a moon sticker shining on her inner wrist like tattoo practice. George and I stood by a cement pole, and he leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. Joe told me to come by and see you, he said. I glowed at him. All okay? he said. All is great, I said. I just wanted to show off to Eliza, I said, and you are the best show-off person I know. He grunted a little, and glanced over at Eliza, who was several feet away, watching us from under her bangs, biting into her turkey sandwich. And oh. I’d tasted that turkey sandwich before. The whole thing was just a sonata of love-the lettuce leaf, the organic tomato grown on a happy farm, even the factory mayonnaise took on such delicacy of feeling it seemed like an exquisite violin solo. It was difficult, and rude, to hate my friend so much.
When do you leave for school? I said.
Usual time, he said. Late August. I’ll come visit, don’t you worry.
Is your mom happy?
Oh sure, he said, twanging his thumb. She’s thrilled.
I could see my brother, far in the distance, perched on a flesh-colored bench, overseeing.
Joe’s watching, I said.
George let out a puff of air. Funny guy, he said. So. All okay over here?
All is fine, I said.
No bullies in the hallways?
No, I said. No bullies at all.
Any boys giving you trouble?
Not so much, I said. We smiled at each other.
You wait for a good one, okay? he said.
Okay.
Food?
Same old crap, I said.
Same, he sighed. Brave girl.
Eliza was now sorting through her three kinds of homemade cookies: chocolate chip, oatmeal, sprinkle shortbread. George’s eyes started to graze over my head, to move on to other topics.
Is that enough time? he said. I should get back.
Sure, I said, bowing. That’s great. Thank you so much. I patted his shoulder. Maybe you could laugh?
He laughed at the suggestion, which fulfilled it.
21
When Joseph was born, my mother’s closest friend, Sharlene, the one with wavy tawny hair who’d cooked the glorious French Tunisian feasts of lamb stew and eggplant-tomato tart in their Berkeley days, showed up at the maternity ward right on time wearing a lime-green T-shirt that said
Sharlene received my waddly mother like a football pass, and for a while, she was the perfect helper- brightening, in command, loving, focused-but Joseph, curled up contentedly in the warmth of the uterine sac, did not feel so motivated or timely. By the fifth hour of heated helping, Sharlene, face red, T-shirt drenched to jade, dragged herself to the pay phone in the lobby and apologized extensively to her boss at a catering company. Mom hollered obscenities so loud you could hear them down the corridors. As soon as Joseph popped his head out, screaming, alive, bluish, squirmy, Sharlene kissed my mother on the forehead, said congratulations, great job, oh happy day, and then hightailed out across town to stuff mushrooms.
The doctor left to attend to another patient. The nurse clipped the umbilical cord and went to bury her face in tulips and roses.
Once she was holding the baby close, my mother slowly sat up and swung her legs around. Her body ached. She stepped off the bed and trundled to the window, where she held up the blanket and watched in silence as small Dad jumped up and down. He lit a cigar. He danced a jig. It was like the silent-movie version of her life. He did this whole routine several times through until he was too tired and squinty and then he blew kisses goodbye and headed off to ready the house. Mom was left, all alone, with her son. It was a private room. And even with the women yelling nearby, and the clicking and beeping of machines, she told me that something seemed to empty out at the ward then, and everything grew very quiet, and still, and there was a window of time and calmness, when Mom and the new baby had several hours together, just staring into each other’s eyes. His eyes, wobbly and new; hers, weary, alone, depthful.
She told me this story for the first time when she was combing out my hair after a weekly shower. I was seven, or eight. I saw in him, she said, and her voice drifted off. I saw, she said. She hung her head. We sat together on the floor of the bathroom, on the fluffy damp lavender rug, and she had shaken my hair dry with a towel and held the comb high over my head, ready to nudge it through the snarls. To copy her, I had grown out my hair as long as possible, down to the butt, and washing it was a major hour-long ordeal of shampoo, conditioner, toweling, combing, and maybe a blow-dry if I was lucky.
She was best with activities, and I cherished this time with her, warmed like baby chicks by the orange-red coils of the wall heater. If this kind of time with Mom meant hearing often about my brother, it was worth it. Plus, I had my own good story; when I was born, she said, I had laughed within minutes, even though the doctors assured her that infants did not laugh. You chuckled! she told me, beginning to pull the plastic teeth through wet hair, scoring lines into my scalp. A big belly chortle! she said.
Really?
Really, she said. She worked the comb down, caught full drops of water in the towel as it collected at the ends, and as she did, her shoulders sank again, a graceful sinking. She glanced through the crack in the bathroom door.
With Joseph, she said.
I waited, dripping.
With Joseph, she said, he saw all the world.
Her hand paused in the middle of my hair.
As a baby? I said.
He was like a wee old prophet in the shape of a baby, she said.
She did not cry when she told this story, but her voice grew smaller, humbled. When Joseph heard it, he would usually leave the room. We fell in love in seconds, Mom continued. Literally, seconds! Boom! She smiled at him, and he would pass through the room, whatever room we were in, and go to his own, gently closing the door. I had a memory of him passing through every room in the house this way, as if all my mother did was retell his birth story, over and over and over again. In truth, she probably only told it a few times, but in my memory replay, I could picture him passing through the kitchen, the TV room, the bathroom, my bedroom, and the front lawn, Mom sitting with me for some reason-hair, homework, wedding album-him walking straight through without a response.
I knew, Mom said, that he would guide me.
Joseph’s door clicked shut.
She wrapped the towel around my head, pressing down on the skull.
Do I? I asked.
Do you what, baby? she asked.
Do I guide you too?
Oh sure, she said, drying my ears. All of you do! You help me all the time, of course!
When my hair was dry and combed enough, she took her time with the three damp strands on either side, her fingers deft and accurate, doing the French style of braids that started high on the scalp. At dinner, running a hand over the bumps in my hair, I tried to catch Joseph’s eyes to see what was so special in there, but he just dodged his around. What? he said, when I kept trying. What is your problem?
I’m trying to be guided by your eyes, I said.
He closed his. Long orbs of pale lids, black rims of lashes.
My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
He ate that whole meal with his eyes closed and somehow didn’t spill a thing. Mom thought he was trying to
