Sixth Grade
“Mom?” I peeked into the darkened bedroom, trying to make sense out of the long shadows. There was no sound except for the hum of the heater.
“Mom, are you awake?” There was no response. I looked deeper into the shadow sensing movement by the window; it was the curtain shifting slightly with the warm furnace air. I felt another consciousness though. I knew she was awake.
“Mom?” I asked again.
“Yes,” she said finally, in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like she hadn’t talked in a long while. The voice came from somewhere across the room, near the bed.
“What is it?”
I turned my head in the right direction, and spoke into the darkness.
“Can I come in?”
“I…yes, for a little while.”
“’Kay.”
I tiptoed into the room on the balls of my feet, trying to pass through the air without disturbing it, trying to match the stillness in the room. I was halfway across the room when a small lamp clicked on, catching me in mid step like a burglar robbing a house. Mom sat in a wingback chair with an afghan around her legs, blinking her eyes slowly. For a moment I wondered if she recognized me; of course she does, I thought a little disconcerted, I’m her daughter. I crossed the room in three quick steps and sat on the edge of the bed.
Mom’s hair was down, cascading about her thin shoulders and around her face, veiling her as if she were in church. Everything about her seemed thick and heavy, as though it was hard for her to sit up or walk or talk to me. Thin hands rested on her lap, stroking the blanket in small movements. She smiled wanly, just a flicker of her lips. Of course she knows who I am.
“How was your day, Mom?” I asked cheerfully. “Did you go out?” Where would she want to go?
“No.”
I glanced around the room, pretending not to notice the dirty glasses on the dresser and the pile of clothes on the floor.
“I didn’t feel like going to school either. Did you do anything special?”
“No.”
Ask me about my day. “Did you read much today?”
“No.”
Ask me, please. “Did your head hurt again?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I had an okay day.”
“Good...”
“Um…something special happened to me today.”
“Oh.”
“I got my period.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said softly.
“Yeah, I guess. My stomach hurt this morning, but Grammy made me go to school anyway. She was really mean about it too. In 3rd period - that’s social studies Ms Kramer’s class - I had to go to the bathroom, but she never lets anyone go, unless they look crazy desperate, but that’s embarrassing and gross ‘cause then everyone knows you gotta go…"
“Oh,” she said again.
“…and I felt uncomfortable down there, so I walked up to Ms Kramer when everybody was doing their worksheets and …"
“Does Grammy know?”
“She’s not home yet. So I told Ms Kramer that I had womanly matters to take care of in the bathroom and she just let me go. She didn’t even tell me to hurry up!”
“Mikaela, I’m getting a little tired…”
“At least now I know I won’t be the last in the class to get it. I know for a fact that Anne Clare still hasn’t gotten hers…”
“I need to rest now,” Mom said in a plaintive whisper. It sounded like a shout; I suddenly felt like an intruder.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll go. But first tell me what I should do. What do I need? To wear, I mean. Do I get the…”
“Grammy will help you.”
“But Grammy’s not home yet."
“Soon, she'll be back soon.”
“Mom, I’m wearing toilet paper, I need the other stuff.”
“Please Mikaela, I need to rest now,” she said and laid her head on one of the chair wings and closed her eyes. Dad used to tell Bryan and me that if you fell asleep in the chair, it would gently lift you up into the air and fly you around the world. And all while you were dreaming. I didn’t think there was anymore flying, the chair belonged to Mom now.
I waited for a few seconds watching her breath in and out, a smooth slow movement that meant she was still alive. I turned off the lamp and stepped out carefully, heel toe, heel toe, mindful not to turn around and look at Mom just in case the chair decided to fly that night.
I burned the macaroni and cheese. It was my turn to cook and I usually warmed up leftovers, but the only thing in the refrigerator were a couple of pieces of yesterday’s chicken. I set the macaroni to cook and went to the bathroom to change my toilet paper. I took too long; the macaroni boiled dry and stuck to the bottom of the pot so that I had to scrape it for the cheese to mix in. It was yellow and brown with small bits of black when I served it on the table. I had forgotten to heat the chicken so I served it cold. Quickly opening a can of corn, I set it on the table alongside a plate holding sliced bread.
Grammy nodded her head as I hurried to sit down in my usual spot next to Bryan. He elbowed me and bowed his head to conceal his sneer.
“Father bless this bounty set before us and lighten our daily loads, in your name, Amen.”
“Amen,” Bryan and I said in unison.
“What the hell is that slop?” Bryan said as he held a large spoonful of the burnt macaroni. It jiggled as he shook his hand, some of it falling back into the bowl in a splat.
“Watch your mouth, young man,” Grammy said in a tight voice.
“Look at it,” he offered her the spoonful, “it’s nauseating. How am I supposed to eat that? It doesn’t even look like food.”
“Well you could’ve helped me!” I yelled at him.
“It’s not my turn tonight. And who doesn’t know how to make macaroni and cheese, moron?”
