Chapter 2
By the time my father returned, Mom had the house pretty much straightened out. She and Dad laid the food out carefully on the good dishes. Mom even sprinkled parsley over the tops of the salads and added some stuffed olives for garnish.
“I wonder if we should eat in the dining room,” Mom said.
“What’s wrong with the kitchen?” my father demanded. “We always eat in the kitchen except when we have a big mob over.”
“Well, Walter,” my mother said, “people like the Lattimores probably eat all of their meals in the dining room.”
“There’s nothing wrong with eating in the kitchen,” my father insisted. “When I was growing up, my family didn’t even have a dining room.”
“I don’t have to use the fancy white tablecloth,” Mom said. “I can use straw mats and—well—I guess we should use cloth napkins. They probably would never use paper napkins for company.”
My father stood up and said in a cranky voice, “I’m going to go take a shower now—it’s broiling outside, and I’m soaked.”
“No!” my mother yelled. “Don’t take a shower now. Wait until after they leave. I just cleaned the bathroom and put up fresh towels.”
“I am going to take a shower now,” my father said very slowly, his teeth clenched, “and then I am going to sit down in front of the fan in the living room and smoke a cigarette and read my paper until they come. And then I am going to eat my lunch in the kitchen. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Walter,” my mother said, and we both watched his back as he stalked off to the bathroom.
“He hardly ever gets that way,” my mother said in a low voice, “but maybe he’s right. Maybe it would all work out for the best if we ate in the kitchen. I do have that cute little tablecloth Lisa gave me for Mother’s Day. Remember? I know she got two of the same tablecloths as gifts when she and Alex got married, but it’s all right. I don’t mind. Remember, Molly? It’s got six matching red napkins. We’ll set out the food and the good dishes. It’ll look nice. Daddy won’t get upset if we use a tablecloth in the kitchen.”
My mother set the table, and then I changed my outfit a couple more times. By the time Beth and her mother arrived, I was wearing a white-and-red shirt and a pair of red shorts. I was also wearing the little pearl earrings that my parents gave me for a birthday present when I turned eleven. That was back in February when they also let me get my ears pierced.
“I don’t know if those earrings go with that outfit,” my mother said.
“Well, I like them,” I insisted, “and I want to wear them.”
“Okay.” My mother smiled. “If you want to wear the earrings, go ahead and wear them. On you, everything looks good.” She patted her hair and inspected herself in the mirror. “How do you think I look?”
I came and stood next to her. We smiled at each other in the mirror, and my mom butted my head with her own. “We certainly do look alike,” she said, “but you’re really the image of . . , of
...
”
“Of Kathy?” I said, finishing the sentence. Kathy was her sister, my first mother. I never thought of her as Mom or Mother. I thought of her the way my mom thought of her—as Kathy, as Mom’s younger sister.
“Well, of course, Kathy and I looked a whole lot alike, except she was smaller and prettier, the way you are.”
I looked at our faces in the mirror. I guessed I was prettier than Mom, but she was old, nearly fifty, and her hair was gray, and she had wrinkles on her face and neck. But we both had the same dark eyes, the same kind of long nose and dark complexion. My hair was long and tied back in a ponytail.
“I used to have long hair too,” said my mother, reaching over to pat my ponytail. “only I wore it in braids, and so did Kathy.” My mother started to laugh, and I did too. I knew what was coming. “She was such a brat. She hated to have her hair braided, and she used to scream bloody murder. All the neighbors could hear her.” My mother shook her head, and I did too, remembering through her memories what a brat Kathy used to be.
“Of course, my mother didn’t put up with any nonsense, and she’d just give her a good whack. So then Kathy would come crying to me, and I’d end up doing her hair. She said I didn’t pull so hard, and I had those little pink ribbons I used to braid into her hair. Oh, she looked so cute with those pink ribbons in her hair
...
” Now my mother had tears starting up in her eyes, and I stopped looking into the mirror. I just put my arms around her waist and laid my head on her chest, and we stood there a couple of seconds. She tightened her arms around me. “You’re so much like her,” she murmured. And I didn’t mind at all being compared to a dead, bratty girl.
