toddling off into the crowd.
I remember the Asian lady in the green one-piece bathing suit who was sitting on the next blanket picking me up and taking me to the lifeguard, who finally called the police when no one came frantically searching for me. I remember an EMS guy with a ponytail and glasses checking me out for heatstroke, the cool water he gave me, the lotion he smoothed on my scorched skin.
Somebody must have given the police descriptions of my mother and Candy and the guys because the police tracked them down in a bar off the boardwalk and arrested the guys for the remaining meth.
I remember how my grandmother, who’d had to drive all the way to that police station for me and my mother and Candy, got a stern, embarrassing lecture from the cops because my mother was underage, drunk, and carrying a pretty convincing fake ID.
I remember my grandmother taking one look at me, then whirling and slapping my mother right across the face and shouting, Look at this baby! How could you be so irresponsible? and my mother, cheek red and eyes crazy, screaming, Don’t you EVER touch me! I wish Daddy was here! I wish he was alive and you were dead!
I remember the policewoman grabbing her arm and Candy taking the other one, and whispering something in her ear, some caution that made her furious but also shut her up.
That day, the one I was supposedly too young to remember, must have left a deep imprint because I still hate shouting, am afraid of the ocean, and will do almost anything to avoid the hollow terror of being left behind.
The second time they took me out I was four and my mother was nineteen. I remember standing in line with her at McDonald’s, clinging to her leg and her prying at my hands, trying to dislodge me. I remember her getting mad because I wanted a plain hamburger with no onions or ketchup, and how she got me a regular one anyway and scraped off the ketchup but it was still there and I couldn’t eat it without gagging, so all I had was French fries. I remember her leading me into a dark field with a big bonfire going and people everywhere, loud, thudding music and some guy smiling, holding a beer and crouching in front of me, taking my hand and hearing my mother say, Go ahead, Sayre, give him a kiss, but I didn’t want to because his breath stank.
I remember my mother got mad at that, too.
I remember the two of them disappearing and me not being able to find them in the sea of legs. I remember being thirsty and picking up a glass and drinking, and people laughing around me. I remember falling down and skinning my elbow and crying, and someone who smelled like burnt leaves picking me up, putting me in the back of a car, and covering me with a jacket. I remember waking up scared and disoriented, crawling out of the car and walking back to the smoldering remains of the fire where it was quiet now and Candy was on her knees in front of some guy sprawled in a camping chair.
I remember her seeing me, and me saying in a little voice, Candy, I don’t know where’s my mother and her lifting her head, pushing her hair out of her face, and saying, Yeah, well, I don’t know, either, so why don’t you go look for her? I remember starting to cry and saying, Could I stay with you till she comes back? and her, sloppy drunk, smirking and saying, Sure, watch and learn, right? I remember hurrying over while she lowered her head again and the guy closed his eyes and I stood behind her looking at how messy the back of her hair was and patting myself on the arm the way Grandma Lucy did when I was upset. Finally I went and climbed into a lawn chair by the dying fire and patted myself to sleep.
The third time I went out with my mother and Candy I was five and my mother was twenty, and that was the Cheerios and vinegar incident.
By the time I was seven I wasn’t cute enough to show off anymore and my mother wasn’t as pretty. She was skinny, too skinny, and pale, and had scabby lesions on her cheeks and at the
I remember the Asian lady in the green one-piece bathing suit who was sitting on the next blanket picking me up and taking me to the lifeguard, who finally called the police when no one came frantically searching for me. I remember an EMS guy with a ponytail and glasses checking me out for heatstroke, the cool water he gave me, the lotion he smoothed on my scorched skin.
Somebody must have given the police descriptions of my mother and Candy and the guys because the police tracked them down in a bar off the boardwalk and arrested the guys for the remaining meth.
I remember how my grandmother, who’d had to drive all the way to that police station for me and my mother and Candy, got a stern, embarrassing lecture from the cops because my mother was underage, drunk, and carrying a pretty convincing fake ID.
I remember my grandmother taking one look at me, then whirling and slapping my mother right across the face and shouting, Look at this baby! How could you be so irresponsible? and my mother, cheek red and eyes crazy, screaming, Don’t you EVER touch me! I wish Daddy was here! I wish he was alive and you were dead!
I remember the policewoman grabbing her arm and Candy taking the other one, and whispering something in her ear, some caution that made her furious but also shut her up.
That day, the one I was supposedly too young to remember, must have left a deep imprint because I still hate shouting, am afraid of the ocean, and will do almost anything to avoid the hollow terror of being left behind.
The second time they took me out I was four and my mother was nineteen. I remember standing in line with her at McDonald’s, clinging to her leg and her prying at my hands, trying to dislodge me. I remember her getting mad because I wanted a plain hamburger with no onions or ketchup, and how she got me a regular one anyway and scraped off the ketchup but it was still there and I couldn’t eat it without gagging, so all I had was French fries. I remember her leading me into a dark field with a big bonfire going and people everywhere, loud, thudding music and some guy smiling, holding a beer and crouching in front of me, taking my hand and hearing my mother say, Go ahead, Sayre, give him a kiss, but I didn’t want to because his breath stank.
I remember my mother got mad at that, too.
I remember the two of them disappearing and me not being able to find them in the sea of legs. I remember being thirsty and picking up a glass and drinking, and people laughing around me. I remember falling down and skinning my elbow and crying, and someone who smelled like burnt leaves picking me up, putting me in the back of a car, and covering me with a jacket. I remember waking up scared and disoriented, crawling out of the car and walking back to the smoldering remains of the fire where it was quiet now and Candy was on her knees in front of some guy sprawled in a camping chair.
I remember her seeing me, and me saying in a little voice, Candy, I don’t know where’s my mother and her lifting her head, pushing her hair out of her face, and saying, Yeah, well, I don’t know, either, so why don’t you go look for her? I remember starting to cry and saying, Could I stay with you till she comes back? and her, sloppy drunk, smirking and saying, Sure, watch and learn, right? I remember hurrying over while she lowered her head again and the guy closed his eyes and I stood behind her looking at how messy the back of her hair was and patting myself on the arm the way Grandma Lucy did when I was upset. Finally I went and climbed into a lawn chair by the dying fire and patted myself to sleep.
The third time I went out with my mother and Candy I was five and my mother was twenty, and that was the Cheerios and vinegar incident.
By the time I was seven I wasn’t cute enough to show off anymore and my mother wasn’t as pretty. She was skinny, too skinny, and pale, and had scabby lesions on her cheeks and at the
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