in the middle of the kitchen in blue jeans and bare feet, looking at the floor, smiling to himself and slowly shaking his head.
Sitting at my desk in my bedroom tonight, I’m feeling so anxious and excited that I can’t stand it. Thoughts and memories are exploding in my head like fireworks. The hardest part has been coming home from meeting Morris and trying to act as though nothing’s changed when, really, I feel like my life has taken a dramatic turn. It’s frightening but it also feels good somehow, like a huge relief. I’ve been keeping things locked up inside for so long. If only my mother had said more! Did she try, and I just didn’t understand? I’m so angry at losing her when she was the only one who ever understood me, and I’m angry at being abandoned to Joyce, of all people.
What must it have been like for Mom, having Joyce for a mother? My mom was warm and gentle, not like Joyce at all. I used to ask myself why Joyce couldn’t be more like a proper grandmother. You know, gentle and kind. More like Mrs. Ross, for instance.
It’s been ages since I’ve thought about Mrs. Ross. She lived in the seniors’ residence where Mom and Joyce used to volunteer. They had a program called Young Readers for Seniors. Mom said I should sign up, back when I was in grade eight and she was really getting sick, because she thought I was such a good reader. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. Then the next year, after she was gone, something changed my mind. I went for two hours, once a week, for about half a year. In all that time, I only managed to get through one book with one old lady: Mrs. Ross.
Mrs. Ross was tiny but she had great posture. She was like a ninety-pound white-haired gymnast. Always so neat and ladylike. She listened to books on CDs, but she said she liked having a live voice read to her once in a while. She always seemed so happy to see me. Of course she couldn’t see me very well. She wasn’t blind exactly, but she had an eye disease and her sight was lousy.
Now, she was my idea of a sweet old lady. A real grandmother type, not like Joyce. In fact, Mrs. Ross made Joyce look like a drill sergeant. Joyce means well, I guess, but there’s nothing sweet about her. Whereas Mrs. Ross could win contests for that kind of thing.
I read Mrs. Ross a book called
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens. It was her choice, not mine. I only know him because of the movies of
A Christmas Carol
and
Oliver Twist
. Reading the book was absolute murder because of the crazy way everybody talks, with those old-fashioned English accents. I think she got a kick out of listening to me try to read the dialogue. She sure looked like she was having fun.
Once she asked me how I felt about the fact that Pip, the main character, is an orphan, and so is Estella, the girl he loves. Pip is raised by his mean old sister and her nice but stupid husband, and Estella is raised by crazy Mrs. Havisham in a big, rundown mansion. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this myself—I guess I was paying more attention to the mystery and romance and buttered bread down poor Pip’s pants—but Mrs. Ross said something that totally shocked me.
“I guess you must really identify with those two kids. Because you’re an orphan too, like Pip and Estella.”
I don’t know why that hit me so hard. I know I don’t have parents and all—not like most other kids—but it’s hard to see yourself as an orphan when you have two brothers and a grandmother, even if she’s kind of tough on you.
An orphan
. That sounds pretty harsh.
Just then, Mrs. Ross reached out her hand and was feeling for mine. It was embarrassing but I let her find it, and she held on to it, with her bony bird fingers and soft, loose skin. She held on for ages, and the longer she held on, the more uncomfortable I became, and the more I felt like crying. I didn’t feel up to reading much morethat day. Especially when she finally gave my hand a squeeze and let
Sitting at my desk in my bedroom tonight, I’m feeling so anxious and excited that I can’t stand it. Thoughts and memories are exploding in my head like fireworks. The hardest part has been coming home from meeting Morris and trying to act as though nothing’s changed when, really, I feel like my life has taken a dramatic turn. It’s frightening but it also feels good somehow, like a huge relief. I’ve been keeping things locked up inside for so long. If only my mother had said more! Did she try, and I just didn’t understand? I’m so angry at losing her when she was the only one who ever understood me, and I’m angry at being abandoned to Joyce, of all people.
What must it have been like for Mom, having Joyce for a mother? My mom was warm and gentle, not like Joyce at all. I used to ask myself why Joyce couldn’t be more like a proper grandmother. You know, gentle and kind. More like Mrs. Ross, for instance.
It’s been ages since I’ve thought about Mrs. Ross. She lived in the seniors’ residence where Mom and Joyce used to volunteer. They had a program called Young Readers for Seniors. Mom said I should sign up, back when I was in grade eight and she was really getting sick, because she thought I was such a good reader. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. Then the next year, after she was gone, something changed my mind. I went for two hours, once a week, for about half a year. In all that time, I only managed to get through one book with one old lady: Mrs. Ross.
Mrs. Ross was tiny but she had great posture. She was like a ninety-pound white-haired gymnast. Always so neat and ladylike. She listened to books on CDs, but she said she liked having a live voice read to her once in a while. She always seemed so happy to see me. Of course she couldn’t see me very well. She wasn’t blind exactly, but she had an eye disease and her sight was lousy.
Now, she was my idea of a sweet old lady. A real grandmother type, not like Joyce. In fact, Mrs. Ross made Joyce look like a drill sergeant. Joyce means well, I guess, but there’s nothing sweet about her. Whereas Mrs. Ross could win contests for that kind of thing.
I read Mrs. Ross a book called
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens. It was her choice, not mine. I only know him because of the movies of
A Christmas Carol
and
Oliver Twist
. Reading the book was absolute murder because of the crazy way everybody talks, with those old-fashioned English accents. I think she got a kick out of listening to me try to read the dialogue. She sure looked like she was having fun.
Once she asked me how I felt about the fact that Pip, the main character, is an orphan, and so is Estella, the girl he loves. Pip is raised by his mean old sister and her nice but stupid husband, and Estella is raised by crazy Mrs. Havisham in a big, rundown mansion. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this myself—I guess I was paying more attention to the mystery and romance and buttered bread down poor Pip’s pants—but Mrs. Ross said something that totally shocked me.
“I guess you must really identify with those two kids. Because you’re an orphan too, like Pip and Estella.”
I don’t know why that hit me so hard. I know I don’t have parents and all—not like most other kids—but it’s hard to see yourself as an orphan when you have two brothers and a grandmother, even if she’s kind of tough on you.
An orphan
. That sounds pretty harsh.
Just then, Mrs. Ross reached out her hand and was feeling for mine. It was embarrassing but I let her find it, and she held on to it, with her bony bird fingers and soft, loose skin. She held on for ages, and the longer she held on, the more uncomfortable I became, and the more I felt like crying. I didn’t feel up to reading much morethat day. Especially when she finally gave my hand a squeeze and let
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