“Okay, okay!” My mother pulled herself away. “Now tell me how I look.”
She straightened herself up and made a half smile while she waited for me to say something.
“You look
...
you look
...
” What could I say? She was nearly fifty years old, she had wrinkles on her face and neck, a skinny body, and her clothes—a pink shirt and matching pants—hung on her like the skin on an unstuffed turkey. I thought of the last photo I’d received of Mrs. Lattimore— trim, smiling, and fashionable in her white tennis outfit with a white cardigan carelessly draped over her shoulders. My mother didn’t play tennis, and her clothes didn’t fit her the way Mrs. Lattimore’s clothes fit her. What would it feel like to have a fashionable mother who played tennis and had a white cardigan draped carelessly over her shoulders? I knew it would feel wonderful. Guiltily, I looked at my own mother standing there, waiting for me to say something, a half smile on her face.
“You look fine,” I told her.
“Well!” My mother turned to look at herself again in the mirror.” I could wear a couple of gold chains around my neck. What do you think, Molly? Would they go?”
* * * *
They didn’t show up until nearly three. Mom had put the food in the refrigerator because she said it would spoil in all this heat. We took turns jumping up and going to the bathroom—Mom and I did. Dad just kept on smoking and reading his paper the way he said he would, and when he finished that, he leaned back in his chair and took a nap.
When the bell rang, he jumped up in his chair and said, “What? What?” the way he always did when he woke up suddenly from a nap.
“You go, Mom,” I said. I felt shy suddenly.
“No, you go,” she told me, turning toward the kitchen. “I’m going to take the food out of the refrigerator.”
“Please, Mom,” I whispered, “please. Let’s go together.”
“All right,” she whispered back. “We’ll go together.”
* * * *
They were standing there, outside the door, smiling at us and holding a bunch of flowers. That is, Mrs. Lattimore was smiling and holding a bunch of flowers. Beth wasn’t smiling. Not doing anything. Just standing there and not looking at us.
“Well, hello,” said Mrs. Lattimore. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”
“Come in, come in,” said my mother, and the two grown-ups began talking at the same time. “... So lucky you were home
...
wonderful that you had the time
...
exhausting trip
...
lunch ... no trouble
...
terrible heat wave
...
”
Beth raised her eyes and looked at me. I looked back at her. Neither of us said anything. She was thirteen and at least half a head taller than me. She was also thin, with dark eyes, dark skin, and a long nose. Her hair, like mine, was dark but, unlike mine, it was cut short. She tossed it, and it made a wonderful wavy curve against her cheek. I broke down first and said, “Hi, Beth.”
“Hi,” she answered. I moved forward to kiss her cheek. She let me but stood still while I was doing it.
“Beth and I just couldn’t wait to see you all,” Mrs. Lattimore gushed, handing the flowers to Mom, “and just look at Molly. She’s so ... so ... why, she and Beth look so much alike, don’t they?”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Beth said.
“Oh, sure, honey,” said my mother. “It’s just down the hall and
...
”
“I know where it is,” Beth said, moving quickly past my mother.
My mother looked after her, surprised, and Mrs. Lattimore said, “She really does have an amazing memory. I’m always astonished at the things she remembers.”
“But she hasn’t been here for
...
for
...
”
“It must be well over eight years,” Mrs. Lattimore said, “but she can remember things that happened to her way before that.”
My mother continued standing there looking after Beth. I said, “Hi, Mrs. Lattimore. Did you have a good trip?”
“Call me Aunt Helene,” she said, bending down to give me a hug and kiss. “It was a lovely trip, and we brought you some surprises from Paris and London. Beth picked them out, but they’re still in our suitcases. We’ll get everything unpacked in our hotel later, and maybe one day
...
”
“Come in, come in.” My mother had come to life again. “Come in. Walter’s in the living room.”
“Oh, how is he?” Aunt Helene moved down the hall, an arm around my shoulder. “And the boys? Just think—Alex is married. What’s his wife like?”
“She’s pregnant,” I said, and Mom quickly added, “It was a very small wedding—just the immediate family—otherwise we would have ...”
