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Authors: Marisa de los Santos
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pressing down until it hurt. “Underneath, I’m a skeleton,” she whispered to the daffodil-yellow walls of her room.
On the afternoon of the third day, Clare heard her mother step quickly and lightly up the stairs and go into her bedroom, heard the sound of drawers sliding open and shut. Her mother was half-singing half-murmuring a song, and Clare kept still, listening with her whole body. As she listened, almost shaking with effort, Clare felt something stirring in her chest, the tiny beginnings of anger. She slid off the bed, and her bare feet on the floor were surprising—faraway and strange, just shapes, yellow rug showing in the little space between her first two toes.
Clare walked shakily down the hall to her mother’s room. The door was standing open, and Clare stopped just outside it, not looking in yet, holding her breath and listening to her mother sing. “Wild Is the Wind,” a song from the Nina Simone CD Clare and her mother used to love listening to in the car. “Wild Is the Wind” was song number ten. Number two was “Mississippi Goddamn,” and she and her mother adored that one, turned it up loud, and sang it, both of them, at the tops of their lungs, rolling the “god” around in their mouths, slinging the “damn” out with gusto. They could have been on the highway, cars zooming all around them, but they were in their own world, too, at those moments, it seemed to Clare, the interior of the car, that shared space of air, charged with their two voices, almost shimmering. Now, she listened to her mother sing one of their songs—hers and Clare’s—in a stranger’s voice, a voice that slid disturbingly back and forth between raspy and velvety and seemed so much to be sung to someone that Clare found herself stepping into the room to see who it was.
The room was empty, of course, except for her mother, who had just slipped a narrow summer dress over her head and was shimmying it into place, her hands running over her hips and down the sides of her legs. She didn’t look up as Clare entered.
“It’s December,” said Clare. Her voice was creaky and hoarse, an old woman’s voice.
Her mother seemed not to hear, but just kept singing in that new voice, as she sat down in her burgundy leather reading chair, “claret” is what she used to call the color, to put on a pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals. Clare saw that the shoes were precisely the same creamy color as her mother’s feet. A shopping bag and a shoebox lay on the floor, and Clare saw them with the same kind of distance with which she’d seen her own feet moments before. Uncomprehendingly, she stared at the two shapes, the crumpled shape of the bag, its heavy, matte, sage green plastic with darker green lettering on the side and the clean lines of the black rectangular shoe box. Clare stared, concentrating, needing to understand what the two shapes were. Months later, Clare would read the William Carlos Williams poem about the red wheelbarrow and the chickens and would remember those two shapes. So much depends on—what? Two ordinary objects. A shopping bag, a shoe box.
When Clare realized what they were, they stopped being what they were and simply became two things too many. Something inside Clare gave way. The anger that had uncurled like a tendril at the sound of her mother’s singing surged, filling her lungs, all the cells of her body, like smoke. Clare started screaming choked, clotted screams, a terrible sound in her own ears. She pitched herself—her thin, skin-covered bones, her wild hair and shaking head—into the room, kicking the shoe box, stomping on it, twisting the bag and trying to rip it to shreds. The plastic bit into her palms. “I hate you!” she screamed again and again. Then, “You’re killing me!” And finally, dismally, and without inflection, “You don’t even care, you don’t even care, you don’t even care.”
After a long time, Clare dropped onto the floor at the foot of her
On the afternoon of the third day, Clare heard her mother step quickly and lightly up the stairs and go into her bedroom, heard the sound of drawers sliding open and shut. Her mother was half-singing half-murmuring a song, and Clare kept still, listening with her whole body. As she listened, almost shaking with effort, Clare felt something stirring in her chest, the tiny beginnings of anger. She slid off the bed, and her bare feet on the floor were surprising—faraway and strange, just shapes, yellow rug showing in the little space between her first two toes.
Clare walked shakily down the hall to her mother’s room. The door was standing open, and Clare stopped just outside it, not looking in yet, holding her breath and listening to her mother sing. “Wild Is the Wind,” a song from the Nina Simone CD Clare and her mother used to love listening to in the car. “Wild Is the Wind” was song number ten. Number two was “Mississippi Goddamn,” and she and her mother adored that one, turned it up loud, and sang it, both of them, at the tops of their lungs, rolling the “god” around in their mouths, slinging the “damn” out with gusto. They could have been on the highway, cars zooming all around them, but they were in their own world, too, at those moments, it seemed to Clare, the interior of the car, that shared space of air, charged with their two voices, almost shimmering. Now, she listened to her mother sing one of their songs—hers and Clare’s—in a stranger’s voice, a voice that slid disturbingly back and forth between raspy and velvety and seemed so much to be sung to someone that Clare found herself stepping into the room to see who it was.
The room was empty, of course, except for her mother, who had just slipped a narrow summer dress over her head and was shimmying it into place, her hands running over her hips and down the sides of her legs. She didn’t look up as Clare entered.
“It’s December,” said Clare. Her voice was creaky and hoarse, an old woman’s voice.
Her mother seemed not to hear, but just kept singing in that new voice, as she sat down in her burgundy leather reading chair, “claret” is what she used to call the color, to put on a pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals. Clare saw that the shoes were precisely the same creamy color as her mother’s feet. A shopping bag and a shoebox lay on the floor, and Clare saw them with the same kind of distance with which she’d seen her own feet moments before. Uncomprehendingly, she stared at the two shapes, the crumpled shape of the bag, its heavy, matte, sage green plastic with darker green lettering on the side and the clean lines of the black rectangular shoe box. Clare stared, concentrating, needing to understand what the two shapes were. Months later, Clare would read the William Carlos Williams poem about the red wheelbarrow and the chickens and would remember those two shapes. So much depends on—what? Two ordinary objects. A shopping bag, a shoe box.
When Clare realized what they were, they stopped being what they were and simply became two things too many. Something inside Clare gave way. The anger that had uncurled like a tendril at the sound of her mother’s singing surged, filling her lungs, all the cells of her body, like smoke. Clare started screaming choked, clotted screams, a terrible sound in her own ears. She pitched herself—her thin, skin-covered bones, her wild hair and shaking head—into the room, kicking the shoe box, stomping on it, twisting the bag and trying to rip it to shreds. The plastic bit into her palms. “I hate you!” she screamed again and again. Then, “You’re killing me!” And finally, dismally, and without inflection, “You don’t even care, you don’t even care, you don’t even care.”
After a long time, Clare dropped onto the floor at the foot of her
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