for me to spend months and months in therapy!” One of Elena’s rare references to what had happened twelve years before. “Besides, I took a bunch of psychology courses.”
In the course of her four colleges during years of on-and-off schooling, Elena had taken courses in almost everything. “Do you really think you might be interested in therapy? You could go back to school.”
“How do I know if it’s real? I need to watch a therapist in action. Then I can decide.”
She would beg Jim not to blame her if it didn’t work out, and urge him not to hesitate to end the situation if Elena was getting in his way. But, yes, it seemed to her a better situation than the restaurant. From her pre-academic years in the law collective, she had a pretty good idea how much cocaine and speed and heroin passed through the kitchens of restaurants. It would be much better for Elena to be out of there. She was always at risk. She thought that Elena had stayed clear of drugs since she was fifteen, but she could never be sure. Never. She supposed she just wanted to believe that.
I feel like a bad mother. I think on the whole I have been barely adequate—like Beverly, my own mother .
I’m also feeling guilty that one of my first reactions—silent, of course—to my mother’s stroke is to worry about what impact it’s going to have on me. What will happen to her? How much will all this cost? Is she going to move back into her apartment, ever?
I know I’ve presented myself to you as organized, capable, rational, in control. Most of the time that’s how I think of myself. Yet sometimes I look at my life and I feel just the opposite is true, that everything outside of the law is a series of overreactions and careening blunders .
Like my mother, I got pregnant at twenty-two. I had just entered law school. The smart thing I did was not to drop out but to continue. The other smart thing I did was not to marry Elena’s father, although I have to confess he didn’t ask me .
Victor had been five years older than Suzanne and dazzlingly handsome. When he began to pay special attention to her, she could not believe it. She met him in the clinic their law school was running, where she as a first-year student was involved in a work-study program. He was in danger of being deported. She could still remember the moment he had turned and suddenly stared into her eyes, when she felt the floor dissolve under her soles. His eyes were large and luminous, a radiant dark brown: Elena’s eyes. Stories swirled about Victor, as they always would, for he looked as if he should be a hero. Perhaps he was. He was also a skillful liar, but then that might go with being a hero in danger. She had never understood him. She had only experienced him.
She knew she should not become involved with him, and she was unable to resist. His desire simply encompassed her and she burned. She still could not imagine why he had selected her among all the women who flirted with him, even after he and she were involved, even right in her presence. But he found in her exactly what he was looking for. She was not a virgin, but she might as well have been, for his touch consumed her. She was besotted with him. She adored him, even as part of her studied him more cautiously than he ever realized.
One thing she was not too besotted to figure out was that he was not, as the rumors said, a peasant who had taken up arms. He was the son of a family with considerable money. He had been educated in private schools abroad, as was the custom in his family. Yes, he had become a radical and yes, he had fought the government. She did not doubt he had put himself in danger. But he was never short of money. What he lacked was comfort. He had decided to move in with her almost immediately, and he expected to be taken care of. In spite of her feminism, she did not doubt for a moment that she must cater to him. He was semidivine. His skin was satin. His eyes were those of a proud predator.
In the course of her four colleges during years of on-and-off schooling, Elena had taken courses in almost everything. “Do you really think you might be interested in therapy? You could go back to school.”
“How do I know if it’s real? I need to watch a therapist in action. Then I can decide.”
She would beg Jim not to blame her if it didn’t work out, and urge him not to hesitate to end the situation if Elena was getting in his way. But, yes, it seemed to her a better situation than the restaurant. From her pre-academic years in the law collective, she had a pretty good idea how much cocaine and speed and heroin passed through the kitchens of restaurants. It would be much better for Elena to be out of there. She was always at risk. She thought that Elena had stayed clear of drugs since she was fifteen, but she could never be sure. Never. She supposed she just wanted to believe that.
I feel like a bad mother. I think on the whole I have been barely adequate—like Beverly, my own mother .
I’m also feeling guilty that one of my first reactions—silent, of course—to my mother’s stroke is to worry about what impact it’s going to have on me. What will happen to her? How much will all this cost? Is she going to move back into her apartment, ever?
I know I’ve presented myself to you as organized, capable, rational, in control. Most of the time that’s how I think of myself. Yet sometimes I look at my life and I feel just the opposite is true, that everything outside of the law is a series of overreactions and careening blunders .
Like my mother, I got pregnant at twenty-two. I had just entered law school. The smart thing I did was not to drop out but to continue. The other smart thing I did was not to marry Elena’s father, although I have to confess he didn’t ask me .
Victor had been five years older than Suzanne and dazzlingly handsome. When he began to pay special attention to her, she could not believe it. She met him in the clinic their law school was running, where she as a first-year student was involved in a work-study program. He was in danger of being deported. She could still remember the moment he had turned and suddenly stared into her eyes, when she felt the floor dissolve under her soles. His eyes were large and luminous, a radiant dark brown: Elena’s eyes. Stories swirled about Victor, as they always would, for he looked as if he should be a hero. Perhaps he was. He was also a skillful liar, but then that might go with being a hero in danger. She had never understood him. She had only experienced him.
She knew she should not become involved with him, and she was unable to resist. His desire simply encompassed her and she burned. She still could not imagine why he had selected her among all the women who flirted with him, even after he and she were involved, even right in her presence. But he found in her exactly what he was looking for. She was not a virgin, but she might as well have been, for his touch consumed her. She was besotted with him. She adored him, even as part of her studied him more cautiously than he ever realized.
One thing she was not too besotted to figure out was that he was not, as the rumors said, a peasant who had taken up arms. He was the son of a family with considerable money. He had been educated in private schools abroad, as was the custom in his family. Yes, he had become a radical and yes, he had fought the government. She did not doubt he had put himself in danger. But he was never short of money. What he lacked was comfort. He had decided to move in with her almost immediately, and he expected to be taken care of. In spite of her feminism, she did not doubt for a moment that she must cater to him. He was semidivine. His skin was satin. His eyes were those of a proud predator.
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