Get looped on New York State burgundy, lose your virginity, and buy one of the first portable electric typewriters.
1956
. Tell your mother about all the books you are reading at college. This will please her.
1955
. Do a paint-by-numbers of Elvis Presley. Tell your mother you are in love with him. She will shake her head.
1954
. Shoplift a cashmere sweater.
1953
. Smoke a cigarette with Hillary Swedelson. Tell each other your crushes. Become blood sisters.
1952
. When your mother asks you if there are any nice boys in junior high, ask her how on earth would you ever know, having to come in at nine! every night. Her eyebrows will lift like theater curtains. “You poor, abused thing,” she will say.
Say, “Don’t I know it,” and slam the door.
1951
. Your mother tells you about menstruation. The following day you promptly menstruate, your body only waiting for permission, for a signal. You wake up in the morning and feel embarrassed.
1949
. You learn how to blow gum bubbles and to add negative numbers.
1947
. The Dead Sea Scrolls are discovered.
You have seen too many Hollywood musicals. You have seen too many people singing in public places and you assume you can do it, too. Practice. Your teacher asks you a question. You warble back: “The answer to number two is twelve.” Most of the class laughs at you, though some stare, eyes jewel-still, fascinated. At home your mother asks you to dust your dresser. Work up a vibrato you could drive a truck through. Sing: “Why do I have to do it now?” and tap your way through the dining room. Your mother requests that you calm down and go take a nap. Shout: “You don’t care about me! You don’t care about me at all!”
1946
. Your brother plays “Shoofly Pie” all day long on the Victrola.
Ask your mother if you can go to Ellen’s for supper. She will say, “Go ask your father,” and you, pulling at your fingers, walk out to the living room and whimper by his chair. He is reading. Tap his arm. “Dad? Daddy? Dad?” He continues reading his science journal. Pull harder on your fingers and run back to the kitchen to tell your mother, who storms into the living room, saying, “Why don’t you ever listen to your children when they try to talk to you?” You hear them arguing. Press your face into a kitchen towel, ashamed, the hum of the refrigerator motor, the drip in the sink scaring you.
1945
. Your father comes home from his war work. He gives you a piggyback ride around the broad yellow thatch of your yard, the dead window in the turret, dark as a wound, watching you. He gives you wordless pushes on the swing.
Your brother has new friends, acts older and distant, even while you wait for the school bus together.
You spend too much time alone. You tell your mother that when you grow up you will bring your babies to Australia to see the kangaroos.
Forty thousand people are killed in Nagasaki.
1944
. Dress and cuddle a tiny babydoll you have named “the Sue.” Bring her everywhere. Get lost in the Wilson Creek fruit market, and call softly, “Mom, where are you?” Watch other children picking grapes, but never dare yourself. Your eyes are
Say: “He was okay.”
“You shouldn’t be bitter,” your mother snaps. “He financed you and your brother’s college educations.” She buttons her coat. “He was also the first man to isolate a particular isotope of helium, I forget the name, but he should have won the Nobel Prize.” She dabs at her nose.
Say: “Yeah, Mom.”
1958
. At your brother’s wedding, your father is taken away in an ambulance. A tiny cousin whispers loudly to her mother, “Did Uncle Will have a hard attack?” For seven straight days say things to your mother like: “I’m sure it’ll be okay,” and “I’ll stay here, why don’t you go home and get some sleep.”
1957
. Dance the calypso with boys from a different college. Get looped on New York State burgundy, lose your virginity, and buy one of the first portable electric typewriters.
1956
. Tell your mother about all the books you are reading at college. This will please her.
1955
. Do a paint-by-numbers of Elvis Presley. Tell your mother you are in love with him. She will shake her head.
1954
. Shoplift a cashmere sweater.
1953
. Smoke a cigarette with Hillary Swedelson. Tell each other your crushes. Become blood sisters.
1952
. When your mother asks you if there are any nice boys in junior high, ask her how on earth would you ever know, having to come in at nine! every night. Her eyebrows will lift like theater curtains. “You poor, abused thing,” she will say.
Say, “Don’t I know it,” and slam the door.
1951
. Your mother tells you about menstruation. The following day you promptly menstruate, your body only waiting for permission, for a signal. You wake up in the morning and feel embarrassed.
1949
. You learn how to blow gum bubbles and to add negative numbers.
1947
. The Dead Sea Scrolls are discovered.
You have seen too many Hollywood musicals. You have seen too many people singing in public places and you assume you can do it, too. Practice. Your teacher asks you a question. You warble back: “The answer to number two is twelve.” Most of the class laughs at you, though some stare, eyes jewel-still, fascinated. At home your mother asks you to dust your dresser. Work up a vibrato you could drive a truck through. Sing: “Why do I have to do it now?” and tap your way through the dining room. Your mother requests that you calm down and go take a nap. Shout: “You don’t care about me! You don’t care about me at all!”
1946
. Your brother plays “Shoofly Pie” all day long on the Victrola.
Ask your mother if you can go to Ellen’s for supper. She will say, “Go ask your father,” and you, pulling at your fingers, walk out to the living room and whimper by his chair. He is reading. Tap his arm. “Dad? Daddy? Dad?” He continues reading his science journal. Pull harder on your fingers and run back to the kitchen to tell your mother, who storms into the living room, saying, “Why don’t you ever listen to your children when they try to talk to you?” You hear them arguing. Press your face into a kitchen towel, ashamed, the hum of the refrigerator motor, the drip in the sink scaring you.
1945
. Your father comes home from his war work. He gives you a piggyback ride around the broad yellow thatch of your yard, the dead window in the turret, dark as a wound, watching you. He gives you wordless pushes on the swing.
Your brother has new friends, acts older and distant, even while you wait for the school bus together.
You spend too much time alone. You tell your mother that when you grow up you will bring your babies to Australia to see the kangaroos.
Forty thousand people are killed in Nagasaki.
1944
. Dress and cuddle a tiny babydoll you have named “the Sue.” Bring her everywhere. Get lost in the Wilson Creek fruit market, and call softly, “Mom, where are you?” Watch other children picking grapes, but never dare yourself. Your eyes are
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