“You weren’t doing anything but talking on your phone…”
“Enough!” Grammy said loudly. Bryan looked at her, as though surprised she had such volume. I glared at my empty plate.
“Pass the bread and some of that chicken and quit your grousing.”
“The chicken’s cold!” Bryan's mouth twisted with disgust. “Ugh, there are blobs of grease on it!”
My ears burned. I felt Grammy watching me, her stare uncompromising. “All I ask is that dinner be ready when I get home. A plate of hot food on the table. Is that too much to ask?”
Bryan breathed heavily, adding his assent to Grammy’s disapproval.
“And you’re in charge Bryan. You might once in a while check on what’s going on in the kitchen.”
“So I have to stop doing my homework because she needs me to tell her to put the chicken in the microwave? She’s not a baby, she’s 11 for crissakes!” Both sets of eyes turned to me. I ran from the table and down the hallway, slipping as I passed into my tiny room, banging my head on the door jamb. One step in and I landed on the bed, reaching back with my foot to slam the door shut. The tiny space that held only my bed and a small nightstand stood at the end of the hall, behind the staircase. It’s hardly bigger than a broom closet, was in fact a home for the vacuum cleaner before we moved in, before we were forced to live with Grammy, before Mom became a ghost.
I don’t know how long it was before Grammy knocked on my door, walking in without waiting for a response. She never waited, my house, she had told Bryan the first time, and then every other time he complained. She carried a small tray with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk on it. She knew I hated milk.
I faced the wall when Grammy sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at me for a while and finally talked to my back when I refused to turn around.
“Since when does Bryan’s mouth upset you?” I scrunched up the bedspread under my fingers.
“Everybody burns dinner at some time in their lives, it’s nothing to get upset about. I came near burning down the house one time. Granddad was a patient man, never complained, well maybe once or twice, but he had a right, I may have given him food poisoning…” She blew out an exasperated breath. “Sit up girl, I can’t talk to your back anymore.”
I sat up but kept my eyes on the other side of the room.
“What’s got you tied up in knots? If you don’t say, then how am I supposed to…”
“I got my period,” I said flatly.
“Oh...well…it’s nothing to get upset about.”
“In school,” I said accusingly, “after I told you my stomach hurt.”
“I thought you were making it up, you do that sometimes, you know.”
“No I don’t,” I said looking at her for the first time. “It’s Bryan who lies.”
She looked at me through slightly squinted eyes. “Hmmph. Maybe so. Maybe it’s Bryan.”
“Yeah, it’s Bryan.”
She pursed her lips, studying me. “I think I see a little of your father in you girl.” Scrunching the bedspread with my fingers suddenly seemed interesting.
“Yeah? Dad was okay.”
“Yes, he was. There’s some of your mother in you too.”
“I hope not,” I said a little too quickly.
“And why not? Despite her problems your mother has some good qualities.”
“Like being pretty?” I glanced at the mirror on the opposite wall and saw only fat cheeks, a squashed nose dotted with freckles and a hideous hole in my chin.
“Bryan took after Victoria, you look more like the Watts’, cleft chin and all.” I made face.
“No need to worry, somehow it worked out for your father and it’ll work out for you as well.”
“So maybe I’ll get pretty one day?”
“Well how am I supposed to know that girl? I can’t predict the future. No, I was thinking rather, that you got your mother’s artistic sense, the way you write those stories…”
“How do you know about my stories?” I asked indignantly. “I never said you could look at them! they're not for other people,” I said infuriated. “You shouldn’t have read them!”
“Don’t get all wound up. I saw them in your bag when I was signing those papers for school.” She looked at me wryly. “Seems like you got the Watts temper too.” I looked at the wall again, choosing to ignore her.
“I remember when Michael brought Victoria home for the first time. She was a beautiful girl, long chestnut hair and perfect skin. Well proportioned too. But her hands were something else. Rough and red, like they were always wet and with paint in her fingernails. I asked her why she didn’t wash her hands before she came to visit and she told me the paint was dyed into her skin and it would take a long time for it to fade. But not to worry, she said, I would get to see her clean fingers one day because she was planning on taking up sketching. And on being around a long time.” Grammy snorted. “She had a little gumption back then.”
“So where’d it go?” I asked. Grammy looked at me for a moment.
“I don’t know, girl, seems like it just sort of faded over the years, lost a little of herself whenever there was something difficult to deal with. I never did understand why they decided to have a child. Some foolish romantic notion, no doubt. Getting pregnant was probably the worse thing she could have done. She didn’t know how to care for Bryan at all. I had to step in and babysit during the day. I didn’t mind really, he was a lovely baby, nothing like he is today. But I never saw anything like it, Victoria just didn’t seem to have any instincts at all about children.” Grammy nodded absently. “Never saw anything like it.”
“What about me? Was she better by then?”
“Why no, she never got better. You were a total surprise package I can tell you.” A sick feeling began growing in my belly.
“They didn't want me?” I asked a little warily.
“I didn’t say that, don't go putting words in my mouth.”
