Read Online How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life by Mameve Medwed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mameve Medwed
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We knew the exact number and kind of toys in each other’s rooms. We knew where to find the photographs of naked tribesmen in the books on Africa. We knew what encyclopedia volume hid Lady Chatterley’s Lover . Though Ned, three years older, kept himself age appropriately aloof, Lavinia and I were born two weeks apart. All the stars aligned, all the fates conspired to make us best friends.
As I’ve already pointed out, the world of adults admired Lavinia’s perfect manners, good grades, and charming personality. Far too clever to play Eddie Haskell—the ingratiating friend of Beaver’s older brother Wally—a boy so transparently oily even grown-ups could see through his wiles, she was subtle enough to win over legions of natural skeptics and experts in early childhood development. She’d visit spinster aunts, slide drawings and thank-you notes through the mail slots of people who served her lemonade or offered a few branches pruned from their lilac trees. She was so persuasive that perfect strangers bought raffle tickets and Girl Scout cookies even though they’d tacked notes above their bells saying NO SOLICITING . She tithed her dollar allowance for the Save the Children Fund while the rest of us blew every cent at Irving’s the morning we received it. She baked cookies for the sick, sipped tea in the kitchens of the boring. She practiced the piano for a full hour every afternoon no matter how temptingly the sun shone. She was appointed student representative to every parent-teacher committee from kindergarten on; she asked for extra work, read the optional selections on the reading list, her hand shot up as soon as anyone asked “Have I a volunteer?”
Where did I stand in relation to this saint who I might have scorned as a goody-goody if I hadn’t been so clearly inferior? I was less concerned with the nameless others than with myself and my own small circle. I had trouble looking adults in the eye. My fish handshake needed work. My compositions were messy. My leadership qualities were not even incipient. But I was a good foil.
“You are my best friend,” Lavinia declared over and over.
“And you are mine,” I pledged. I slapped my hand against my heart.
“Let’s mix our blood to prove it,” she suggested.
She got a needle from her mother’s sewing kit.
“Shouldn’t we sterilize it?” I asked. I’d been looking at bugs in my father’s entomology books.
“That’s for babies. You go first.”
I scrunched my eyes shut.
She pricked my finger. She squeezed it.
“Ouch,” I yelled. Two bright red drops bubbled up on my thumb. My knees buckled. I grabbed the needle. “Your turn,” I said.
She thrust out her hand. As soon as I reached for her wrist, she pulled it back. “You know,” she said, “since I’m thinking about becoming a concert pianist, I’d better not take a risk of harming my fingertips.”
One day much later, when we were in the middle grades of elementary school, our pediatrician appointments turned out to be scheduled back-to-back. We sensed inoculations were in order. Tetanus? Maybe diphtheria? Our mothers promised strawberry ice cream sodas afterward. They sat on the bench chatting. Two Wonder Woman dolls from Irving’s were nestled inside their serviceable pocketbooks.
I went first. Okay, I confess, I cried. Not that loud. But it hurt. As soon as my sobs settled into sniffles, I got to choose a plaid Band-Aid and a Snoopy pin. “Who’s your best friend?” Dr. Sherry asked. At the time I thought it was a casual question to distract me from my pricked arm and my acting-like-a-baby shame. Now I realize this question was another kind of probe: a diagnostic test of the is-my-patient-a-social-misfit? sort.
“Your best friend?” he repeated.
“Lavinia Potter,” I replied. “Who else?”
My best friend Lavinia Potter’s turn was next. I joined my mother on the bench. She put her arm around me.
“That hurt,” I whined.
“I’ll say. I heard you wail in
As I’ve already pointed out, the world of adults admired Lavinia’s perfect manners, good grades, and charming personality. Far too clever to play Eddie Haskell—the ingratiating friend of Beaver’s older brother Wally—a boy so transparently oily even grown-ups could see through his wiles, she was subtle enough to win over legions of natural skeptics and experts in early childhood development. She’d visit spinster aunts, slide drawings and thank-you notes through the mail slots of people who served her lemonade or offered a few branches pruned from their lilac trees. She was so persuasive that perfect strangers bought raffle tickets and Girl Scout cookies even though they’d tacked notes above their bells saying NO SOLICITING . She tithed her dollar allowance for the Save the Children Fund while the rest of us blew every cent at Irving’s the morning we received it. She baked cookies for the sick, sipped tea in the kitchens of the boring. She practiced the piano for a full hour every afternoon no matter how temptingly the sun shone. She was appointed student representative to every parent-teacher committee from kindergarten on; she asked for extra work, read the optional selections on the reading list, her hand shot up as soon as anyone asked “Have I a volunteer?”
Where did I stand in relation to this saint who I might have scorned as a goody-goody if I hadn’t been so clearly inferior? I was less concerned with the nameless others than with myself and my own small circle. I had trouble looking adults in the eye. My fish handshake needed work. My compositions were messy. My leadership qualities were not even incipient. But I was a good foil.
“You are my best friend,” Lavinia declared over and over.
“And you are mine,” I pledged. I slapped my hand against my heart.
“Let’s mix our blood to prove it,” she suggested.
She got a needle from her mother’s sewing kit.
“Shouldn’t we sterilize it?” I asked. I’d been looking at bugs in my father’s entomology books.
“That’s for babies. You go first.”
I scrunched my eyes shut.
She pricked my finger. She squeezed it.
“Ouch,” I yelled. Two bright red drops bubbled up on my thumb. My knees buckled. I grabbed the needle. “Your turn,” I said.
She thrust out her hand. As soon as I reached for her wrist, she pulled it back. “You know,” she said, “since I’m thinking about becoming a concert pianist, I’d better not take a risk of harming my fingertips.”
One day much later, when we were in the middle grades of elementary school, our pediatrician appointments turned out to be scheduled back-to-back. We sensed inoculations were in order. Tetanus? Maybe diphtheria? Our mothers promised strawberry ice cream sodas afterward. They sat on the bench chatting. Two Wonder Woman dolls from Irving’s were nestled inside their serviceable pocketbooks.
I went first. Okay, I confess, I cried. Not that loud. But it hurt. As soon as my sobs settled into sniffles, I got to choose a plaid Band-Aid and a Snoopy pin. “Who’s your best friend?” Dr. Sherry asked. At the time I thought it was a casual question to distract me from my pricked arm and my acting-like-a-baby shame. Now I realize this question was another kind of probe: a diagnostic test of the is-my-patient-a-social-misfit? sort.
“Your best friend?” he repeated.
“Lavinia Potter,” I replied. “Who else?”
My best friend Lavinia Potter’s turn was next. I joined my mother on the bench. She put her arm around me.
“That hurt,” I whined.
“I’ll say. I heard you wail in
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