in the middle of one when he left. It was about a little girl named Mandy – we were always the heroes – who discovered she had the power to stop time, just like pushing the “pause” button on a DVD player. Ever since Dad left, I’ve wondered how that story turned out.
Would the girl ever discover a use for that power?
No question, there are moments in my life I would like to freeze, so I could take my time with them, savor them, but eventually you’d have to push “play” again. Things always move forward, whether you want them to or not.
“Come on,” I say to Angie as I trudge up the stairs to my sister’s bedroom.
Mandy is in bed under her covers when we walk in. I make my way toward her but have to skirt round the obstacle course of half-unpacked boxes that litter her bedroom – as they do the rest of the house, and will for weeks. I perch on the end of her bed, steeling myself for our nightly battle.
“I can’t fall asleep if you don’t tell me a story,” says Mandy for the fifty-third night in a row.
“I can’t
tell
you a story,” I say. By now we both know our lines. “But I’ll
read
you one.”
“But you’re good at making up stories,” she whines.
This is true and we both know it. I was the storyteller on our family outings in Manila. Most weekends we went to the beach. Vince and I were learning to surf,and Dad never complained about driving, even though traffic was a nightmare. The only irritation was Mandy, who whined nonstop if she wasn’t entertained. Dad had to concentrate on the road, so it fell to me to tell her stories. I often suggested we leave her at home, but secretly I liked telling stories, just like my dad. Sometimes I’d even continue a story he’d been telling Mandy at bedtime. If I didn’t finish it, he’d pick up where I left off. I used to dream we’d write stories together when I grew up.
Stupid dream
.
“I can’t make up stories anymore, Mandy,” I say firmly. I’m telling the truth, but she doesn’t believe me.
Angie, who has followed me into Mandy’s room, sits down at the desk and listens to our conversation with interest. I should have left her downstairs.
“I can’t get tired unless you
tell
a story,” repeats Mandy. In fifty-three days, she hasn’t won this battle once, but she never gives up. She’s a determined kid. Even when she’s driving me crazy, I can’t help but like that about her.
I go over to her bookcase and pick up the chapter book we were reading last night.
“I’m not listening,” Mandy shouts. “I hate that story. It’s stupid and boring!”
“Fine, then we’ll leave, and you can go to bed with no story.”
“I hate you!” Tears fill her eyes, and I feel my own start to prick. It’s totally humiliating to have Angiewatching all this, but it’s like a soundtrack we play over and over. I can’t figure out how to turn it off.
“I’ll tell her a story,” volunteers Angie.
We both stare at her.
“You know how to tell stories?” asks Mandy.
“You kidding? I’m an expert! How about
Little Red Riding Hood
?”
“I’m eight years old, Angie. I’m too old for fairy tales. And it has to be a
made-up
story.”
“Trust me. You’re never too old for this story, and it’s totally made-up. But true at the same time.”
Mandy and I look at her skeptically, but finally Mandy shrugs and snuggles deeper into her covers. “Okay,” she says.
“So,” Angie begins, “there was this little girl, Red, and one day she was riding in the hood –”
“You mean, she was Red Riding Hood.” Mandy wiggles up on her pillow. She gives Angie a look as if Angie might be the stupidest person on the planet.
“Well, that’s one version,” says Angie smoothly, “but in this version, Little Red is out one day riding her very cool, low-slung, fifteen-speed, off-road Del Mondo racing bike in her hood when –”
“On her way to Grandma’s house,” interrupts Mandy, who is sitting right up in her bed now and
Would the girl ever discover a use for that power?
No question, there are moments in my life I would like to freeze, so I could take my time with them, savor them, but eventually you’d have to push “play” again. Things always move forward, whether you want them to or not.
“Come on,” I say to Angie as I trudge up the stairs to my sister’s bedroom.
Mandy is in bed under her covers when we walk in. I make my way toward her but have to skirt round the obstacle course of half-unpacked boxes that litter her bedroom – as they do the rest of the house, and will for weeks. I perch on the end of her bed, steeling myself for our nightly battle.
“I can’t fall asleep if you don’t tell me a story,” says Mandy for the fifty-third night in a row.
“I can’t
tell
you a story,” I say. By now we both know our lines. “But I’ll
read
you one.”
“But you’re good at making up stories,” she whines.
This is true and we both know it. I was the storyteller on our family outings in Manila. Most weekends we went to the beach. Vince and I were learning to surf,and Dad never complained about driving, even though traffic was a nightmare. The only irritation was Mandy, who whined nonstop if she wasn’t entertained. Dad had to concentrate on the road, so it fell to me to tell her stories. I often suggested we leave her at home, but secretly I liked telling stories, just like my dad. Sometimes I’d even continue a story he’d been telling Mandy at bedtime. If I didn’t finish it, he’d pick up where I left off. I used to dream we’d write stories together when I grew up.
Stupid dream
.
“I can’t make up stories anymore, Mandy,” I say firmly. I’m telling the truth, but she doesn’t believe me.
Angie, who has followed me into Mandy’s room, sits down at the desk and listens to our conversation with interest. I should have left her downstairs.
“I can’t get tired unless you
tell
a story,” repeats Mandy. In fifty-three days, she hasn’t won this battle once, but she never gives up. She’s a determined kid. Even when she’s driving me crazy, I can’t help but like that about her.
I go over to her bookcase and pick up the chapter book we were reading last night.
“I’m not listening,” Mandy shouts. “I hate that story. It’s stupid and boring!”
“Fine, then we’ll leave, and you can go to bed with no story.”
“I hate you!” Tears fill her eyes, and I feel my own start to prick. It’s totally humiliating to have Angiewatching all this, but it’s like a soundtrack we play over and over. I can’t figure out how to turn it off.
“I’ll tell her a story,” volunteers Angie.
We both stare at her.
“You know how to tell stories?” asks Mandy.
“You kidding? I’m an expert! How about
Little Red Riding Hood
?”
“I’m eight years old, Angie. I’m too old for fairy tales. And it has to be a
made-up
story.”
“Trust me. You’re never too old for this story, and it’s totally made-up. But true at the same time.”
Mandy and I look at her skeptically, but finally Mandy shrugs and snuggles deeper into her covers. “Okay,” she says.
“So,” Angie begins, “there was this little girl, Red, and one day she was riding in the hood –”
“You mean, she was Red Riding Hood.” Mandy wiggles up on her pillow. She gives Angie a look as if Angie might be the stupidest person on the planet.
“Well, that’s one version,” says Angie smoothly, “but in this version, Little Red is out one day riding her very cool, low-slung, fifteen-speed, off-road Del Mondo racing bike in her hood when –”
“On her way to Grandma’s house,” interrupts Mandy, who is sitting right up in her bed now and
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