“You just said I was an accident! That means they didn’t want me in the first place, they only wanted Bryan!”
“Why are you getting your panties bunched up? Babies just come girl, they have always just come. Of course Michael was thrilled to have a baby girl…and Victoria set up your nursery very nicely too. They hired a nanny even though money was tight. I was working by then and couldn't care for you like I had for Bryan." She cleared her throat and turned to me, all business again.
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you the facts of life? Where babies come from and all that?” I didn’t answer. There was a shift occuring within me, a change of course from the familiar to the unknown. A rippling of fear lined my vision as my world became a strange place.
“Did you hear me?”
“What?” I said blankly. Grammy pursed her lips, annoyed.
“Are you going to be worrying about what I said, girl? Isn’t it enough that they loved you once you were here?”
“I guess.” But it wasn’t. Because something huge had fallen into place; a mystery of unknown proportions which touched on the cornerstones of my life had suddenly been revealed in a simple offhand remark. I now knew why it had always been Dad who picked us up from school when we were sick; I knew why I called my first nanny ‘mommy’ instead of my own mother; I knew why it was our father who Bryan called out for in the middle of the night when he was awakened by a bad dream. And countless other clues that careened through my memory like a runaway train; memories of me and Dad and Bryan, in the car, at the park, Disney World - Mom didn’t even go to Disney World! - bath time, homework, learning to ride my bike; and after, it was Grammy who told us about Dad’s car wreck, not mom; my teachers who helped me with my homework; Bryan, who however reluctantly, walked me to school. Grammy was wrong. Mom hadn’t faded, she had never been there.
“…well then, the facts of life are what they mean by babies and…” I nodded slowly.
“I already know all of that,” I said strangely detached, as though I was reading a story about a fictional Mike, not a flesh and blood person but one made of paper, one you could easily punch a hole through.
“Oh you do, do you?” Grammy’s lips twisted a tiny bit.
“Yeah. I just need the stuff to put on. Pads and stuff.”
“What are you wearing now?”
“Toilet paper,” I said, feeling the embarrassment creep up my neck.
“Hmmph. Get up girl, it’s time to go shopping. On the way, you’ll just have to endure my version of the facts of life.” She headed towards the door.
“Grammy?” She looked over her shoulder.
“My name’s Mikaela. Not girl.”
A small frown appeared between her eyes. She looked at me for a long time and I thought that maybe I had crossed a line that I would never be able to cross back. It had already happened with my mother that evening; I had found out that I had imposed on her, forced her into a place where she didn’t truly belong, but where she spent more and more of her time because she was trying to get away from me, from the child she never really wanted.
Waiting apprehensively while Grammy sized me up, I thought belatedly that I didn’t think I could bear crossing that line again, not with Grammy, not that night. I still needed her. I still needed someone.
Grammy nodded once and turned to the door.
“Get moving Mikaela, I don’t have all night.”
The appearance of my period launched me into an all out tug of war with Grammy over the personal habits of modern young women. She was not so much old-fashioned as ancient.
“In my time, young girls did not use tampons.”
“They didn’t even have tampons back then Grammy! Please, it’s so much cleaner!”
“No I said, it’s not good for your privates.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s just not good for girls to be putting things up there,” she said obscurely.
“Up where?” I said in a deliberately provoking tone. Grammy, I had discovered during our facts of life talk, was extremely uncomfortable talking about ‘private parts’.
“You know exactly where I talking about. Nothing should go up there until your wedding night. Now pick those pads there, and get two boxes so I won’t be subjected to this nonsense any time soon.”
“Those are practically diapers Grammy! Look, these tampons are made for girls, see,” I said pointing to the box, “ 'Slimline Fit Tampons for Young Bodies’, that’s what I have,” I said offhandedly, “since I haven’t been married yet.”
“Don’t mock me Mikaela Watts, or you’ll be using toilet paper for the next six months.”
“Please Grammy, this is what all of the other girls use!”
“No. Pick some pads.”
“Please!”
“No!” We stood in the hygienic aisle, eye to eye, staring at each other across an ancient battleground, neither stubborn side giving quarter to the other. Who knows how long we might have stood there, if Anne Clare and her mother hadn’t appeared from the hair care aisle, holding hands like girlfriends.
“Hi Mikaela.”
“Hi Anne Clare,” I mumbled.
“Mrs. Watts!” Anne Clare’s mother exclaimed pretentiously. “It’s so good to finally meet you!” She extended her hand for a barely-touch-your-fingers-limp-fish handshake. Grammy glanced at me before touching Mrs. Watson’s fingers.
“And this is my Anne Clare! I’ve been wanting to meet you! Isn’t it wonderful that the girls are such good friends? And just think, Mikaela will get to sit right behind Anne Clare all through middle school!” She put her arm around Anne Clare’s shoulders and squeezed. Anne Clare let out a little squeal and giggled, touching heads with her mother and smiling very prettily.
