took the initiative, so to speak. You all right there?”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing I look pale. “Gruesome, though.”
“Nothing like history to give you a bit of perspective, eh? Now, was there something you wanted?”
For a second I’ve forgotten what I came here for. Then my stomach cramps up and I remember.
“I might be coming down with a bug or something. Do you have the name of a good doctor?”
“Poor thing,” he says, instantly solicitous. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Dr. Robert’s a great young doc, one of the best in town. He’s my aunt’s neighbor. You tell him I sent you.”
In my cubicle, keeping my voice down, I make an appointment.
But even with the name-dropping, the soonest Dr. Robert can see me is in two weeks. I try to convince myself that by the time the appointment comes around, I will be all better. I can always cancel.
On Saturday Frank sends me to the farmers’ market to meet and mingle with the hippie/yuppie/family crowd. It’s my first story assignment. Until now I’ve interviewed a few sources for the other stringer on the paper and done a bit of research. Frank, in his dramatic fashion, declared me ready forthe responsibility. The fact that Alex, the other reporter, is off for a couple days isn’t mentioned by either of us.
I call my mom and tell her that next week I’ll have an article.
“Really?” The delight in her voice zings across the phone line and straight to my toes. “Are they online? Maybe I can subscribe—do you think they would mail me copies?”
“Don’t get so excited,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “It’ll just be a little fluff piece in a tiny little paper.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “It’s your first professional piece and you’re only eighteen.”
“Cameron Crowe was writing for
Rolling Stone
by the time he was sixteen.”
“And what did he ever amount to?” she asks.
“Mom, he’s a really famous screenwriter and director.”
“I’ve never heard of him.” As if that’s supposed to be an inarguable point.
It’s funny to me that my friends always liked my dad better than my mom. My dad comes across so cool that no one gave me much sympathy when I complained of the ridiculously high standards he set for my brother and me. My mother was a bit aloof with outsiders, which, combined with her past as a former nun, intimidated my friends. But when it was just us with her, she radiated acceptance. No matter what I did, I could never disappoint her. Both my parents are five foot eight, but while my dad seems taller than his actual height, my mom seems shorter. Something about the way they stand and take up space in a room always makes it hard for me to believe they’re the same height. My mom’s short gray hair in aperpetual bowl cut contrasts with my dad’s messy auburn curls—it’s like her hair spurns attention, while his demands it.
My mom didn’t like to talk about her life before Dad, but it wasn’t a secret that she had been a nun for six years before leaving the order. She’d lost her parents in a car accident when she was five and was raised by a deeply religious uncle. She told me she became a nun at eighteen thinking she’d find the home she’d never had. But like many women who marry young, she and her groom grew apart. Life in a religious order was nothing like she’d imagined. Less
Sound of Music
, more
Big Brother
. At twenty-four, she left the church with a heavy heart. Three years later, when she and my dad got together, she was getting her doctorate in comparative religion, living a completely secular life. She agreed to raise the kids Jewish; hence my bat mitzvah. It was quite a scandal at my dad’s congregation when the rabbi married a former nun, a shiksa from England. I’m sure the nuns were equally horrified.
Mom would come with us to synagogue and read from the prayer book, speaking the Hebrew words in her proper English accent. I do believe her commitment was genuine, but as we got
“Yeah,” I say, knowing I look pale. “Gruesome, though.”
“Nothing like history to give you a bit of perspective, eh? Now, was there something you wanted?”
For a second I’ve forgotten what I came here for. Then my stomach cramps up and I remember.
“I might be coming down with a bug or something. Do you have the name of a good doctor?”
“Poor thing,” he says, instantly solicitous. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Dr. Robert’s a great young doc, one of the best in town. He’s my aunt’s neighbor. You tell him I sent you.”
In my cubicle, keeping my voice down, I make an appointment.
But even with the name-dropping, the soonest Dr. Robert can see me is in two weeks. I try to convince myself that by the time the appointment comes around, I will be all better. I can always cancel.
On Saturday Frank sends me to the farmers’ market to meet and mingle with the hippie/yuppie/family crowd. It’s my first story assignment. Until now I’ve interviewed a few sources for the other stringer on the paper and done a bit of research. Frank, in his dramatic fashion, declared me ready forthe responsibility. The fact that Alex, the other reporter, is off for a couple days isn’t mentioned by either of us.
I call my mom and tell her that next week I’ll have an article.
“Really?” The delight in her voice zings across the phone line and straight to my toes. “Are they online? Maybe I can subscribe—do you think they would mail me copies?”
“Don’t get so excited,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “It’ll just be a little fluff piece in a tiny little paper.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “It’s your first professional piece and you’re only eighteen.”
“Cameron Crowe was writing for
Rolling Stone
by the time he was sixteen.”
“And what did he ever amount to?” she asks.
“Mom, he’s a really famous screenwriter and director.”
“I’ve never heard of him.” As if that’s supposed to be an inarguable point.
It’s funny to me that my friends always liked my dad better than my mom. My dad comes across so cool that no one gave me much sympathy when I complained of the ridiculously high standards he set for my brother and me. My mother was a bit aloof with outsiders, which, combined with her past as a former nun, intimidated my friends. But when it was just us with her, she radiated acceptance. No matter what I did, I could never disappoint her. Both my parents are five foot eight, but while my dad seems taller than his actual height, my mom seems shorter. Something about the way they stand and take up space in a room always makes it hard for me to believe they’re the same height. My mom’s short gray hair in aperpetual bowl cut contrasts with my dad’s messy auburn curls—it’s like her hair spurns attention, while his demands it.
My mom didn’t like to talk about her life before Dad, but it wasn’t a secret that she had been a nun for six years before leaving the order. She’d lost her parents in a car accident when she was five and was raised by a deeply religious uncle. She told me she became a nun at eighteen thinking she’d find the home she’d never had. But like many women who marry young, she and her groom grew apart. Life in a religious order was nothing like she’d imagined. Less
Sound of Music
, more
Big Brother
. At twenty-four, she left the church with a heavy heart. Three years later, when she and my dad got together, she was getting her doctorate in comparative religion, living a completely secular life. She agreed to raise the kids Jewish; hence my bat mitzvah. It was quite a scandal at my dad’s congregation when the rabbi married a former nun, a shiksa from England. I’m sure the nuns were equally horrified.
Mom would come with us to synagogue and read from the prayer book, speaking the Hebrew words in her proper English accent. I do believe her commitment was genuine, but as we got
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