Dad was standing up when we walked into the living room, holding the paper.
“Well, Walter, how are you?” Aunt Helene asked, dropping her arm from my shoulder and moving toward him. They shook hands, and both of them began talking at the same time. “... Fine
...
how’s your husband?
...
sends regards
...
staying a few more weeks in London
...
broiling hot summer
...
several lectures ... sit down, sit down
...
lunch in just a few minutes
...
”
“We’ve already eaten lunch.” Beth stood at the door.
“Well, we just had a bite.” Aunt Helene laughed. “I could certainly eat something else, but you shouldn’t have gone to any trouble. Beth, come and say hello to your uncle.”
“Hello.” Beth remained standing at the door.
“Hello there, Beth,” my father said. He hesitated for one moment and then walked over to her, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek. Beth stood still. Then my dad looked down at her and said, “Well, you certainly have grown into a young lady since the last time I saw you.”
“Thank you,” Beth said, not moving.
My father smiled, patted her shoulder, and continued. “You’ve changed a lot. You and Molly used to look a lot alike, but now I don’t think you resemble each other at all.”
“Thank you,” Beth said, looking up at him and smiling for the first time.
“Oh, I think she looks a lot like Molly,” said Aunt Helene.
My mother moved in slow motion over to Beth. Before, at the door, Beth had gone off to the bathroom so quickly, they hadn’t really had a chance to kiss.
“Beth,” my mother said, very softly, “I’m glad to see you, Beth.” She bent over and tried to kiss her right cheek, but Beth turned her head away so quickly that the kiss landed on her left cheek.
It made me angry to see how rude Beth was to my mom. I knew how much my mother suffered because Beth had chosen to be adopted by the Lattimores rather than by her own family. I knew, even though my mother never blamed Beth, how all these years she must have felt rejected and hurt. She should have been the one who turned away from Beth’s kiss instead of the other way around. It made me angry, and it made me feel guilty, too, for some of my own daydreams about living with the Lattimores. And as the grown-ups, for the first time, stood around silently, I shouted out at Beth, “I know a riddle I bet you don’t know.”
“What is it?”
I told her. “Brothers and sisters I have none, but that man’s father is my father’s son.”
“Oh,” she said, “everybody knows that one.
That man
is the son of the person who’s speaking.”
Chapter 3
As soon as we sat down around the kitchen table, Beth pointed up at the window and asked, “What happened to the curtains?”
All of us looked at the window, which was covered by a white blind. Right now the blind was raised to let in the air because it was such a hot day. Usually, we pull it down because all you can see from that window is the kitchen window in the house next door.
“Curtains?” my mother repeated. “What curtains?”
“You had curtains with vegetables on them,” Beth said. “There were carrots and green peppers and tomatoes.”
“Oh?” My mother’s face drew in as she thought. “Oh
...
yes
...
but that must have been ten years ago at least.”
“They were here eight years ago,” Beth corrected, picking up her plate. “I remember them when I came back from the hospital after the accident.”
“I don’t remember them,” I said.
Beth turned the dish in her hand. “And you had different dishes. They had green flowers on them, big green flowers with red leaves.”
My mother didn’t say anything, but my father laughed. “What a memory you have, Beth. You’re right about those dishes. I think I liked them better than the ones we have now.”
“I like these better,” I said, looking at my mother’s face.
“This is just delicious.” Aunt Helene picked up a small piece of bread. “That’s one thing about New York. The bread is really wonderful here. Beth, try a piece.”
“I’m not hungry,” Beth said, “but I am thirsty.”
My mom leaped up. “What would you like? I have Coke, 7-up, milk
...
”
“Do you have lemonade?”
“No, but
...
”
Beth shrugged. “I’ll just have water then.”
“I can make you some lemonade,” my mother said. “I mean, if there are lemons ... I can’t remember if I have any lemons.” She opened the refrigerator door and began rummaging around inside.
“Oh please, Karen,” Aunt Helene said, “don’t bother. Beth is kind of a fussy eater.”
“I am not a fussy eater,” Beth said. “I just like lemonade, but I’m perfectly willing to drink water.”