“We’ll just leave you to your shopping! We have so much to do today! Oh, are you picking up a few girl things too?” she asked Grammy confidentially. “They grow up so fast! Those pads are just the thing for beginners, Mikaela,” she told me helpfully, “Anne Clare used those at her start too. Oh! Anne Clare, silly girl, don’t forget to get your Slimline Fits. So nice to meet you, Mrs. Watts, we must get the girls together soon. Byebye!” Anne Clare waved as she walked down the lotion and body cream aisle arm in arm with her mother. We watched them go.
“That’s Anne Clare?” Grammy asked without looking at me.
“Yes ma'am.”
“And her mother?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“I thought you said Anne Clare hadn’t gotten her period…”
“She hasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“ Cause I heard the nurse at school tell her she couldn’t have an emergency tampon because she didn’t need it yet.”
“Then why did they just buy some?”
“Wishful thinking?” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“More like keeping up with the Joneses. Hmmph, well I don’t have all day girl, get what you need,” and proceeded to leave me standing alone in front of the hygienic aisle wondering who the Joneses were.
She didn’t even say anything at the checkout either, even when the Slimline Fit Tampons rolled by.
“Mom, are you awake?” There was no response. I looked deeper into the shadow sensing movement by the window; it was the curtain shifting slightly with the warm furnace air. I felt another consciousness though. I knew she was awake.
“Mom?” I asked again.
“Yes,” she said finally, in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like she hadn’t talked in a long while. The voice came from somewhere across the room, near the bed.
“What is it?”
I turned my head in the right direction, and spoke into the darkness.
“Can I come in?”
“I…yes, for a little while.”
“’Kay.”
I tiptoed into the room on the balls of my feet, trying to pass through the air without disturbing it, trying to match the stillness in the room. I was halfway across the room when a small lamp clicked on, catching me in mid step like a burglar robbing a house. Mom sat in a wingback chair with an afghan around her legs, blinking her eyes slowly. For a moment I wondered if she recognized me; of course she does, I thought a little disconcerted, I’m her daughter. I crossed the room in three quick steps and sat on the edge of the bed.
Mom’s hair was down, cascading about her thin shoulders and around her face, veiling her as if she were in church. Everything about her seemed thick and heavy, as though it was hard for her to sit up or walk or talk to me. Thin hands rested on her lap, stroking the blanket in small movements. She smiled wanly, just a flicker of her lips. Of course she knows who I am.
“How was your day, Mom?” I asked cheerfully. “Did you go out?” Where would she want to go?
“No.”
I glanced around the room, pretending not to notice the dirty glasses on the dresser and the pile of clothes on the floor.
“I didn’t feel like going to school either. Did you do anything special?”
“No.”
Ask me about my day. “Did you read much today?”
“No.”
Ask me, please. “Did your head hurt again?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I had an okay day.”
“Good...”
“Um…something special happened to me today.”
“Oh.”
“I got my period.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said softly.
“Yeah, I guess. My stomach hurt this morning, but Grammy made me go to school anyway. She was really mean about it too. In 3rd period - that’s social studies Ms Kramer’s class - I had to go to the bathroom, but she never lets anyone go, unless they look crazy desperate, but that’s embarrassing and gross ‘cause then everyone knows you gotta go…"
“Oh,” she said again.
“…and I felt uncomfortable down there, so I walked up to Ms Kramer when everybody was doing their worksheets and …"
“Does Grammy know?”
“She’s not home yet. So I told Ms Kramer that I had womanly matters to take care of in the bathroom and she just let me go. She didn’t even tell me to hurry up!”
“Mikaela, I’m getting a little tired…”
“At least now I know I won’t be the last in the class to get it. I know for a fact that Anne Clare still hasn’t gotten hers…”
“I need to rest now,” Mom said in a plaintive whisper. It sounded like a shout; I suddenly felt like an intruder.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll go. But first tell me what I should do. What do I need? To wear, I mean. Do I get the…”
“Grammy will help you.”
“But Grammy’s not home yet."
“Soon, she'll be back soon.”
“Mom, I’m wearing toilet paper, I need the other stuff.”
“Please Mikaela, I need to rest now,” she said and laid her head on one of the chair wings and closed her eyes. Dad used to tell Bryan and me that if you fell asleep in the chair, it would gently lift you up into the air and fly you around the world. And all while you were dreaming. I didn’t think there was anymore flying, the chair belonged to Mom now.
I waited for a few seconds watching her breath in and out, a smooth slow movement that meant she was still alive. I turned off the lamp and stepped out carefully, heel toe, heel toe, mindful not to turn around and look at Mom just in case the chair decided to fly that night.
I burned the macaroni and cheese. It was my turn to cook and I usually warmed up leftovers, but the only thing in the refrigerator were a couple of pieces of yesterday’s chicken. I set the macaroni to cook and went to the bathroom to change my toilet paper. I took too long; the macaroni boiled dry and stuck to the bottom of the pot so that I had to scrape it for the cheese to mix in. It was yellow and brown with small bits of black when I served it on the table. I had forgotten to heat the chicken so I served it cold. Quickly opening a can of corn, I set it on the table alongside a plate holding sliced bread.
