bed, and put her arms around me.
“My sweet girl!” she said, kissing me a few times on different parts of my face. Then she patted my back, and I patted hers, and we both felt better. After a while I lay down again and my grandmother stood up and said, “You take a good rest now, and you’ll feel better. You’re not hot, but I still think your father should call the doctor. He says he has to make rice pudding. I don’t know why he can’t call the doctor and make the rice pudding. Or even why he has to make rice pudding at all. Jello is much lighter on the stomach. But there are some people who you just can’t talk to ...”
By the time my grandmother left, I had stopped crying. I was exhausted. My face felt like it was all puffed up, and my body ached like I had Charlie horse. It was good being in bed. Later, when my father came upstairs with a dish of rice pudding, I began to feel better.
Not good. Just better. Better than horrible. It’s like being miserable, but not as miserable as you used to be. But still miserable.
I sat up in bed, and my father handed me the dish. “Eat, eat,” he said softly. “You’ll feel better.”
How many years had he been saying the same thing? He watched me eating. It was so good. I hadn’t had any breakfast. “Slow down!” he said. “Don’t gulp like that. You’ll get a stomach ache.”
When I finished, he took away the dish and asked if I could sleep now. He thought it would be the best thing if I could take a nap. I’d feel like a new person when I woke up.
“Oh, Daddy,” I said. “Did you hear? Did Mom tell you what Uncle Stanley said?”
My father shook his head. “I never liked it,” he said. “I told your mother, right away, when you were born. Why name a beautiful, new, little girl after somebody dead and gone? Why name her after anybody for that matter?”
“But that’s not the point, Daddy.”
“It is the point. The dead is the dead, and the living is the living, and most important of all is that each person should be himself or herself, and nobody else. A dead sister—what’s that? I have five living sisters—three of them beautiful, and one of them good and charming as well as beautiful. Did I say name this baby after my sister, Dolores, because she’s good and charming and beautiful? No! Because she is she, and you are you, and somebody who died in a fire thirty years ago is somebody else, and somebody who died is gone and finished.”
I started to cry again, and my father said, “No, no, never mind me! I’m upset, and I’m upsetting you too. The important thing is that it’s over. Forget it, Mary Rose! Forget the whole business!”
“It’s not over,” I said. “It’ll never be over. I thought she was so great, so good and noble and she was mean and horrible, and she never even saved those people. And worst of all ...” I was really crying, “... worst of all, I’m stuck with her name, with Mary Rose. It’s a terrible name. I hate it.”
My father put the empty dish of rice pudding down on the floor, and sat down on the bed. “But it’s not her name anymore. It’s your name.”
“No, it’s her name. And she was mean and selfish and jealous. Why should I have to be named for somebody like that?”
“First of all,” my father said, “it’s your name, not hers. There must be other people in this world named Mary Rose too. Each of those people is Mary Rose—different and apart from any other Mary Rose.”
“But, Daddy ...”
“Wait, I’m not finished. That’s number one. You are Mary Rose and Mary Rose in Pennsylvania is Mary Rose too, but different from you, and Mary Rose in Egypt ...”
“Oh, Daddy, there’s no Mary Rose in Egypt.”
“How do you know? She could be the daughter of an American doctor in Cairo, or an actress who lives in Port Said. But, anyway, that’s just number one. Number two is—how can you be so sure that Mary Rose was mean and horrible?”
“Because Uncle Stanley said
“My sweet girl!” she said, kissing me a few times on different parts of my face. Then she patted my back, and I patted hers, and we both felt better. After a while I lay down again and my grandmother stood up and said, “You take a good rest now, and you’ll feel better. You’re not hot, but I still think your father should call the doctor. He says he has to make rice pudding. I don’t know why he can’t call the doctor and make the rice pudding. Or even why he has to make rice pudding at all. Jello is much lighter on the stomach. But there are some people who you just can’t talk to ...”
By the time my grandmother left, I had stopped crying. I was exhausted. My face felt like it was all puffed up, and my body ached like I had Charlie horse. It was good being in bed. Later, when my father came upstairs with a dish of rice pudding, I began to feel better.
Not good. Just better. Better than horrible. It’s like being miserable, but not as miserable as you used to be. But still miserable.
I sat up in bed, and my father handed me the dish. “Eat, eat,” he said softly. “You’ll feel better.”
How many years had he been saying the same thing? He watched me eating. It was so good. I hadn’t had any breakfast. “Slow down!” he said. “Don’t gulp like that. You’ll get a stomach ache.”
When I finished, he took away the dish and asked if I could sleep now. He thought it would be the best thing if I could take a nap. I’d feel like a new person when I woke up.
“Oh, Daddy,” I said. “Did you hear? Did Mom tell you what Uncle Stanley said?”
My father shook his head. “I never liked it,” he said. “I told your mother, right away, when you were born. Why name a beautiful, new, little girl after somebody dead and gone? Why name her after anybody for that matter?”
“But that’s not the point, Daddy.”
“It is the point. The dead is the dead, and the living is the living, and most important of all is that each person should be himself or herself, and nobody else. A dead sister—what’s that? I have five living sisters—three of them beautiful, and one of them good and charming as well as beautiful. Did I say name this baby after my sister, Dolores, because she’s good and charming and beautiful? No! Because she is she, and you are you, and somebody who died in a fire thirty years ago is somebody else, and somebody who died is gone and finished.”
I started to cry again, and my father said, “No, no, never mind me! I’m upset, and I’m upsetting you too. The important thing is that it’s over. Forget it, Mary Rose! Forget the whole business!”
“It’s not over,” I said. “It’ll never be over. I thought she was so great, so good and noble and she was mean and horrible, and she never even saved those people. And worst of all ...” I was really crying, “... worst of all, I’m stuck with her name, with Mary Rose. It’s a terrible name. I hate it.”
My father put the empty dish of rice pudding down on the floor, and sat down on the bed. “But it’s not her name anymore. It’s your name.”
“No, it’s her name. And she was mean and selfish and jealous. Why should I have to be named for somebody like that?”
“First of all,” my father said, “it’s your name, not hers. There must be other people in this world named Mary Rose too. Each of those people is Mary Rose—different and apart from any other Mary Rose.”
“But, Daddy ...”
“Wait, I’m not finished. That’s number one. You are Mary Rose and Mary Rose in Pennsylvania is Mary Rose too, but different from you, and Mary Rose in Egypt ...”
“Oh, Daddy, there’s no Mary Rose in Egypt.”
“How do you know? She could be the daughter of an American doctor in Cairo, or an actress who lives in Port Said. But, anyway, that’s just number one. Number two is—how can you be so sure that Mary Rose was mean and horrible?”
“Because Uncle Stanley said
Similar Books
