this without his wife’s comfort? Was he made of wood? Had he no more tact than a drill bit?
Did he not think being dead would be so much easier than being marooned on this narrow peninsula of leftover years?
Twenty, certainly. Thirty maybe.
The self she no longer wanted still had a mind of its own. She had already caught herself noticing the milky luxury of the opening peonies. The air smelled good, poppy-baked, in the early morning.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 36
36
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
Oblivious as a queen, summer paraded its natural excesses, and, like a starving person set down in a marketplace, Lorraine was diverted. She still wanted her coffee. She still couldn’t feel clean unless she flossed.
Even the morphine, which Lorraine graduated to the morning after the accident—hoping to go drifting like a Beatle through gardens of chuckling flowers—only made her have an awful dream. Georgia, aged ten or eleven, was perched naked on a burning mountain, screaming for her mother, while Lorraine tried to make herself climb onto hot, rolling, sliding charcoal bricks, driven back by fear each time. Jump, Georgia, she would cry, but Georgia would simply go on screaming, as if she had not heard.
The real-life Georgia had never screamed. Winced, a little, but tried to hide it, pretending she’d been clearing her throat. She’d been stubbornly, stupidly optimistic: I’m feeling stronger today, Little Mom. I think Keefer said “Grandma.” She’ll be talking by Christmas. This time, she’s really going to know about Santa Claus! I can’t wait!! Only a single time had she cried out, when her feet flexed helplessly and her hands splayed during the first seizure : “I’m scared, Mommy! I’m so scared. Does this mean I’m going to die right this minute?”
After the morphine dream, Lorraine had not wanted to sleep again.
But sleep was the only thing that snapped closed her mind’s perpetually paging photo album.
Georgia at five.
Bold as the storybook child raised by wolves, tanned everywhere but chin and elbow creases, from her miniature athlete’s legs to the unselfconscious ellipse of her perfect belly, she threw off her clothes and ran screaming into Hat Lake. A sprite, a savage. Georgia sitting in the naughty chair straight-backed for three hours. “I’m not going to talk to you, Daddy,” she would tell Mark, “until you behave.” It had been Mark who’d finally broken, whispering words of caution and penitence into her soft little shoulder.
Georgia at six, dark and elfin, saying in her curiously deep voice,
“You’re too little to be a mommy; why are you so little?”
“I just quit growing in seventh grade,” Lorraine had told her. She still lied about her height, giving it as five feet two on her driver’s Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 37
A Theory of Relativity
37
license when she wouldn’t have topped five feet stretched on a rack.
“You’re not so big yourself, short stuff.”
“I’m going to be bigger than you, Mom. In, like, a week.”
“I don’t think so. I’m a lot older than you.”
“Are you very old, Mom?”
“Real old.”
“Are you going to die soon?”
“No. Not soon at all,” Lorraine would tell her, thinking, panicky, I have to do regular breast self-exams from now on, I’m going back to the gym . . .
“Because I don’t want to die.”
“What, honey?”
“When you die, I have to die.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“You’ll be a big grown-up lady with lots of babies of your own, and the last thing you’ll want to do is die. You’ll be sad, but you’ll go on and you’ll remember me . . .”
“No, I’ll die, too.”
“No, you won’t. Stop this, Georgia. And anyway, Georgia, I promise I won’t die until you’re all ready for me to die . . .” Why did I smoke for ten years, Lorraine would think, at times like those; I didn’t even like it.
Why did I let my aunt Clara give me diet pills? Why don’t I
Did he not think being dead would be so much easier than being marooned on this narrow peninsula of leftover years?
Twenty, certainly. Thirty maybe.
The self she no longer wanted still had a mind of its own. She had already caught herself noticing the milky luxury of the opening peonies. The air smelled good, poppy-baked, in the early morning.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 36
36
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
Oblivious as a queen, summer paraded its natural excesses, and, like a starving person set down in a marketplace, Lorraine was diverted. She still wanted her coffee. She still couldn’t feel clean unless she flossed.
Even the morphine, which Lorraine graduated to the morning after the accident—hoping to go drifting like a Beatle through gardens of chuckling flowers—only made her have an awful dream. Georgia, aged ten or eleven, was perched naked on a burning mountain, screaming for her mother, while Lorraine tried to make herself climb onto hot, rolling, sliding charcoal bricks, driven back by fear each time. Jump, Georgia, she would cry, but Georgia would simply go on screaming, as if she had not heard.
The real-life Georgia had never screamed. Winced, a little, but tried to hide it, pretending she’d been clearing her throat. She’d been stubbornly, stupidly optimistic: I’m feeling stronger today, Little Mom. I think Keefer said “Grandma.” She’ll be talking by Christmas. This time, she’s really going to know about Santa Claus! I can’t wait!! Only a single time had she cried out, when her feet flexed helplessly and her hands splayed during the first seizure : “I’m scared, Mommy! I’m so scared. Does this mean I’m going to die right this minute?”
After the morphine dream, Lorraine had not wanted to sleep again.
But sleep was the only thing that snapped closed her mind’s perpetually paging photo album.
Georgia at five.
Bold as the storybook child raised by wolves, tanned everywhere but chin and elbow creases, from her miniature athlete’s legs to the unselfconscious ellipse of her perfect belly, she threw off her clothes and ran screaming into Hat Lake. A sprite, a savage. Georgia sitting in the naughty chair straight-backed for three hours. “I’m not going to talk to you, Daddy,” she would tell Mark, “until you behave.” It had been Mark who’d finally broken, whispering words of caution and penitence into her soft little shoulder.
Georgia at six, dark and elfin, saying in her curiously deep voice,
“You’re too little to be a mommy; why are you so little?”
“I just quit growing in seventh grade,” Lorraine had told her. She still lied about her height, giving it as five feet two on her driver’s Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 37
A Theory of Relativity
37
license when she wouldn’t have topped five feet stretched on a rack.
“You’re not so big yourself, short stuff.”
“I’m going to be bigger than you, Mom. In, like, a week.”
“I don’t think so. I’m a lot older than you.”
“Are you very old, Mom?”
“Real old.”
“Are you going to die soon?”
“No. Not soon at all,” Lorraine would tell her, thinking, panicky, I have to do regular breast self-exams from now on, I’m going back to the gym . . .
“Because I don’t want to die.”
“What, honey?”
“When you die, I have to die.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“You’ll be a big grown-up lady with lots of babies of your own, and the last thing you’ll want to do is die. You’ll be sad, but you’ll go on and you’ll remember me . . .”
“No, I’ll die, too.”
“No, you won’t. Stop this, Georgia. And anyway, Georgia, I promise I won’t die until you’re all ready for me to die . . .” Why did I smoke for ten years, Lorraine would think, at times like those; I didn’t even like it.
Why did I let my aunt Clara give me diet pills? Why don’t I
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