Grammy nodded her head as I hurried to sit down in my usual spot next to Bryan. He elbowed me and bowed his head to conceal his sneer.
“Father bless this bounty set before us and lighten our daily loads, in your name, Amen.”
“Amen,” Bryan and I said in unison.
“What the hell is that slop?” Bryan said as he held a large spoonful of the burnt macaroni. It jiggled as he shook his hand, some of it falling back into the bowl in a splat.
“Watch your mouth, young man,” Grammy said in a tight voice.
“Look at it,” he offered her the spoonful, “it’s nauseating. How am I supposed to eat that? It doesn’t even look like food.”
“Well you could’ve helped me!” I yelled at him.
“It’s not my turn tonight. And who doesn’t know how to make macaroni and cheese, moron?”
“You weren’t doing anything but talking on your phone…”
“Enough!” Grammy said loudly. Bryan looked at her, as though surprised she had such volume. I glared at my empty plate.
“Pass the bread and some of that chicken and quit your grousing.”
“The chicken’s cold!” Bryan's mouth twisted with disgust. “Ugh, there are blobs of grease on it!”
My ears burned. I felt Grammy watching me, her stare uncompromising. “All I ask is that dinner be ready when I get home. A plate of hot food on the table. Is that too much to ask?”
Bryan breathed heavily, adding his assent to Grammy’s disapproval.
“And you’re in charge Bryan. You might once in a while check on what’s going on in the kitchen.”
“So I have to stop doing my homework because she needs me to tell her to put the chicken in the microwave? She’s not a baby, she’s 11 for crissakes!” Both sets of eyes turned to me. I ran from the table and down the hallway, slipping as I passed into my tiny room, banging my head on the door jamb. One step in and I landed on the bed, reaching back with my foot to slam the door shut. The tiny space that held only my bed and a small nightstand stood at the end of the hall, behind the staircase. It’s hardly bigger than a broom closet, was in fact a home for the vacuum cleaner before we moved in, before we were forced to live with Grammy, before Mom became a ghost.
I don’t know how long it was before Grammy knocked on my door, walking in without waiting for a response. She never waited, my house, she had told Bryan the first time, and then every other time he complained. She carried a small tray with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk on it. She knew I hated milk.
I faced the wall when Grammy sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at me for a while and finally talked to my back when I refused to turn around.
“Since when does Bryan’s mouth upset you?” I scrunched up the bedspread under my fingers.
“Everybody burns dinner at some time in their lives, it’s nothing to get upset about. I came near burning down the house one time. Granddad was a patient man, never complained, well maybe once or twice, but he had a right, I may have given him food poisoning…” She blew out an exasperated breath. “Sit up girl, I can’t talk to your back anymore.”
I sat up but kept my eyes on the other side of the room.
“What’s got you tied up in knots? If you don’t say, then how am I supposed to…”
“I got my period,” I said flatly.
“Oh...well…it’s nothing to get upset about.”
“In school,” I said accusingly, “after I told you my stomach hurt.”
“I thought you were making it up, you do that sometimes, you know.”
“No I don’t,” I said looking at her for the first time. “It’s Bryan who lies.”
She looked at me through slightly squinted eyes. “Hmmph. Maybe so. Maybe it’s Bryan.”
“Yeah, it’s Bryan.”
She pursed her lips, studying me. “I think I see a little of your father in you girl.” Scrunching the bedspread with my fingers suddenly seemed interesting.
“Yeah? Dad was okay.”
“Yes, he was. There’s some of your mother in you too.”
“I hope not,” I said a little too quickly.
“And why not? Despite her problems your mother has some good qualities.”
“Like being pretty?” I glanced at the mirror on the opposite wall and saw only fat cheeks, a squashed nose dotted with freckles and a hideous hole in my chin.
“Bryan took after Victoria, you look more like the Watts’, cleft chin and all.” I made face.
“No need to worry, somehow it worked out for your father and it’ll work out for you as well.”
“So maybe I’ll get pretty one day?”
“Well how am I supposed to know that girl? I can’t predict the future. No, I was thinking rather, that you got your mother’s artistic sense, the way you write those stories…”
“How do you know about my stories?” I asked indignantly. “I never said you could look at them! they're not for other people,” I said infuriated. “You shouldn’t have read them!”
“Don’t get all wound up. I saw them in your bag when I was signing those papers for school.” She looked at me wryly. “Seems like you got the Watts temper too.” I looked at the wall again, choosing to ignore her.
“I remember when Michael brought Victoria home for the first time. She was a beautiful girl, long chestnut hair and perfect skin. Well proportioned too. But her hands were something else. Rough and red, like they were always wet and with paint in her fingernails. I asked her why she didn’t wash her hands before she came to visit and she told me the paint was dyed into her skin and it would take a long time for it to fade. But not to worry, she said, I would get to see her clean fingers one day because she was planning on taking up sketching. And on being around a long time.” Grammy snorted. “She had a little gumption back then.”
