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Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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seated at the kitchen table; behind her, Mrs. Gruder dried the dishes with elaborate care, then noiselessly put them into the cupboard.
“Where’s Brooks?” I asked. She wouldn’t do much if he was there.
“Brooks has gone home. Answer me. Where were you?”
“What?!”
I said. “I was at Suralee’s!”
“And how exactly was I supposed to know you were there?”
“Mrs. Halloway called you!”
“Mrs. Halloway did
not
call me.”
I sat at the table opposite her. “Well, that’s not my fault. She was supposed to!”
“It
was
your fault,” my mother said. “You are responsible for you. If someone says they’re going to do something for you, it’s up to you to make sure they do it. I was worried about you. I had no idea where you were!”
“Well, you’d have to be pretty stupid not to figure it out.”
“Give me your finger,” my mother said.
I stared at her.
“Give me your finger!”
I put my left pointer up to her mouth, and she bit me. I drew in a quick breath but did not cry out.
“Is the skin broken?” she asked.
I looked. “No.”
“Go wash it out anyway.”
Mrs. Gruder, her face hanging low in sorrow, moved to help me, and my mother said, “Eleanor, don’t help her. Let her do it herself.”
Mrs. Gruder watched me as I washed my hands. I knew that she was in awe of the power my mother held over me. Suralee, too. More than once, Suralee had said, “Why do you just let her bite you like that? Why do you put your finger there? What’s she going to do if you just walk away?”
“I don’t know,” I always said. I really didn’t. But my mother, who on that sad day in the iron lung had vowed to use whatever power she had left, did exactly that—with a vengeance. She listened more carefully than anyone: to music, to birdsong, to the wind and the rain, but especially to people—she heard not only what they said but what they felt. She could tell when something in the oven was done by the smell alone; from across the room, she could tell which wrapped box under the Christmas tree held dusting powder. She taught me about good food by her varied and dramatic responses to the taste of it. Most amazingly, she transformed the look in her eyes into her entire body. In anger, those eyes were her grabbing you and holding you down, bending your will to her own. Though she could do nothing but stare at me, I feared her, mightily and distinctly. If she had told me to slap my own face, I would have.
“Now go to bed,” my mother said, and I did.
I n the morning, I awakened full of energy and bolted to my window to check on the weather—cloudless, I was happy to see; we’d have a nice evening. Then, like a soft punch to the stomach, came a familiar realization: My mother would never again be able to do this, fling back the covers and leap out of bed. Go to the window of her own volition. Go
anywhere
of her own volition. Of course I knew this, knew it in my brain, anyway; but I was nonetheless reminded of it in my heart in these unexpected and most random of ways. I can only describe it as the way you touch something bare-handed that you
just took
from the oven. Impossible as it seems, every now and then I would simply forget my mother was paralyzed. I would hold something out to her. Or I would call her to come over and look at something. I would point at my own mouth to indicate that she had a crumb stuck at the side of her own.
She understood this phenomenon; she’d had plenty of experiences with other people having what she called “brain skips.” One summer night, when she was sitting outside with my mother, Brenda felt a June bug land on the back of her neck. Brenda was deathly afraid of June bugs. She’d leapt out of her lawn chair and started dancing around and around, shrieking at my mother, “Get it off! Get it off!”
“Yeah, okay, in a minute,” my mother had said.
I once asked my mother if she herself ever forgot her circumstances in this way. “I don’t
“Where’s Brooks?” I asked. She wouldn’t do much if he was there.
“Brooks has gone home. Answer me. Where were you?”
“What?!”
I said. “I was at Suralee’s!”
“And how exactly was I supposed to know you were there?”
“Mrs. Halloway called you!”
“Mrs. Halloway did
not
call me.”
I sat at the table opposite her. “Well, that’s not my fault. She was supposed to!”
“It
was
your fault,” my mother said. “You are responsible for you. If someone says they’re going to do something for you, it’s up to you to make sure they do it. I was worried about you. I had no idea where you were!”
“Well, you’d have to be pretty stupid not to figure it out.”
“Give me your finger,” my mother said.
I stared at her.
“Give me your finger!”
I put my left pointer up to her mouth, and she bit me. I drew in a quick breath but did not cry out.
“Is the skin broken?” she asked.
I looked. “No.”
“Go wash it out anyway.”
Mrs. Gruder, her face hanging low in sorrow, moved to help me, and my mother said, “Eleanor, don’t help her. Let her do it herself.”
Mrs. Gruder watched me as I washed my hands. I knew that she was in awe of the power my mother held over me. Suralee, too. More than once, Suralee had said, “Why do you just let her bite you like that? Why do you put your finger there? What’s she going to do if you just walk away?”
“I don’t know,” I always said. I really didn’t. But my mother, who on that sad day in the iron lung had vowed to use whatever power she had left, did exactly that—with a vengeance. She listened more carefully than anyone: to music, to birdsong, to the wind and the rain, but especially to people—she heard not only what they said but what they felt. She could tell when something in the oven was done by the smell alone; from across the room, she could tell which wrapped box under the Christmas tree held dusting powder. She taught me about good food by her varied and dramatic responses to the taste of it. Most amazingly, she transformed the look in her eyes into her entire body. In anger, those eyes were her grabbing you and holding you down, bending your will to her own. Though she could do nothing but stare at me, I feared her, mightily and distinctly. If she had told me to slap my own face, I would have.
“Now go to bed,” my mother said, and I did.
I n the morning, I awakened full of energy and bolted to my window to check on the weather—cloudless, I was happy to see; we’d have a nice evening. Then, like a soft punch to the stomach, came a familiar realization: My mother would never again be able to do this, fling back the covers and leap out of bed. Go to the window of her own volition. Go
anywhere
of her own volition. Of course I knew this, knew it in my brain, anyway; but I was nonetheless reminded of it in my heart in these unexpected and most random of ways. I can only describe it as the way you touch something bare-handed that you
just took
from the oven. Impossible as it seems, every now and then I would simply forget my mother was paralyzed. I would hold something out to her. Or I would call her to come over and look at something. I would point at my own mouth to indicate that she had a crumb stuck at the side of her own.
She understood this phenomenon; she’d had plenty of experiences with other people having what she called “brain skips.” One summer night, when she was sitting outside with my mother, Brenda felt a June bug land on the back of her neck. Brenda was deathly afraid of June bugs. She’d leapt out of her lawn chair and started dancing around and around, shrieking at my mother, “Get it off! Get it off!”
“Yeah, okay, in a minute,” my mother had said.
I once asked my mother if she herself ever forgot her circumstances in this way. “I don’t
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