saw she had finished her glass of milk completely so I asked if she would like another.
“I’ll get it,” she said, & hopped off the couch to go into the kitchen. After that she went back upstairs. & that was the end of our conversation for the day, except that on her way out she came to me with a book she’d found upstairs and asked to borrow it.
I was delighted until I saw what it was: some awful romance novel from the 1960s that was not mine & that I had never seen in my life. & I felt as if Yolanda had found out a sad secret about my mother that I was not prepared to confront.
“You can keep it,” I told her, wanting it out of my sight, & she put it into her little purse.
I did not see Junior Baby Love waiting for her outside this time. & I realized I don’t even know where Yolanda lives, nor anything else about her.
• • •
I wrote out a transcript. It went, “Charlene, this is Arthur. I know it’s you, Charlene, and I’m worried. I want to help you. Can I help you?” I waited a week & called Charlene again & there was no answer. Then I waited another week & called Charlene & there was no answer.
• • •
F or a month Yolanda has been coming regularly & the two of us have gotten to be friends. One day she came trotting down the stairs with some photograph albums she had found in a particular room (I knew right where they were—in a bookshelf in a guest room on the third floor) & she was smiling, & she told me, “Look what I found!”
From the look on her face I could tell she had been through them already.
All my bones were frozen tight & I could not even speak to tell her I did not want to see them.
She sat down next to me and opened the first one contentedly.
“Is that you?” she asked me, pointing to a baby, & I nodded.
“Is that your mother & father?” she asked me. & again I nodded.
“Wowwwww,” she said, as she turned the pages. “Look at you!”
When I couldn’t bear it anymore I stood up as abruptly as I could and excused myself, & then I went into the bathroom & held myself up by the sink. In the other room I could picture her, little Yolanda, seeing my memories one after another. Laid out on the page.
When I came out again she had returned upstairs, and with her went the albums. She’s very kind you see. She can read me.
I have begun to teach her things & to encourage her as if she were my child. She is a receptive learner, but she also teaches me things: she does every time she is here, whether or not she realizes it. She tells me what she is watching and reading. She loves to watch reruns of the late-night comedy program Mad TV & she often describes or reenacts sketches from that show with great vigor, laughing at her own recollection of it, ending each retelling with, It was so funny. I don’t know what her ambitions in life are, though I have asked her. She dodges these questions with a shrug and a smile. I don’t know if she finished high school but I have to assume she did not. This is a shame because she is very smart, with a knowledge of trivia that is well beyond her years. When we watch Cash Cab she shouts out many answers very loudly.
Over the past few weeks I have grown to look forward to her visits. Mainly she does not seem embarrassed by me, which allows me to relax. There is an easiness about her that I hold dear. She is not overly concerned with whether or not she is being polite. She asks and says what she wants & she does what she wants. & thrillingly she judges people who need judging—on television, in the stories she recounts from her life outside my home.
All of this is to say that I have grown quite fond of her & so it was with great sadness that I watched the events of today unfold.
First of all Yolanda called me this morning. This alone was strange, for today is Sunday which is a day she does not work. On the telephone she asked if she could come today instead of tomorrow—for tomorrow she had some things to attend to. “All right
“I’ll get it,” she said, & hopped off the couch to go into the kitchen. After that she went back upstairs. & that was the end of our conversation for the day, except that on her way out she came to me with a book she’d found upstairs and asked to borrow it.
I was delighted until I saw what it was: some awful romance novel from the 1960s that was not mine & that I had never seen in my life. & I felt as if Yolanda had found out a sad secret about my mother that I was not prepared to confront.
“You can keep it,” I told her, wanting it out of my sight, & she put it into her little purse.
I did not see Junior Baby Love waiting for her outside this time. & I realized I don’t even know where Yolanda lives, nor anything else about her.
• • •
I wrote out a transcript. It went, “Charlene, this is Arthur. I know it’s you, Charlene, and I’m worried. I want to help you. Can I help you?” I waited a week & called Charlene again & there was no answer. Then I waited another week & called Charlene & there was no answer.
• • •
F or a month Yolanda has been coming regularly & the two of us have gotten to be friends. One day she came trotting down the stairs with some photograph albums she had found in a particular room (I knew right where they were—in a bookshelf in a guest room on the third floor) & she was smiling, & she told me, “Look what I found!”
From the look on her face I could tell she had been through them already.
All my bones were frozen tight & I could not even speak to tell her I did not want to see them.
She sat down next to me and opened the first one contentedly.
“Is that you?” she asked me, pointing to a baby, & I nodded.
“Is that your mother & father?” she asked me. & again I nodded.
“Wowwwww,” she said, as she turned the pages. “Look at you!”
When I couldn’t bear it anymore I stood up as abruptly as I could and excused myself, & then I went into the bathroom & held myself up by the sink. In the other room I could picture her, little Yolanda, seeing my memories one after another. Laid out on the page.
When I came out again she had returned upstairs, and with her went the albums. She’s very kind you see. She can read me.
I have begun to teach her things & to encourage her as if she were my child. She is a receptive learner, but she also teaches me things: she does every time she is here, whether or not she realizes it. She tells me what she is watching and reading. She loves to watch reruns of the late-night comedy program Mad TV & she often describes or reenacts sketches from that show with great vigor, laughing at her own recollection of it, ending each retelling with, It was so funny. I don’t know what her ambitions in life are, though I have asked her. She dodges these questions with a shrug and a smile. I don’t know if she finished high school but I have to assume she did not. This is a shame because she is very smart, with a knowledge of trivia that is well beyond her years. When we watch Cash Cab she shouts out many answers very loudly.
Over the past few weeks I have grown to look forward to her visits. Mainly she does not seem embarrassed by me, which allows me to relax. There is an easiness about her that I hold dear. She is not overly concerned with whether or not she is being polite. She asks and says what she wants & she does what she wants. & thrillingly she judges people who need judging—on television, in the stories she recounts from her life outside my home.
All of this is to say that I have grown quite fond of her & so it was with great sadness that I watched the events of today unfold.
First of all Yolanda called me this morning. This alone was strange, for today is Sunday which is a day she does not work. On the telephone she asked if she could come today instead of tomorrow—for tomorrow she had some things to attend to. “All right
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