“So where’d it go?” I asked. Grammy looked at me for a moment.
“I don’t know, girl, seems like it just sort of faded over the years, lost a little of herself whenever there was something difficult to deal with. I never did understand why they decided to have a child. Some foolish romantic notion, no doubt. Getting pregnant was probably the worse thing she could have done. She didn’t know how to care for Bryan at all. I had to step in and babysit during the day. I didn’t mind really, he was a lovely baby, nothing like he is today. But I never saw anything like it, Victoria just didn’t seem to have any instincts at all about children.” Grammy nodded absently. “Never saw anything like it.”
“What about me? Was she better by then?”
“Why no, she never got better. You were a total surprise package I can tell you.” A sick feeling began growing in my belly.
“They didn't want me?” I asked a little warily.
“I didn’t say that, don't go putting words in my mouth.”
“You just said I was an accident! That means they didn’t want me in the first place, they only wanted Bryan!”
“Why are you getting your panties bunched up? Babies just come girl, they have always just come. Of course Michael was thrilled to have a baby girl…and Victoria set up your nursery very nicely too. They hired a nanny even though money was tight. I was working by then and couldn't care for you like I had for Bryan." She cleared her throat and turned to me, all business again.
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you the facts of life? Where babies come from and all that?” I didn’t answer. There was a shift occuring within me, a change of course from the familiar to the unknown. A rippling of fear lined my vision as my world became a strange place.
“Did you hear me?”
“What?” I said blankly. Grammy pursed her lips, annoyed.
“Are you going to be worrying about what I said, girl? Isn’t it enough that they loved you once you were here?”
“I guess.” But it wasn’t. Because something huge had fallen into place; a mystery of unknown proportions which touched on the cornerstones of my life had suddenly been revealed in a simple offhand remark. I now knew why it had always been Dad who picked us up from school when we were sick; I knew why I called my first nanny ‘mommy’ instead of my own mother; I knew why it was our father who Bryan called out for in the middle of the night when he was awakened by a bad dream. And countless other clues that careened through my memory like a runaway train; memories of me and Dad and Bryan, in the car, at the park, Disney World - Mom didn’t even go to Disney World! - bath time, homework, learning to ride my bike; and after, it was Grammy who told us about Dad’s car wreck, not mom; my teachers who helped me with my homework; Bryan, who however reluctantly, walked me to school. Grammy was wrong. Mom hadn’t faded, she had never been there.
“…well then, the facts of life are what they mean by babies and…” I nodded slowly.
“I already know all of that,” I said strangely detached, as though I was reading a story about a fictional Mike, not a flesh and blood person but one made of paper, one you could easily punch a hole through.
“Oh you do, do you?” Grammy’s lips twisted a tiny bit.
“Yeah. I just need the stuff to put on. Pads and stuff.”
“What are you wearing now?”
“Toilet paper,” I said, feeling the embarrassment creep up my neck.
“Hmmph. Get up girl, it’s time to go shopping. On the way, you’ll just have to endure my version of the facts of life.” She headed towards the door.
“Grammy?” She looked over her shoulder.
“My name’s Mikaela. Not girl.”
A small frown appeared between her eyes. She looked at me for a long time and I thought that maybe I had crossed a line that I would never be able to cross back. It had already happened with my mother that evening; I had found out that I had imposed on her, forced her into a place where she didn’t truly belong, but where she spent more and more of her time because she was trying to get away from me, from the child she never really wanted.
Waiting apprehensively while Grammy sized me up, I thought belatedly that I didn’t think I could bear crossing that line again, not with Grammy, not that night. I still needed her. I still needed someone.
Grammy nodded once and turned to the door.
“Get moving Mikaela, I don’t have all night.”
The appearance of my period launched me into an all out tug of war with Grammy over the personal habits of modern young women. She was not so much old-fashioned as ancient.
“In my time, young girls did not use tampons.”
“They didn’t even have tampons back then Grammy! Please, it’s so much cleaner!”
“No I said, it’s not good for your privates.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s just not good for girls to be putting things up there,” she said obscurely.
“Up where?” I said in a deliberately provoking tone. Grammy, I had discovered during our facts of life talk, was extremely uncomfortable talking about ‘private parts’.
“You know exactly where I talking about. Nothing should go up there until your wedding night. Now pick those pads there, and get two boxes so I won’t be subjected to this nonsense any time soon.”
“Those are practically diapers Grammy! Look, these tampons are made for girls, see,” I said pointing to the box, “ 'Slimline Fit Tampons for Young Bodies’, that’s what I have,” I said offhandedly, “since I haven’t been married yet.”
“Don’t mock me Mikaela Watts, or you’ll be using toilet paper for the next six months.”
“Please Grammy, this is what all of the other girls use!”
“No. Pick some pads.”
“Please!”
“No!” We stood in the hygienic aisle, eye to eye, staring at each other across an ancient battleground, neither stubborn side giving quarter to the other. Who knows how long we might have stood there, if Anne Clare and her mother hadn’t appeared from the hair care aisle, holding hands like girlfriends.
