Read Online We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Joy Fowler
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shouting, though other times he’d remember to be mad,
send me silently sobbing back upstairs. Bed-hopping was an established custom in the
house—Fern and I had rarely ended the night in the bed where we’d started. Our parents
felt that it was natural and mammalian not to want to sleep alone, and though they
would have preferred we stay in our own beds, because we kicked and thrashed, they’d
never insisted on it.
While Lowell slept, I’d calm myself by fiddling with his hair. I liked to catch a
bit between two scissored fingers and run my thumb over the scratchy ends. Lowell
had Luke Skywalker’s haircut, but the color was pure Han Solo. Of course, I hadn’t
seen the movie back then. Too young for it and besides Fern couldn’t have gone. But
we had the trading cards. I knew about the hair.
And Lowell, who’d seen it several times, had acted it out for us. I liked Luke best.
I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.
But Fern, who was more sophisticated in her tastes, preferred Han.
Laugh it up, fuzzball.
Unfairness bothers children greatly. When I did finally get to see
Star Wars
, the whole movie was ruined for me by the fact that Luke and Han got a medal at the
end and Chewbacca didn’t. Lowell had changed that part in his retelling, so it came
as quite a shock.
• • •
L OWELL’S ROOM SMELLED of damp cedar from the cage where three rats, washouts from our father’s lab, would
chirp and creak in their spinning wheel all night long. In retrospect, there was something
incomprehensibly strange about the way any of the laboratory rats could transform
from data point to pet, with names and privileges and vet appointments, in a single
afternoon. What a Cinderella story! But I didn’t notice that until later. Back then,
Herman Muenster, Charlie Cheddar, and little hooded Templeton represented nothing
to me but were only themselves.
Lowell smelled too, not bad, but sharp to my senses, because his smell had changed.
At the time, I thought the difference was that he was so mad; I thought that it was
anger I was smelling, but of course he was also growing up, losing the sweetness of
childhood, beginning to sour. He sweated in his sleep.
Most mornings, he left before anyone else was awake. We didn’t know this right off,
but he was having breakfast with the Byards. The Byards were a childless couple, devout
Christians, who now lived across the street from us. Mr. Byard’s eyesight was bad
and Lowell read the sports page aloud to him while Mrs. Byard fried up bacon and eggs.
According to Mrs. Byard, Lowell was sweet as a peekin pie and always welcome.
She’d known a bit about the situation at our house. Most of Bloomington did, though
no one really understood it. “I’m praying for you all,” she told me, appearing at
our door one morning, holding a tin of chocolate chip cookies and backlit like an
angel by a soft autumn sun. “You just remember you were the one made in God’s image.
You hold tight to that and it’ll carry you through the storm.”
• • •
M Y L ORD, ANYONE would think Fern had died, Grandma Donna said. Which is maybe what you, too, are thinking,
that at five, of course, I wouldn’t have figured that out without being told, but
anyone older would have.
I can only assume that our parents explained to me about Fern’s disappearance, possibly
many times, and I’ve repressed it. It simply isn’t plausible to think they hardly
said a word. But this I remember clearly—waking up each morning and going to sleep
each night in a state of inchoate dread. The fact that I didn’t know what I was dreading
made it no less dreadful. Arguably, more so.
Anyway, Fern was not dead. Still isn’t.
Lowell started seeing a counselor and this became a frequent topic in our father’s
nightly monologues. Lowell’s counselor would suggest something—a family powwow, a
session with the parents
send me silently sobbing back upstairs. Bed-hopping was an established custom in the
house—Fern and I had rarely ended the night in the bed where we’d started. Our parents
felt that it was natural and mammalian not to want to sleep alone, and though they
would have preferred we stay in our own beds, because we kicked and thrashed, they’d
never insisted on it.
While Lowell slept, I’d calm myself by fiddling with his hair. I liked to catch a
bit between two scissored fingers and run my thumb over the scratchy ends. Lowell
had Luke Skywalker’s haircut, but the color was pure Han Solo. Of course, I hadn’t
seen the movie back then. Too young for it and besides Fern couldn’t have gone. But
we had the trading cards. I knew about the hair.
And Lowell, who’d seen it several times, had acted it out for us. I liked Luke best.
I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.
But Fern, who was more sophisticated in her tastes, preferred Han.
Laugh it up, fuzzball.
Unfairness bothers children greatly. When I did finally get to see
Star Wars
, the whole movie was ruined for me by the fact that Luke and Han got a medal at the
end and Chewbacca didn’t. Lowell had changed that part in his retelling, so it came
as quite a shock.
• • •
L OWELL’S ROOM SMELLED of damp cedar from the cage where three rats, washouts from our father’s lab, would
chirp and creak in their spinning wheel all night long. In retrospect, there was something
incomprehensibly strange about the way any of the laboratory rats could transform
from data point to pet, with names and privileges and vet appointments, in a single
afternoon. What a Cinderella story! But I didn’t notice that until later. Back then,
Herman Muenster, Charlie Cheddar, and little hooded Templeton represented nothing
to me but were only themselves.
Lowell smelled too, not bad, but sharp to my senses, because his smell had changed.
At the time, I thought the difference was that he was so mad; I thought that it was
anger I was smelling, but of course he was also growing up, losing the sweetness of
childhood, beginning to sour. He sweated in his sleep.
Most mornings, he left before anyone else was awake. We didn’t know this right off,
but he was having breakfast with the Byards. The Byards were a childless couple, devout
Christians, who now lived across the street from us. Mr. Byard’s eyesight was bad
and Lowell read the sports page aloud to him while Mrs. Byard fried up bacon and eggs.
According to Mrs. Byard, Lowell was sweet as a peekin pie and always welcome.
She’d known a bit about the situation at our house. Most of Bloomington did, though
no one really understood it. “I’m praying for you all,” she told me, appearing at
our door one morning, holding a tin of chocolate chip cookies and backlit like an
angel by a soft autumn sun. “You just remember you were the one made in God’s image.
You hold tight to that and it’ll carry you through the storm.”
• • •
M Y L ORD, ANYONE would think Fern had died, Grandma Donna said. Which is maybe what you, too, are thinking,
that at five, of course, I wouldn’t have figured that out without being told, but
anyone older would have.
I can only assume that our parents explained to me about Fern’s disappearance, possibly
many times, and I’ve repressed it. It simply isn’t plausible to think they hardly
said a word. But this I remember clearly—waking up each morning and going to sleep
each night in a state of inchoate dread. The fact that I didn’t know what I was dreading
made it no less dreadful. Arguably, more so.
Anyway, Fern was not dead. Still isn’t.
Lowell started seeing a counselor and this became a frequent topic in our father’s
nightly monologues. Lowell’s counselor would suggest something—a family powwow, a
session with the parents
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