then was kidnapped, for example. But looking
at my little bald head and unhappy face, I wonder now if it was my fault. I wonder
if she abandoned me because I was so ugly.
Mixed in with the photographs are a couple of newspaper articles written about me
the week after I was born. A weird-looking woman at the library photocopied them for
me a few years ago. We found the articles together on microfiche, and after she read
them, she told me that God had a little bit of extra love in his heart for me. She
said she could locate some books for me—books I might like to read.
“ Tom Jones, ” she said, her hand on my shoulder, “is about a foundling.”
“So is Superman .”
The idea comes to me one morning before school. I pull the covers over my head and
breathe hot breath into the tiny space until my face is hot and red. I hold the thermometer
under the desk lamp then put it quickly into my mouth, wander into the kitchen and
tell Miranda that I’m too sick to go to school.
“Oh, little sweetheart,” she says, the back of her hand on my forehead. She studies
the thermometer, tells me I don’t have much of a fever(why didn’t the lightbulb trick work?) but that I’m hot and clammy to the touch. She
says I can stay home until lunchtime; she will walk me to school in the afternoon.
She pulls the covers up to my chin, feels my forehead again, and says she’ll be back
in an hour. She cleans an old woman’s studio apartment on Tuesday mornings. “Don’t
move,” she says. “I won’t be long.”
The minute I hear the click of the front door locking downstairs I’m on my feet, racing
up the stairs to her bedroom. I shut the door behind me and scan the room. Her bed
is neatly made, the Little Mermaid comforter stretched tightly across and tucked under
the mattress. The coffee can is empty of cigarettes, her shoes are lined up against
one wall, the ironing board is against the closet door. The room smells of her skin
lotion and the stale, thick scent of old smoke.
I open each dresser drawer and flip past her folded T-shirts like pages of a magazine:
her large high-waisted underwear, a different color for each day; her sensible wide-strapped
cotton bras, all the same shade of beige; athletic socks rolled into balls; tiny pouches
of potpourri in every drawer, their rose scent mixed with the musty wood of the dresser;
folded pairs of old jeans she never wears; flannel and cotton nightshirts; panty hose.
I find nothing.
Hanging in her closet are pressed collared shirts, two belted dresses, and a trench
coat. I can reach the shelf but it looks like it’s just folded-up sweaters. The floor
of the closet is stacked with shoe boxes, and I open each one. Each is empty, save
for tissue paper, strips of cardboard, plastic rods, and other things designed to
keep the shapes of shoes.
I find the photographs and the letters in a black folder hidden in the space between
her mattress and the wall. The photographs are of Dell, her ex-husband, whom I recognize
from the Polaroid that I stole from Lydia-Rose. He has the same sharp features as
she does. He’s in a suit, sitting on a park bench in front of a fountain, his arm
raised as if to wave at whoever is taking the picture. On the back of the photograph,
Miranda has written Our Wedding Day in her delicate, perfect handwriting. Then there’s a tiny black-and-white photograph
of Miranda and one of her sisters, the two of them kneeling on the grass in front
of a tombstone. It isn’t difficult to figureout which one is Miranda; she has the biggest and brightest face. I flip quickly through
the others. It isn’t Miranda’s past that interests me—for the first time in my life,
it’s my own. I skim the letters, searching for any sign of my name, a birth certificate,
an adoption record, something about my past. But the letters are all from her sister
Sharon. I read them quickly, stopping on a paragraph
at my little bald head and unhappy face, I wonder now if it was my fault. I wonder
if she abandoned me because I was so ugly.
Mixed in with the photographs are a couple of newspaper articles written about me
the week after I was born. A weird-looking woman at the library photocopied them for
me a few years ago. We found the articles together on microfiche, and after she read
them, she told me that God had a little bit of extra love in his heart for me. She
said she could locate some books for me—books I might like to read.
“ Tom Jones, ” she said, her hand on my shoulder, “is about a foundling.”
“So is Superman .”
The idea comes to me one morning before school. I pull the covers over my head and
breathe hot breath into the tiny space until my face is hot and red. I hold the thermometer
under the desk lamp then put it quickly into my mouth, wander into the kitchen and
tell Miranda that I’m too sick to go to school.
“Oh, little sweetheart,” she says, the back of her hand on my forehead. She studies
the thermometer, tells me I don’t have much of a fever(why didn’t the lightbulb trick work?) but that I’m hot and clammy to the touch. She
says I can stay home until lunchtime; she will walk me to school in the afternoon.
She pulls the covers up to my chin, feels my forehead again, and says she’ll be back
in an hour. She cleans an old woman’s studio apartment on Tuesday mornings. “Don’t
move,” she says. “I won’t be long.”
The minute I hear the click of the front door locking downstairs I’m on my feet, racing
up the stairs to her bedroom. I shut the door behind me and scan the room. Her bed
is neatly made, the Little Mermaid comforter stretched tightly across and tucked under
the mattress. The coffee can is empty of cigarettes, her shoes are lined up against
one wall, the ironing board is against the closet door. The room smells of her skin
lotion and the stale, thick scent of old smoke.
I open each dresser drawer and flip past her folded T-shirts like pages of a magazine:
her large high-waisted underwear, a different color for each day; her sensible wide-strapped
cotton bras, all the same shade of beige; athletic socks rolled into balls; tiny pouches
of potpourri in every drawer, their rose scent mixed with the musty wood of the dresser;
folded pairs of old jeans she never wears; flannel and cotton nightshirts; panty hose.
I find nothing.
Hanging in her closet are pressed collared shirts, two belted dresses, and a trench
coat. I can reach the shelf but it looks like it’s just folded-up sweaters. The floor
of the closet is stacked with shoe boxes, and I open each one. Each is empty, save
for tissue paper, strips of cardboard, plastic rods, and other things designed to
keep the shapes of shoes.
I find the photographs and the letters in a black folder hidden in the space between
her mattress and the wall. The photographs are of Dell, her ex-husband, whom I recognize
from the Polaroid that I stole from Lydia-Rose. He has the same sharp features as
she does. He’s in a suit, sitting on a park bench in front of a fountain, his arm
raised as if to wave at whoever is taking the picture. On the back of the photograph,
Miranda has written Our Wedding Day in her delicate, perfect handwriting. Then there’s a tiny black-and-white photograph
of Miranda and one of her sisters, the two of them kneeling on the grass in front
of a tombstone. It isn’t difficult to figureout which one is Miranda; she has the biggest and brightest face. I flip quickly through
the others. It isn’t Miranda’s past that interests me—for the first time in my life,
it’s my own. I skim the letters, searching for any sign of my name, a birth certificate,
an adoption record, something about my past. But the letters are all from her sister
Sharon. I read them quickly, stopping on a paragraph
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