“Hi Mikaela.”
“Hi Anne Clare,” I mumbled.
“Mrs. Watts!” Anne Clare’s mother exclaimed pretentiously. “It’s so good to finally meet you!” She extended her hand for a barely-touch-your-fingers-limp-fish handshake. Grammy glanced at me before touching Mrs. Watson’s fingers.
“And this is my Anne Clare! I’ve been wanting to meet you! Isn’t it wonderful that the girls are such good friends? And just think, Mikaela will get to sit right behind Anne Clare all through middle school!” She put her arm around Anne Clare’s shoulders and squeezed. Anne Clare let out a little squeal and giggled, touching heads with her mother and smiling very prettily.
“We’ll just leave you to your shopping! We have so much to do today! Oh, are you picking up a few girl things too?” she asked Grammy confidentially. “They grow up so fast! Those pads are just the thing for beginners, Mikaela,” she told me helpfully, “Anne Clare used those at her start too. Oh! Anne Clare, silly girl, don’t forget to get your Slimline Fits. So nice to meet you, Mrs. Watts, we must get the girls together soon. Byebye!” Anne Clare waved as she walked down the lotion and body cream aisle arm in arm with her mother. We watched them go.
“That’s Anne Clare?” Grammy asked without looking at me.
“Yes ma'am.”
“And her mother?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“I thought you said Anne Clare hadn’t gotten her period…”
“She hasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“ Cause I heard the nurse at school tell her she couldn’t have an emergency tampon because she didn’t need it yet.”
“Then why did they just buy some?”
“Wishful thinking?” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“More like keeping up with the Joneses. Hmmph, well I don’t have all day girl, get what you need,” and proceeded to leave me standing alone in front of the hygienic aisle wondering who the Joneses were.
She didn’t even say anything at the checkout either, even when the Slimline Fit Tampons rolled by.
Chapter Four
4 comments:
“Mom?” I peeked into the darkened bedroom, trying to make sense out of the long shadows. There was no sound except for the hum of the heater.
“Mom, are you awake?” There was no response. I looked deeper into the shadow sensing movement by the window; it was the curtain shifting slightly with the warm furnace air. I felt another consciousness though. I knew she was awake.
“Mom?” I asked again.
“Yes,” she said finally, in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like she hadn’t talked in a long while. The voice came from somewhere across the room, near the bed.
“What is it?”
I turned my head in the right direction, and spoke into the darkness.
You know, Thea, I think this story is getting better and better. Right from the start in this chapter I was very impressed. I know this scene personally and can identify with much in your main character's world. My own mother was bipolar for one thing. My father was absent enough that he might just as well have been dead and I too had a grandmother not all that different from Grammy. So this opening really hit home with me perhaps more than it would someone else. Then again, I think you may have written this with people like me in mind. Anyway, you captured much of the essence of this child's experience just in this little scene.
The conversation that follows is very well done also. Measured in exactly the right way with very believable touches. I can't really relate to the discussion, the topic and how it's handled but I can believe it. The mother's detachment and the child's worry that she's not welcomed in her mother's hideaway. The worry she has that her mother may not even recognize who she is. All very well done.
The story is truly coming to life for me. So many touches that give it texture and depth and the unique bits help as well:
I waited for a few seconds watching her breath in and out, a smooth slow movement that meant she was still alive. I turned off the lamp and stepped out carefully, heel toe, heel toe, mindful not to turn around and look at Mom just in case the chair decided to fly that night.
Like the story her dad told about the flying chair for example. It's a nice balance between what is familiar to so many of us and what makes Mike and her situation unique and therefore makes her seem like a real person.
It’s hardly bigger than a broom closet, was in fact a home for the vacuum cleaner before we moved in, before we were forced to live with Grammy, before Mom became a ghost.
I think you may need to rearrange this to reduce the number of times you use "before". Maybe, "...was in fact a home for the vacuum cleaner (nice irony by the way) before we moved in. After mom became a ghost, I guess it was really the only place for me."
Something like that perhaps since we already know that Mike has developed a good many self image problems and that she's worried a good deal about where she belongs so it seems like a good fit. Also, I too had a room in my grandma's house when I was a good deal younger than Mike. What I told myself about that room was that they didn't have room for me in the main house so I had my nice cozy little room in the attic. Kids are good at twisting circumstances and remarks into a shield of sorts but sometimes of course the form becomes more of a weapon that is not infrequently pointed at themselves.
“Well how am I supposed to know that girl?..."
I think maybe you want a comma before girl here?
I asked her why she didn’t wash her hands before she came to visit and she told me the paint was dyed into her skin and it would take a long time for it to fade.
Maybe consider breaking this sentence up into two or three instead of the three uses of and?
“I don’t know, girl, seems like it just sort of faded over the years, lost a little of herself whenever there was something difficult to deal with. I never did understand why they decided to have a child. Some foolish romantic notion, no doubt. Getting pregnant was probably the worse thing she could have done.
