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Authors: Jacquelyn Mitchard
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Gordon, wide-eyed, choosing that moment to proclaim that he would never again have unprotected sex, Georgia’s unwonted sensitivity, “I wish you could have given birth to me, Little Mama, because I feel so bad that you never got to have this feeling of . . . being the creator,” her sweet expan-siveness dissolving Lorraine’s surprising envy.
Georgia had been shy, that was all. As Keefer was shy. It had been fear that turned her angry. Fear of the big world.
The violation of this! Gordie might insist that there was no fairness or justice in nature, but Lorraine had been sure, until now, that there was. She had never, as an adult, doubted it, just as she had not doubted her ability to hear her children’s requests when they were still too young to talk. She’d put away her art-school disaffection and run to catch up with God. Why, then, had she and Mark, when time had already run out, been given the chance to raise a child so perfect—her very bilateral symmetry, digits in order, one almond eye spaced either side of a forceful nose, made Lorraine want to fall to her knees—and then had that chance revoked?
How would Keefer, the puree of Georgia and Ray, turn out? She had already been dragged through so much change. They had all tried to shield her. The Nyes had taken her for a full week after Georgia’s first chemo (the baby had come back drinking from a sippee cup, and Lorraine felt reproached for her laziness in letting her keep her bottle). But how could the best efforts of anyone give Keefer the babyhood she’d deserved? Ray could not have stayed at home full-time; the hospital bills alone would have sunk them. The baby could not have been away from Georgia, and Georgia could never have summoned the energy to take care of Keefer on her own. Thank God for Gordon’s predictable job, his stripped-down personal life and inexhaustible reserves of disposable time, his courage in taking leave even as a rookie teacher. Gordie, Lorraine believed, had given Geor-Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 42
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gia the best possible experience that her destruction could have per-mitted.
It must have been so hard for him.
Lorraine would have to equip Gordon with some sort of basic skills for raising Keefer before she could . . . before she could, what? Die?
Degrade? Though Gordon had become proficient at teasing Keefer into her sweet potatoes and out of her nastiest diapers, his role in the baby’s life still had consisted mainly of chasing her around the living room on all fours, growling like a bear.
But Gordon would be able to manage. Eventually. Gordon would have to manage. He would have to grow up faster. He would have to figure out that time was real and that he could not say whatever came into his head as soon as he thought it.
Lorraine noticed that she could no longer see her feet tucked against her headboard. The day had slipped past her window, the room into dimness as she lay necklaced in her tears. There, she’d thought. A day and a night and another day and another night evaporated. Georgia was decisively among the dead now, not the living, every minute drawing her further from her mother . . . Lorraine had done not a single thing but sit up and lie down, sit up and lie down and use the bathroom and refuse phone calls, even from Natalie Chaptman, though Natalie was the closest thing Lorraine had to a best friend, if she didn’t count Mark.
But Natalie’s husband was the funeral director, and Lorraine could not bring herself to have a conversation with someone holding a phone in a building where her daughter’s and son-in-law’s bodies lay. When the telephone rang yet again, she was in the midst of calling out to Mark to say she was asleep when he walked into the room.
“It was Diane and Big Ray; they’re coming over now.”
“Now?”
“Lor, they want to see us. They want to see Keefer.”
“She’s at Nora’s.”
“Nora’s on her way here. She’s bringing Keefer.
Georgia had been shy, that was all. As Keefer was shy. It had been fear that turned her angry. Fear of the big world.
The violation of this! Gordie might insist that there was no fairness or justice in nature, but Lorraine had been sure, until now, that there was. She had never, as an adult, doubted it, just as she had not doubted her ability to hear her children’s requests when they were still too young to talk. She’d put away her art-school disaffection and run to catch up with God. Why, then, had she and Mark, when time had already run out, been given the chance to raise a child so perfect—her very bilateral symmetry, digits in order, one almond eye spaced either side of a forceful nose, made Lorraine want to fall to her knees—and then had that chance revoked?
How would Keefer, the puree of Georgia and Ray, turn out? She had already been dragged through so much change. They had all tried to shield her. The Nyes had taken her for a full week after Georgia’s first chemo (the baby had come back drinking from a sippee cup, and Lorraine felt reproached for her laziness in letting her keep her bottle). But how could the best efforts of anyone give Keefer the babyhood she’d deserved? Ray could not have stayed at home full-time; the hospital bills alone would have sunk them. The baby could not have been away from Georgia, and Georgia could never have summoned the energy to take care of Keefer on her own. Thank God for Gordon’s predictable job, his stripped-down personal life and inexhaustible reserves of disposable time, his courage in taking leave even as a rookie teacher. Gordie, Lorraine believed, had given Geor-Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 42
42
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
gia the best possible experience that her destruction could have per-mitted.
It must have been so hard for him.
Lorraine would have to equip Gordon with some sort of basic skills for raising Keefer before she could . . . before she could, what? Die?
Degrade? Though Gordon had become proficient at teasing Keefer into her sweet potatoes and out of her nastiest diapers, his role in the baby’s life still had consisted mainly of chasing her around the living room on all fours, growling like a bear.
But Gordon would be able to manage. Eventually. Gordon would have to manage. He would have to grow up faster. He would have to figure out that time was real and that he could not say whatever came into his head as soon as he thought it.
Lorraine noticed that she could no longer see her feet tucked against her headboard. The day had slipped past her window, the room into dimness as she lay necklaced in her tears. There, she’d thought. A day and a night and another day and another night evaporated. Georgia was decisively among the dead now, not the living, every minute drawing her further from her mother . . . Lorraine had done not a single thing but sit up and lie down, sit up and lie down and use the bathroom and refuse phone calls, even from Natalie Chaptman, though Natalie was the closest thing Lorraine had to a best friend, if she didn’t count Mark.
But Natalie’s husband was the funeral director, and Lorraine could not bring herself to have a conversation with someone holding a phone in a building where her daughter’s and son-in-law’s bodies lay. When the telephone rang yet again, she was in the midst of calling out to Mark to say she was asleep when he walked into the room.
“It was Diane and Big Ray; they’re coming over now.”
“Now?”
“Lor, they want to see us. They want to see Keefer.”
“She’s at Nora’s.”
“Nora’s on her way here. She’s bringing Keefer.
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