something I can’t place. I close my eyes again and just listen. I remember the lake house my parents used to rent up north each summer; there was this same sound when I was falling asleep at night—this deep humming and chirruping. The curtains over my bed billowed out and then were drawn into the screens when my mother opened the door to say good night. It was like the house was breathing. Good night, Godfrey-boy. Little Godfrey, my sweet.
“Bullfrogs,” I say aloud. “They sound like bullfrogs at night.”
But this is all unsettling, how seemingly easy it is to shift to such a different time and place. I actually feel smaller, boyish. If I try hard enough, I can smell my mother’s perfume and the cabin’s damp fireplace. Do I really have an identity problem? Do I really know who I am or who I was?
I need to talk to my mother. It’s necessary. She’s going to die on me. I only have a short time left, really, to understand her. Who was that woman in the doorway of the lake house? Who is Gloria Burkes—once so young and naive she was seduced by a Thigpen?
The upside to working in Lost Cell Phones is that, in a sea of cell phones, you shouldn’t have to waste your own minutes. It’s against policy to use a lost cell phone, but who’s going to figure that shit out? I pick up a phone from one of the living bins and dial my parents’ number and wait. After two rings, my father answers.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
My father pulls the phone from his ear—I can tell because he sounds trapped in a tunnel—and announces, “Godfrey’s on the line! It’s Godfrey!” like he’s sounding an alarm. I know that my mother is stopping whatever she’s doing. I’m not quite sure what she does exactly, besides bunny rescue, but she’s always busy at it. Within seconds, she’s on the line.
“Godfrey?” she asks, breathless, a note of disbelief in her voice.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“How are you?” she asks.
And, not to be outdone, my father chimes in, “Yes, how are things?”
“Good,” I tell them.
“Is there something you need?” my father asks.
“Can’t I just call to say hello?”
“Of course you can,” my mother says, letting the rest of the sentence go unsaid: but you never do.
“Are you okay?” my father asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just think we should know each other better. As adults. To have a real relationship.”
“A real relationship? Do you hear that, Gloria? Another person in the family wanting a real relationship! I’ll never understand what you all mean by that.”
“Hush, Frank,” my mother says. “Let the boy talk to us.”
“He is talking to us!”
“What do you want to say?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Well, how do you feel?” my mother asks.
“In general?”
“How does he feel! Men don’t have to feel things all the time, Gloria.” His voice becomes softer. “You don’t have to feel things all the time, Godfrey.”
“I may be having an identity problem,” I say.
“An identity problem,” my mother repeats. “You mean you don’t feel like yourself ?”
“You’re you, Godfrey. Trust me. I’m me. Your mother’s your mother. There’s no way around any of that.”
“I keep losing my wallet.” I wave my hand through the air, like that’s supposed to show them how it just wanders off.
“Well, that’s not an identity problem. You’re just being sloppy, forgetful . . . um, what’s that word?” I’m not sure if my father’s asking me or my mother. “When you’re thinking about something else all the time?”
“Preoccupied?” I say.
“That’s it!” he says.
“Are identity problems the mother’s fault?” my mother asks meekly.
“It’s always the mother’s fault,” my father says. “Like Freud says.” Does my father know Freud?
“I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault,” I tell them.
“Godfrey, you don’t have an identity problem,” my mother says with finality.
“I said that it
“Bullfrogs,” I say aloud. “They sound like bullfrogs at night.”
But this is all unsettling, how seemingly easy it is to shift to such a different time and place. I actually feel smaller, boyish. If I try hard enough, I can smell my mother’s perfume and the cabin’s damp fireplace. Do I really have an identity problem? Do I really know who I am or who I was?
I need to talk to my mother. It’s necessary. She’s going to die on me. I only have a short time left, really, to understand her. Who was that woman in the doorway of the lake house? Who is Gloria Burkes—once so young and naive she was seduced by a Thigpen?
The upside to working in Lost Cell Phones is that, in a sea of cell phones, you shouldn’t have to waste your own minutes. It’s against policy to use a lost cell phone, but who’s going to figure that shit out? I pick up a phone from one of the living bins and dial my parents’ number and wait. After two rings, my father answers.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
My father pulls the phone from his ear—I can tell because he sounds trapped in a tunnel—and announces, “Godfrey’s on the line! It’s Godfrey!” like he’s sounding an alarm. I know that my mother is stopping whatever she’s doing. I’m not quite sure what she does exactly, besides bunny rescue, but she’s always busy at it. Within seconds, she’s on the line.
“Godfrey?” she asks, breathless, a note of disbelief in her voice.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“How are you?” she asks.
And, not to be outdone, my father chimes in, “Yes, how are things?”
“Good,” I tell them.
“Is there something you need?” my father asks.
“Can’t I just call to say hello?”
“Of course you can,” my mother says, letting the rest of the sentence go unsaid: but you never do.
“Are you okay?” my father asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just think we should know each other better. As adults. To have a real relationship.”
“A real relationship? Do you hear that, Gloria? Another person in the family wanting a real relationship! I’ll never understand what you all mean by that.”
“Hush, Frank,” my mother says. “Let the boy talk to us.”
“He is talking to us!”
“What do you want to say?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Well, how do you feel?” my mother asks.
“In general?”
“How does he feel! Men don’t have to feel things all the time, Gloria.” His voice becomes softer. “You don’t have to feel things all the time, Godfrey.”
“I may be having an identity problem,” I say.
“An identity problem,” my mother repeats. “You mean you don’t feel like yourself ?”
“You’re you, Godfrey. Trust me. I’m me. Your mother’s your mother. There’s no way around any of that.”
“I keep losing my wallet.” I wave my hand through the air, like that’s supposed to show them how it just wanders off.
“Well, that’s not an identity problem. You’re just being sloppy, forgetful . . . um, what’s that word?” I’m not sure if my father’s asking me or my mother. “When you’re thinking about something else all the time?”
“Preoccupied?” I say.
“That’s it!” he says.
“Are identity problems the mother’s fault?” my mother asks meekly.
“It’s always the mother’s fault,” my father says. “Like Freud says.” Does my father know Freud?
“I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault,” I tell them.
“Godfrey, you don’t have an identity problem,” my mother says with finality.
“I said that it
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