along.
âMom, you didnât sing this, did you?â
She just shrugged.
Rage flooded me. It wasnât rightâjust because Mom needed help, those Christians thought they could push their beliefs on her. It seemed so unfair to put pressure on a vulnerable person. We were beggars and couldnât be choosers, and the awareness of our dependency enraged me more.
Chapter 13. Barbie
NOT LONG AFTER MY BEST friends Kim and Sharon left for California, I started spending a lot more time with Barbie.
I didnât like Barbie that much, but I was desperate for a friend. As it turned out, our friendship was easy. Barbie had a physical prowess that surpassed mine, and a fearless streak that pushed me in our adventures. She had a small, compact body, a perky, upturned nose, and nonstop energy. We became adventurers together: building forts in the woods, riding our bikes for miles through the neighboring dairyland. She nimbly crossed logs suspended over streams, and I followed, my quaking legs inching along, my arms out for balance, as she waited for me to catch up. In the summer, I leapt screaming from her familyâs rope hung from a tree on the riverbank into the Millstone River.
On rainy days, we played board games and cards: Clue, Monopoly, Go Fish. On Halloween, she thought up pranks that I joined: We sat in a tree and dropped water balloons on kids in their Halloween costumes, stifling our giggles as they screamed; we ran a dummy
made of old clothes stuffed with newspaper up the post office flagpole. In the fall, we raked leaf mazes and played tag in our creations with her sister and brother, and took turns jumping in a huge pile of leaves. In the winter, we skated on the local pond, racing at each other, joining hands, and spinning in a circle.
The year my father was gone, I tried to never have Barbie over. If she and I had to get something from my house, I would race in and out as fast as possible. I prayed that Mom would be secluded in the back room, out of sight.
At Barbieâs, I surrendered to childâs play, completely absorbed in Kick the Can or Monopoly, my body tingling from running or my attention focused on the roll of the dice and moving my plastic token. But somewhere in me lived my other life, held in a breathless tension of what couldnât be said: how every night I put my mother to bed, how I fought her to stub out her cigarette, how I hovered all night half-awake, listening for her to fall on her way to the bathroom. My secret, hidden life.
Every now and then, right in the midst of the hardest playâsay when I was It, racing after Barbie or her little sister Cheryl Annâmy other self would creep up on me and take me by the throat. Breathless, Iâd stop in my tracks, halted by an inexpressible anxiety. âGotta go,â Iâd say to a puzzled Barbie.
Iâd take off running and wouldnât stop until Iâd torn into the house, yelling, âMom, Mom are you okay?â and she answered me.
Chapter 14. Undertow
I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF knocking coming from somewhere below me. I stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, shivering and flicking on lights as I went. The knocking became pounding, not at the front of the house, but at the back. My heart raced as I neared the door.
I turned on the outside light and looked through the glass of the French door. The light made the snow gleam a cold blue. I opened the door. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Jansen, was holding my mother, who stood swaying and shivering in her dripping pajamas.
Mr. Jansen was saying something, but at first it was as if a roaring filled my ears. All I could hear was the creak, creak of the black walnut trees that lined the path to the river, their tall thin trunks swaying in the winter wind. Then his words finally reached me. â . . . and I found her down at the river; guess she jumped in,â he said simply. He was a tall, thin man, and my mother seemed very little huddling hunched
âMom, you didnât sing this, did you?â
She just shrugged.
Rage flooded me. It wasnât rightâjust because Mom needed help, those Christians thought they could push their beliefs on her. It seemed so unfair to put pressure on a vulnerable person. We were beggars and couldnât be choosers, and the awareness of our dependency enraged me more.
Chapter 13. Barbie
NOT LONG AFTER MY BEST friends Kim and Sharon left for California, I started spending a lot more time with Barbie.
I didnât like Barbie that much, but I was desperate for a friend. As it turned out, our friendship was easy. Barbie had a physical prowess that surpassed mine, and a fearless streak that pushed me in our adventures. She had a small, compact body, a perky, upturned nose, and nonstop energy. We became adventurers together: building forts in the woods, riding our bikes for miles through the neighboring dairyland. She nimbly crossed logs suspended over streams, and I followed, my quaking legs inching along, my arms out for balance, as she waited for me to catch up. In the summer, I leapt screaming from her familyâs rope hung from a tree on the riverbank into the Millstone River.
On rainy days, we played board games and cards: Clue, Monopoly, Go Fish. On Halloween, she thought up pranks that I joined: We sat in a tree and dropped water balloons on kids in their Halloween costumes, stifling our giggles as they screamed; we ran a dummy
made of old clothes stuffed with newspaper up the post office flagpole. In the fall, we raked leaf mazes and played tag in our creations with her sister and brother, and took turns jumping in a huge pile of leaves. In the winter, we skated on the local pond, racing at each other, joining hands, and spinning in a circle.
The year my father was gone, I tried to never have Barbie over. If she and I had to get something from my house, I would race in and out as fast as possible. I prayed that Mom would be secluded in the back room, out of sight.
At Barbieâs, I surrendered to childâs play, completely absorbed in Kick the Can or Monopoly, my body tingling from running or my attention focused on the roll of the dice and moving my plastic token. But somewhere in me lived my other life, held in a breathless tension of what couldnât be said: how every night I put my mother to bed, how I fought her to stub out her cigarette, how I hovered all night half-awake, listening for her to fall on her way to the bathroom. My secret, hidden life.
Every now and then, right in the midst of the hardest playâsay when I was It, racing after Barbie or her little sister Cheryl Annâmy other self would creep up on me and take me by the throat. Breathless, Iâd stop in my tracks, halted by an inexpressible anxiety. âGotta go,â Iâd say to a puzzled Barbie.
Iâd take off running and wouldnât stop until Iâd torn into the house, yelling, âMom, Mom are you okay?â and she answered me.
Chapter 14. Undertow
I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF knocking coming from somewhere below me. I stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, shivering and flicking on lights as I went. The knocking became pounding, not at the front of the house, but at the back. My heart raced as I neared the door.
I turned on the outside light and looked through the glass of the French door. The light made the snow gleam a cold blue. I opened the door. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Jansen, was holding my mother, who stood swaying and shivering in her dripping pajamas.
Mr. Jansen was saying something, but at first it was as if a roaring filled my ears. All I could hear was the creak, creak of the black walnut trees that lined the path to the river, their tall thin trunks swaying in the winter wind. Then his words finally reached me. â . . . and I found her down at the river; guess she jumped in,â he said simply. He was a tall, thin man, and my mother seemed very little huddling hunched
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