only images I have left of her, and they’re fading fast. Naturally, I treasure them.
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Honey, we could be in Kansas
By time the snow begins to thaw
.
The phone rings. When I pick up the receiver, there’s no one on the other end. Again. Or rather, there’s no one speaking—just breathing.
“Gram? That you?”
No answer.
I decide to tell her about my new friends and what it’s like to know people my own age who can understand the feeling of being trapped in a life that isn’t exactly my own. I explain the rules of the Virgin Club, how we have to (a) want something, and (b) take a risk.
I sense that she understands. She was there once upon a time. But this may be just my wishful thinking.
“And it’s working,” I tell the phone. “Because here I am with a whole new life and new friends. I think I might even be in love.”
Nothing.
“Gram, you still there?”
This is the first time the thought occurs to me that the person on the other end of the phone might be my mother. I know it’s crazy to believe in ghosts, especially the kind that use the telephone, but we aren’t always in control of our thoughts, and sometimes hope is a thing that goes bump in the night.
“Mom?” I try.
As usual, there’s no response. So I sing into the receiver, tentatively at first, then with a bit more confidence.
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Honey, we could be in Kansas
By time the snow begins to thaw
.
By the time Doug gets home, I’m lying on the couch, tangled in a blanket with my guitar and fast asleep. He pokes me until I wake up, and then informs me that I’d be better off if I went upstairs and got into my own bed.
“Are you in love with whatshername?” I ask him.
Doug stands there mulling over the question. He looks pained, like someone who just stepped on a rusty nail and isalready thinking about the follow-up tetanus shot. He lets out a sigh and plops down on the sofa alongside me. The sofa cushions let out a sigh of their own, and then he leans his head all the way back so he can examine the ceiling.
“Mary Jo,” he says, and then he closes his eyes so that I can’t see that he’s about to lie through his teeth. But I have ears. “That’s her name. Mary Jo.”
“And is this Mary Jo the love of your life?” I ask him.
When he turns his head to look at me, I know for sure that I’m in trouble. The blood has drained from his face, and his eyes look as sharp as tacks. But if anybody should be mad, it should be me. I’m the one who is being lied to. I’m about to tell him that, but he beats me to the punch.
“What’re you up to?” he asks. “Just what’re you trying to do?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I’m not up to anything.”
“Okay,” Doug says. “That’s enough. You’re going to bed right this minute.”
He gets up from the couch and starts toward the kitchen, but when he realizes that I’m not going anywhere, he turns and hollers,
“Go! Now!”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask him as I turn toward the stairs. “You’re acting totally weird. I just asked a simple question. I have a right to know.”
He turns his back on me. Just like the Hulk before he explodes into monster form, he’s shaking, his shoulders heaving. He’s trying to contain himself before something bad happens, buteven from behind I can tell that he’s about to explode. I quickly gather up my blanket and head upstairs. When Doug gets like this, you don’t want to be around.
Then I realize that Doug is trying to muffle his sobs; he probably doesn’t want to scare me. But it’s too late. He’s standing in the middle of the living room crying like a beat-up kid.
“Doug?” I say.
He lifts his head, begins to shake it from side to side, and murmurs, “No, no, no, no, no.”
I’m standing behind him now, feeling sorry for the guy. I gently place my
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Honey, we could be in Kansas
By time the snow begins to thaw
.
The phone rings. When I pick up the receiver, there’s no one on the other end. Again. Or rather, there’s no one speaking—just breathing.
“Gram? That you?”
No answer.
I decide to tell her about my new friends and what it’s like to know people my own age who can understand the feeling of being trapped in a life that isn’t exactly my own. I explain the rules of the Virgin Club, how we have to (a) want something, and (b) take a risk.
I sense that she understands. She was there once upon a time. But this may be just my wishful thinking.
“And it’s working,” I tell the phone. “Because here I am with a whole new life and new friends. I think I might even be in love.”
Nothing.
“Gram, you still there?”
This is the first time the thought occurs to me that the person on the other end of the phone might be my mother. I know it’s crazy to believe in ghosts, especially the kind that use the telephone, but we aren’t always in control of our thoughts, and sometimes hope is a thing that goes bump in the night.
“Mom?” I try.
As usual, there’s no response. So I sing into the receiver, tentatively at first, then with a bit more confidence.
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha
Honey, we could be in Kansas
By time the snow begins to thaw
.
By the time Doug gets home, I’m lying on the couch, tangled in a blanket with my guitar and fast asleep. He pokes me until I wake up, and then informs me that I’d be better off if I went upstairs and got into my own bed.
“Are you in love with whatshername?” I ask him.
Doug stands there mulling over the question. He looks pained, like someone who just stepped on a rusty nail and isalready thinking about the follow-up tetanus shot. He lets out a sigh and plops down on the sofa alongside me. The sofa cushions let out a sigh of their own, and then he leans his head all the way back so he can examine the ceiling.
“Mary Jo,” he says, and then he closes his eyes so that I can’t see that he’s about to lie through his teeth. But I have ears. “That’s her name. Mary Jo.”
“And is this Mary Jo the love of your life?” I ask him.
When he turns his head to look at me, I know for sure that I’m in trouble. The blood has drained from his face, and his eyes look as sharp as tacks. But if anybody should be mad, it should be me. I’m the one who is being lied to. I’m about to tell him that, but he beats me to the punch.
“What’re you up to?” he asks. “Just what’re you trying to do?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I’m not up to anything.”
“Okay,” Doug says. “That’s enough. You’re going to bed right this minute.”
He gets up from the couch and starts toward the kitchen, but when he realizes that I’m not going anywhere, he turns and hollers,
“Go! Now!”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask him as I turn toward the stairs. “You’re acting totally weird. I just asked a simple question. I have a right to know.”
He turns his back on me. Just like the Hulk before he explodes into monster form, he’s shaking, his shoulders heaving. He’s trying to contain himself before something bad happens, buteven from behind I can tell that he’s about to explode. I quickly gather up my blanket and head upstairs. When Doug gets like this, you don’t want to be around.
Then I realize that Doug is trying to muffle his sobs; he probably doesn’t want to scare me. But it’s too late. He’s standing in the middle of the living room crying like a beat-up kid.
“Doug?” I say.
He lifts his head, begins to shake it from side to side, and murmurs, “No, no, no, no, no.”
I’m standing behind him now, feeling sorry for the guy. I gently place my
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