I think you may need "she" in front of "lost a little of herself..." and "the worse thing" should be the worst thing.
I mentioned before that I thought there should be a comma before "girl" when the grandmother is using girl in place of Mike's name, but as I read this over again, I noticed that you've done that quite consistently so it isn't a typo after all. I'm just not sure if it's correct though. Fashions do change in grammar for certain so maybe that's something changed. LOL I'm definitely old. I have no idea.
Because something huge had fallen into place; a mystery of unknown proportions which touched on the cornerstones of my life had suddenly been revealed in a simple offhand remark.
This sentence seemed awkward to me. I think instead of the semicolon, it might help to put in a period. Also, I think you may want some sort of image in that second part. Something to stand for the huge thing that has dropped into place, like a stepping stone that makes a bridge over some barrier in her mind or in her understanding.
And countless other clues that careened through my memory like a runaway train; memories of me and Dad and Bryan, in the car, at the park, Disney World - Mom didn’t even go to Disney World!
I realize I have a bad habit of using "and" to begin sentences when I think it will somehow function to link my characters thoughts or keep up some continuity that I want. When I revisit the text though, I nearly always take them out especially if they aren't really needed at all. This would be one of those cases. You don't need the "and" here.
“You know exactly where I talking about..."
The "am" is missing after the I and before talking.
Thanks, Thea. This story is hard for me to read for obvious reasons but I think in many ways it's very healing. Grandma liked to say that hurts frequently have to hurt a little more to heal...well, I think that might just be true. Anyway, very well done. Much obliged.
I have gone back over the text, and taken note of your suggestions. Some are typos, and yes, consistent typos, oh well, only human ;)).
I posted this chapter even though there were spots I was not totally happy with and knew needed reworking. But this is my least favorite chapter. I think it's because this is when Mike becomes aware of her mother's emotional abandonment; it becomes less about Mom's actions and how they affect the family, and more about Mike's reactions.
I think that most children sometimes feel abandoned because their parents aren't there when they want them to be there. It's not until they have children of their own that they understand how much their parents gave them. But for a few of us, and I personally think this number is growing, our parents truly aren't there, for whatever the reason, and that marks us forever.
I'm not writing this with anyone in mind. Except for the first days of conceptualizing and forming the boundaries of a YA book, I haven't actually thought about the reader. I have only Mike and the others in my mind. I haven't even been able to read anything else. I'm sure this is a cliche, (as my friend the Bear once said, 'if it sounds like a cliche, it probably is a cliche'), but what the heck; this book is just about writing itself.
Healing comes in many different forms. Also for the author.
"I tiptoed into the room on the balls of my feet, trying to pass through the air without disturbing it, trying to match the stillness in the room. I was halfway across the room when a small lamp clicked on, catching me in mid step like a burglar robbing a house. Mom sat in a wingback chair with an afghan around her legs, blinking her eyes slowly. For a moment I wondered if she recognized me; of course she does, I thought a little disconcerted, I’m her daughter. I crossed the room in three quick steps and sat on the edge of the bed."
I really like this paragraph.
Like PB said, thhe conversation with mom and Mike is great. I also have no idea how the 'period' conversation goes between mother and daughter, but I can't imagine it going anything like that. I think it's such a vulnerable moment in Mike's life that when you see the reaction from the mom, you're just left with such a strong impression. I definitely dislike the mother at this point.
“No I don’t,” I said looking at her for the first time. “It’s Bryan who lies.”
She looked at me through slightly squinted eyes. “Hmmph. Maybe so. Maybe it’s Bryan.”
“Yeah, it’s Bryan.”
This exchange really caught my attention, too. I'm slowly starting to appreciate Mike a little more. Up until know I kinda just had the impression of a whiny teenager, and I've been waiting for something to happen to prove to me that something is really at stake in her life. This is just one reader's experience, but it might help in some way. Also, I've cast my vote against italics for the most part, but I like them right there.
I'm not sure what you meant when you said this was your least favorite chapter. I don't know if you meant the way it's written, or just what happens in it. If it's the first, then I have one idea. There's a thin line going on between having Mike interact with her mother so we can see who the mother is, and not having the mother present so we can feel the abandonment Mike feels. It seems liek this chapter wants to have the mother be more prominent, even if that prominent role only highlights her detachment. I don't know where the next chapter or anything else goes, but I think the mother gets pushed aside a little too quick in this one. That's such a strong scene to open with, and then we don't get her again for the rest of the chapter. Again, it's hard because even Mike says her mother is never there, but she can be there and not be there more often, like she was in the begining. If that makes any sense at all.
Other than that I'm pretty much hopping on board with Mike right now. I hope to get to the next one soon.
Thanks for the comments, Wojo. I enjoy hearing your reactions.
I didn't like writing this chapter for very personal reasons, and the emotional tone gets me down. They's more emotion in chapters to come, but this one rings a sour note for me personally.
This chapter is only an intro to Mom, she will have a bigger role later on.
Again thanks for your comments.
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