carry their child anyway, to always feel that they owed her. It was all too intimate, and intimacy had never been a family strong suit.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
When Sam had gone to Florida she had steeled herself to find her mother emaciated and sickly, and sheâd feared she would have to avert her eyes. But Iris had picked her up at the airport looking remarkably unremarkable. Her brunette hair was newly cut in a smart bob, and she wore a white linen tunic and khakis, her large sunglasses perched on her head. In a hug her smallness was disconcerting, her prosthetic breast inserts firm and high, but her face was sun-touched and Sam was, on the whole, relieved. Perhaps there would be more time. Her own pregnant belly had emerged, a taut low mound, and Iris patted it with a little smile.
But the illusion of Irisâs wellness dissipated quickly. By the time they arrived at the condo, Iris had used up all the energy she had put into her first impression, and she was exhausted. She needed her daughterâs help just to get up the few front steps. And it was later, when Sam helped her with a bath, that the frailty of Irisâs body came into devastating relief. When had she last seen her mother naked? She remembered as a girl seeing Irisâwho must have been in her late forties thenâafter a shower unself-consciously hanging up the towel that had been wrapped around her body, exposing her womanly rounded hips and full breasts and the pouch at her stomach.
Now there were no more curves, no more softness around her bones. Her skin was slack, dry, and thin. Two ragged diagonal scars angrily crossed her chest where her breasts once were.
âI made it easy for them,â Iris said, âsince I wasnât getting reconstruction. Quick and dirty.â She shrugged. âIt wasnât that big of a loss, really. Though the scars really itch. That I could do without.â
Iris gamely kept her tone light and Sam tried to comply, running a washcloth over the remains of the body that had given birth to her. Samâs pregnancy made the bath an awkward dance, each movement recalibrated to fit her changed shape.
âI like your haircut,â Sam said, and they both laughed.
âSomeday you will understand how hard it is for me to have you here,â Iris said, as if Sam didnât already have a pretty good idea.
âIâm glad I could be with you, Mom,â Sam had said. âI wish you would stop seeing it as some kind of sacrifice.â
âIâm sorry for what I will have to ask of you,â she had said.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
In front of Samâs car a group of children, three little girls with short black hair and pierced ears, toddled out of the door of the day-care center ushered by a tiny old woman in a black stovepipe hat.
They were Hmong, most likely, a Southeast Asian ethnicity Sam hadnât heard of before moving to Madison. Sheâd first seen Hmong people at the farmersâ market, petite in body with wide lovely faces, their ordered produce cheaper than that of the other stalls. During the Vietnam War, the CIA had recruited them to help fight the âSecret Warâ in Laos, and when the United States withdrew from the region and the communists took over the Lao kingdom, the Hmong were singled out for retribution. Hundreds of thousands fled, and many of those refugees ended up in Wisconsin.
How could I ever have the nerve to complain about anything, Sam thought. The first Wisconsin winter for the Hmong must have felt like banishment to a frozen hell.
One of the little girls was crying, snot running down into her gaping mouth, but the old woman ignored her. She marched her chargesânot dressed warmly enough for the chill, Sam thoughtâthrough the parking lot out toward the commercial strip. Sam watched in her rearview as the miniature group trundled in a row along the busy street. After a while the bobbing black hat was the only thing
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
When Sam had gone to Florida she had steeled herself to find her mother emaciated and sickly, and sheâd feared she would have to avert her eyes. But Iris had picked her up at the airport looking remarkably unremarkable. Her brunette hair was newly cut in a smart bob, and she wore a white linen tunic and khakis, her large sunglasses perched on her head. In a hug her smallness was disconcerting, her prosthetic breast inserts firm and high, but her face was sun-touched and Sam was, on the whole, relieved. Perhaps there would be more time. Her own pregnant belly had emerged, a taut low mound, and Iris patted it with a little smile.
But the illusion of Irisâs wellness dissipated quickly. By the time they arrived at the condo, Iris had used up all the energy she had put into her first impression, and she was exhausted. She needed her daughterâs help just to get up the few front steps. And it was later, when Sam helped her with a bath, that the frailty of Irisâs body came into devastating relief. When had she last seen her mother naked? She remembered as a girl seeing Irisâwho must have been in her late forties thenâafter a shower unself-consciously hanging up the towel that had been wrapped around her body, exposing her womanly rounded hips and full breasts and the pouch at her stomach.
Now there were no more curves, no more softness around her bones. Her skin was slack, dry, and thin. Two ragged diagonal scars angrily crossed her chest where her breasts once were.
âI made it easy for them,â Iris said, âsince I wasnât getting reconstruction. Quick and dirty.â She shrugged. âIt wasnât that big of a loss, really. Though the scars really itch. That I could do without.â
Iris gamely kept her tone light and Sam tried to comply, running a washcloth over the remains of the body that had given birth to her. Samâs pregnancy made the bath an awkward dance, each movement recalibrated to fit her changed shape.
âI like your haircut,â Sam said, and they both laughed.
âSomeday you will understand how hard it is for me to have you here,â Iris said, as if Sam didnât already have a pretty good idea.
âIâm glad I could be with you, Mom,â Sam had said. âI wish you would stop seeing it as some kind of sacrifice.â
âIâm sorry for what I will have to ask of you,â she had said.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
In front of Samâs car a group of children, three little girls with short black hair and pierced ears, toddled out of the door of the day-care center ushered by a tiny old woman in a black stovepipe hat.
They were Hmong, most likely, a Southeast Asian ethnicity Sam hadnât heard of before moving to Madison. Sheâd first seen Hmong people at the farmersâ market, petite in body with wide lovely faces, their ordered produce cheaper than that of the other stalls. During the Vietnam War, the CIA had recruited them to help fight the âSecret Warâ in Laos, and when the United States withdrew from the region and the communists took over the Lao kingdom, the Hmong were singled out for retribution. Hundreds of thousands fled, and many of those refugees ended up in Wisconsin.
How could I ever have the nerve to complain about anything, Sam thought. The first Wisconsin winter for the Hmong must have felt like banishment to a frozen hell.
One of the little girls was crying, snot running down into her gaping mouth, but the old woman ignored her. She marched her chargesânot dressed warmly enough for the chill, Sam thoughtâthrough the parking lot out toward the commercial strip. Sam watched in her rearview as the miniature group trundled in a row along the busy street. After a while the bobbing black hat was the only thing
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