sister, and then, as if to soften the blow even further, she added, “And Wendy wasn’t.” This information didn’t reassure Robbie and she fled from the room, sobbing. Stinging from the cruelty of Mother’s remark, my cheeks reddened with humiliation. I stood rooted to the carpet, unable to move, like a character in a cartoon who can’t run away from the monster.
“If he really loved you girls, he never would have let me go.” With that, Mother went to take her bath.
I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t. I felt that all the air hadbeen punched out of me. I was outside of my body, floating, pressed up against the ceiling and looking down at myself—trapped between the faint sounds of my sister crying her ten-year-old heart out and my mother splashing in the bath. I don’t know how long it lasted, but I felt I was filling up with something, an idea, a realization that Robbie and I were completely on our own.
I turned and ran. When I got to our room, I found Robbie weeping on the bed. I went over to my sister and put my arms around her and told her it wasn’t true—we were real sisters and it wasn’t true. I was lying; I knew it was true. She looked just like the smiling man in the photo.
LONDON, 1971
chapter five
AMERICAN DIVORCÉE IN LONDON
The wind whipped our hair and stung our faces as we stood on the gleaming deck of the Queen Elizabeth 2 , sailing out of New York harbor. A welcoming face to so many, the Statue of Liberty with her spearlike crown and stern expression looked, to Robbie and me, as though she might whack us with her big torch or step on us with her giant sandal.
Our excitement at the novelty of being on an ocean liner was tempered by a melancholy we both felt over all the people and places we were leaving behind. I hadn’t gotten to say good-bye to my best friend, Linda Miller, and her two miniature collies we used to take for walks around her block. Robbie had wanted to visit the merry-go-round in Central Park one last time and had forgotten to bid farewell to Morey, the old gentleman who gave us free candy at the newsstand in our old lobby. Most of all, Robbie and I missedDaddy and ached for the summer we would not have with him. In the taxi on our way to the boat, in an effort to beat back our building emotions and trembling lips, Mother had reiterated the hard facts: our father didn’t care about us, and we had been replaced by his new family. We did not want to believe it, but had no evidence to the contrary. No letter, no phone call, no bon voyage.
And so the specter of our father traveled with us, like a ghost whose presence you sense, but never see.
Since the awful revelation of Robbie’s mystery father, we had tacitly agreed that it was never to be spoken of. I had assured her that it wasn’t true and told her that I didn’t believe it. The most important thing was that we were sisters, a team, and we needed to stick together.
To steel ourselves against the sadness we felt about leaving, we turned the voyage into a game. The QE2 was like a small, shiny city, and we capered all over her looking for fun and adventure. We stuffed notes into bottles and tossed them overboard, wondering if they would float all the way to China. We pretended to be spies and eavesdropped on other passengers lounging in their deck chairs or drinking in the cocktail lounge. We went to see Fiddler on the Roof in the ship cinema so many times, we could act out all the songs complete with choreography in our stateroom, jumping back and forth on the twin beds, singing, before collapsing in heaps of breathless laughter.
We were traveling in first class (“Thank God,” Mother pointed out more than once). We dined in the grandBritannica Room, which had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the Atlantic, and were waited on by young black men in starched coats and white gloves, the white bright against their dark skin.
On the last night of our voyage there was a fancy buffet dinner for the
“If he really loved you girls, he never would have let me go.” With that, Mother went to take her bath.
I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t. I felt that all the air hadbeen punched out of me. I was outside of my body, floating, pressed up against the ceiling and looking down at myself—trapped between the faint sounds of my sister crying her ten-year-old heart out and my mother splashing in the bath. I don’t know how long it lasted, but I felt I was filling up with something, an idea, a realization that Robbie and I were completely on our own.
I turned and ran. When I got to our room, I found Robbie weeping on the bed. I went over to my sister and put my arms around her and told her it wasn’t true—we were real sisters and it wasn’t true. I was lying; I knew it was true. She looked just like the smiling man in the photo.
LONDON, 1971
chapter five
AMERICAN DIVORCÉE IN LONDON
The wind whipped our hair and stung our faces as we stood on the gleaming deck of the Queen Elizabeth 2 , sailing out of New York harbor. A welcoming face to so many, the Statue of Liberty with her spearlike crown and stern expression looked, to Robbie and me, as though she might whack us with her big torch or step on us with her giant sandal.
Our excitement at the novelty of being on an ocean liner was tempered by a melancholy we both felt over all the people and places we were leaving behind. I hadn’t gotten to say good-bye to my best friend, Linda Miller, and her two miniature collies we used to take for walks around her block. Robbie had wanted to visit the merry-go-round in Central Park one last time and had forgotten to bid farewell to Morey, the old gentleman who gave us free candy at the newsstand in our old lobby. Most of all, Robbie and I missedDaddy and ached for the summer we would not have with him. In the taxi on our way to the boat, in an effort to beat back our building emotions and trembling lips, Mother had reiterated the hard facts: our father didn’t care about us, and we had been replaced by his new family. We did not want to believe it, but had no evidence to the contrary. No letter, no phone call, no bon voyage.
And so the specter of our father traveled with us, like a ghost whose presence you sense, but never see.
Since the awful revelation of Robbie’s mystery father, we had tacitly agreed that it was never to be spoken of. I had assured her that it wasn’t true and told her that I didn’t believe it. The most important thing was that we were sisters, a team, and we needed to stick together.
To steel ourselves against the sadness we felt about leaving, we turned the voyage into a game. The QE2 was like a small, shiny city, and we capered all over her looking for fun and adventure. We stuffed notes into bottles and tossed them overboard, wondering if they would float all the way to China. We pretended to be spies and eavesdropped on other passengers lounging in their deck chairs or drinking in the cocktail lounge. We went to see Fiddler on the Roof in the ship cinema so many times, we could act out all the songs complete with choreography in our stateroom, jumping back and forth on the twin beds, singing, before collapsing in heaps of breathless laughter.
We were traveling in first class (“Thank God,” Mother pointed out more than once). We dined in the grandBritannica Room, which had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the Atlantic, and were waited on by young black men in starched coats and white gloves, the white bright against their dark skin.
On the last night of our voyage there was a fancy buffet dinner for the
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