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Authors: Lisa Tucker
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surrounded by all these hormone-driven teenage kids. She laughs too, then points to a man over by the snack bar, says he’s cute and offers to introduce me to him.
I squint at her. “You know that guy?”
She laughs again. “No, but I’ll just walk over and tell him my friend needs it. Now.”
Her voice is loud; I elbow her in the ribs, tell her to keep it down. She laughs harder and shapes her hands into a mega-phone. “I’ll tell him my friend hasn’t had it for an entire year. Twelve long, desperate months. I’ll say if he doesn’t help out my friend this minute, she may go postal in the pool.”
She’s threatening to do it, standing up, pointing to him; it’s getting ridiculous. I tell her to quit. I grab her ankle and threaten to drown her if she keeps on saying this. I tell her he isn’t my type anyway, and I’m not even slightly interested.
After a minute, she sighs and sits back down. “Okay. But damn, I’d think any guy with the right equipment would be your type after a year. It has been a year, right? Who on earth are you waiting for? Johnny Depp?”
I say, “Tom Cruise,” because I know Irene hates Tom Cruise and she’ll go on and on about why he’s completely overrated. I want to distract her; I don’t want her to ask me that question again—the one in the middle. She knows I haven’t had a serious relationship since Rick, but she always assumes I had dates before I joined the band, while I was working at the restaurant. So far, I haven’t been able to bring myself to correct her.
Irene has taken Willie into the big pool when it hits me that this might be the one thing Mama and I have in common. After all, she has never been with anyone except my father. She’s never even had a date in all the years since he died.
Mama adored Daddy. She must have told me a thousand times how happy they were. He was the love of her life. He treated her like a queen. When he died it was the worst thing she could imagine. It took away all her hope.
It wasn’t the kind of tragedy that makes the newspapers. One Sunday, Daddy was on the roof, patching up a leak, when he just fell. I was standing outside jumping rope, but I can’t say I saw it happen. First I heard a noise, more like a yelp than a scream, and then I discovered him sprawled out on his back on the driveway. I walked over and he looked normal enough for me to ask if he was all right. Even though I noticed the small river of blood coming from his head, I still didn’t understand why he wasn’t answering me. As I ran in to get Mama, I realized the radio was still on the third rung of the ladder, and still playing.
I used to think Mama blamed me. For the longest time, whenever she got drunk, she would pressure me to tell her what I had been doing that must have distracted him. I was in second grade; even though I couldn’t think of anything to tell her, I was never really sure I was innocent.
I can’t remember how much she drank before he died, but I’ll never forget how hard she hit the bottle afterwards. At night, whenever I got up to get some water or go to the bathroom, I’d find her sprawled out on the couch, mumbling that she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed. In the morning, she would cradle her head in her hands and yell at me for everything: for dressing too slowly, for letting my spoon clank against the cereal bowl, for leaving a spot of toothpaste foam on my lip. I guess she was happy sometimes, but only for fleeting moments and never when I needed her to be. I remember when I told her I got the lead in the sixth-grade play, she shrugged. I convinced myself she didn’t hear me, but I was careful not to say it again. I didn’t want to know if I was wrong.
She didn’t start throwing me out until I was twelve. The first time she told me to leave, I thought it was a joke. It was a strange night. I had just started my period, and Mama decided that she would drink to my “becoming a woman.” Every evening she had a
I squint at her. “You know that guy?”
She laughs again. “No, but I’ll just walk over and tell him my friend needs it. Now.”
Her voice is loud; I elbow her in the ribs, tell her to keep it down. She laughs harder and shapes her hands into a mega-phone. “I’ll tell him my friend hasn’t had it for an entire year. Twelve long, desperate months. I’ll say if he doesn’t help out my friend this minute, she may go postal in the pool.”
She’s threatening to do it, standing up, pointing to him; it’s getting ridiculous. I tell her to quit. I grab her ankle and threaten to drown her if she keeps on saying this. I tell her he isn’t my type anyway, and I’m not even slightly interested.
After a minute, she sighs and sits back down. “Okay. But damn, I’d think any guy with the right equipment would be your type after a year. It has been a year, right? Who on earth are you waiting for? Johnny Depp?”
I say, “Tom Cruise,” because I know Irene hates Tom Cruise and she’ll go on and on about why he’s completely overrated. I want to distract her; I don’t want her to ask me that question again—the one in the middle. She knows I haven’t had a serious relationship since Rick, but she always assumes I had dates before I joined the band, while I was working at the restaurant. So far, I haven’t been able to bring myself to correct her.
Irene has taken Willie into the big pool when it hits me that this might be the one thing Mama and I have in common. After all, she has never been with anyone except my father. She’s never even had a date in all the years since he died.
Mama adored Daddy. She must have told me a thousand times how happy they were. He was the love of her life. He treated her like a queen. When he died it was the worst thing she could imagine. It took away all her hope.
It wasn’t the kind of tragedy that makes the newspapers. One Sunday, Daddy was on the roof, patching up a leak, when he just fell. I was standing outside jumping rope, but I can’t say I saw it happen. First I heard a noise, more like a yelp than a scream, and then I discovered him sprawled out on his back on the driveway. I walked over and he looked normal enough for me to ask if he was all right. Even though I noticed the small river of blood coming from his head, I still didn’t understand why he wasn’t answering me. As I ran in to get Mama, I realized the radio was still on the third rung of the ladder, and still playing.
I used to think Mama blamed me. For the longest time, whenever she got drunk, she would pressure me to tell her what I had been doing that must have distracted him. I was in second grade; even though I couldn’t think of anything to tell her, I was never really sure I was innocent.
I can’t remember how much she drank before he died, but I’ll never forget how hard she hit the bottle afterwards. At night, whenever I got up to get some water or go to the bathroom, I’d find her sprawled out on the couch, mumbling that she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed. In the morning, she would cradle her head in her hands and yell at me for everything: for dressing too slowly, for letting my spoon clank against the cereal bowl, for leaving a spot of toothpaste foam on my lip. I guess she was happy sometimes, but only for fleeting moments and never when I needed her to be. I remember when I told her I got the lead in the sixth-grade play, she shrugged. I convinced myself she didn’t hear me, but I was careful not to say it again. I didn’t want to know if I was wrong.
She didn’t start throwing me out until I was twelve. The first time she told me to leave, I thought it was a joke. It was a strange night. I had just started my period, and Mama decided that she would drink to my “becoming a woman.” Every evening she had a
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