The next time we stopped it was outside a small country motel where we got a room and lay down together, sleeping until daylight woke us. In the sunlit morning, my mother seemed more at ease, and so I began to relax, too. We had breakfast at the motel restaurant. Then we got back in the car. The landscape shifted with our mood, until we were driving through lush green hillsides dappled with light and trees. My mother explained that this was Pennsylvania Dutch country. She pointed out the traditional “hex signs” on the sides of the barn buildings, colorful patterned discs with stars and concentric shapes inside them. The next time we stopped, it was to visit a big red barn store where my mother bought me a book about the hex signs. I remember being fascinated by the symbols, their histories and meanings. With my new book, it no longer felt like we were on the run; we were tourists, a mother and daughter together on an adventure.
Back in the car, my mother explained that it was only a few hours now until Steubenville. I remember wide-open highways with many lanes, tollbooths, driving through tunnels that cut through hillsides. Before long, we were crossing the Ohio River on a wide, low bridge, and ahead of us was Steubenville, the chimney stacks of the steel mills sending rain-colored smoke into the sky. On the other side of the bridge, we drove only a few more minutes before turning the corner onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
The house at number 1416 was painted yellow and white with steps cutting through a grassy slope leading to a small front porch. My grandmother Dorothy came to the door to greet us. She was round and smiling, with hair that was brown streaked with silver, eyes that crinkled, and glasses on her nose, like a grandmother in a fairy tale. She hugged my mother, and then I let her do the same to me, folding me into the soft warmth of her skirts. Grandma ushered us inside.
My mother and grandmother headed straight for the kitchen to begin preparing dinner, chatting happily. In the kitchen above the refrigerator was a picture of a young woman wearing a fur stole, with dark hair and cherry-red lips and a little black hat on her head. My mother explained this was a photograph of my grandmother when she was younger. I thought she looked like a movie star! It was clear where my mother got her good looks. Later on, I ventured upstairs, where I found a small room with a window overlooking the street. Like the other rooms in Grandma’s home, it was small and dark and decorated with heavy wooden furniture. Right away, I felt certain this must have been my mother’s bedroom when she was a girl. There was a little vanity with a mirror and a wooden chair, so I sat down and examined my reflection. When she was my age, would my mother have looked in this same mirror? I was fair and freckled like my father with light brown hair. I didn’t look at all like my mother and my grandmother, with their dark good looks; the only thing I had inherited from them was my high forehead. It felt special, important, that I could be here with her.
I went back downstairs, lured by the smell of brownies baking. I had always sensed that my mother didn’t like Steubenville—why else had we never visited?—and yet it didn’t seem so bad here.
Then Joe, my grandmother’s husband, came home. I knew this was my mother’s stepfather. He was a tall, stooped man, with a bald head and eyebrows that went up at angles, meeting in a V at the top of his nose. There were no hugs from my step-grandfather. Instead, Joe nodded his greetings to my mother and went straight to the dining table. My mother followed him silently, and I did the same. Joe sat down at the head of the table. He pulled out his napkin and thrust it under the collar of his shirt with a flourish. Then he picked up his knife in one hand and his fork in the other and held them in his fists, ends propped on the table, waiting to be served. Dorothy came in, dutifully putting a plate of food in front of him. Then Joe took his fork and began to eat, stabbing his food and thrusting it into his mouth. For the rest of the meal, no one said a word. My father never took his meals with us—he always carried his plate into the den so that he could eat on his own—but even so, Joe’s silence was shocking to me.
I don’t remember my step-grandfather showing any interest in me for the duration of the trip. Whenever he came into the house, it was as if the air shifted and soured, putting everyone on edge, my mother in particular. With Joe in the house, my grandmother’s personality changed, too. Usually so cheerful, she quietly submitted to his every demand. Perhaps in the long years of marriage she had learned that protesting wasn’t worth the trouble.
I don’t remember how long we stayed in Steubenville, maybe two weeks, three at the most. But then, as suddenly as we had left Long Island, we were packing our bags and getting in the car to leave. My grandmother stood on the porch as we pulled away, waving and holding back her tears. Then we drove past the long rows of houses. I was sad to leave Steubenville. Despite Joe’s presence, I had enjoyed
