Read Online Seven Year Switch (2010) by Claire Cook - Free Book Online Page A

even in photos he seemed alive, so much more alive than my mother.
    As soon as I was old enough, I spent most of my energy trying to attach myself to other families. Big, messy families with lots of kids and noise. Families who sat down at long dinner tables together, instead of eating in front of the television on two little fold-out TV tables. Families who piled their kids into the station wagon and went skating or bowling or to the drive-in.
    As I headed into my teenage years, other girls my age started choosing their friends based on social status or shared interests, but I continued to pick mine for their families. And then I tried to wiggle my way in and blend like a chameleon, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t notice me and make me go home.
    I studied hard, mostly to avoid having to live a boring life like my mother. I knew I wanted a fascinating career, but beyond that, things got a little bit vague. I thought maybe I’d become some new hybrid, a little bit Jane Goodall, only I’d study people instead of primates, and a whole lotta Margaret Mead, but with a less complicated personal life. They were the role models I wanted my mother to be. Sometimes I’d imagine that I’d grown up a wild child frolicking with Jane and the apes. Once in college I caught myself just before I told a classmate Margaret Mead was my great-aunt.
    As set as I was on a big career, I also couldn’t wait to fill my life with a family of my own. My husband would come from a big, boisterous clan, with zillions of cousins. I’d been thrilled when Seth’s family fit the bill. But they’d all drifted away after Seth took off. Or maybe I’d pulled away.
    Nature or nurture, a family larger than two seemed miles beyond my reach.
    â€œMom?” Anastasia said. “Who was that?”
    She put her plate on the table and reached for her pink headband. I looked at my beautiful daughter, her trusting almond eyes, the dusting of freckles across her nose. Her father’s freckles.
    I had absolutely no idea how to handle this. I picked up a piece of chicken and black bean quesadilla, then put it down again. “No one,” I said. “Just a work call.”
    After we cleared our dinner dishes and placed them in the rickety old dishwasher, Anastasia tore a piece of lined paper from her notebook and placed it on the table. She flipped through her spelling book until she’d found this week’s words, all with a silent e at the end. Her teacher gave a pretest on Monday and a final test on Friday. The homework was to practice every night in between.
    I’d had the exact same homework assignment at Anastasia’s age. My mother taught me to fold a sheet of paper lengthwise, then write my spelling words in a long column on one side. To practice, I’d look at each word, memorize it, and flip the paper over to test myself as I wrote it from memory. My mother read her book on the sofa in the next room.
    Anastasia picked up her favorite pen, pink with a fluff of purple feathers on the top. She tickled her nose with it while she waited for the first word.
    â€œReady?” I said.
    She nodded.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “ Struggle . Sometimes mothers struggle to know the right thing to do.”
    â€œ Struggle ,” Anastasia said as she wrote. “Sometimes kids struggle to wake up in the morning.”
    â€œ Bruise ,” I said. “When you’ve been hurt, a bruise can take a long, long time to go away.”
    â€œ Bruise ,” Anastasia said. “When you get a bruise, you don’t even need a Band-Aid.”
    â€œ Pledge ,” I said. “I pledge to always try to do the right thing for my daughter.”
    â€œ Pledge ,” Anastasia said. The purple feathers of her pen danced as she wrote. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.”
    â€œ Jungle ,” I said. “It’s a jungle out there.”
    â€œ Jungle