to flinch. I held my breath, half expecting her to ignore me.
“Yes. When you were little. But…but only toenail polish, and only if your dad and I would wear it, too.”
She started off hesitantly, but the longer she talked, the more the story gained steam. “In fact, this one time, your dad forgot to take it off, and then he went to the gym…well, you can imagine the looks he got.”
She reached out to squeeze my shoulder, laughing. “Can’t you picture it? Your big, manly father…sporting pink sparkle nail polish.”
And with her words as my guide, I could picture it. My stout, dark-haired father. Standing in his gym shorts in the locker room and shaking his head at his sparkling toes. I reveled in the image for a moment before pressing on. Her laughter, the shoulder squeeze, had made me bold.
“Did the doctors do anything to my ears, after the fire?”
The second her hand dropped away, I knew I’d made a mistake, pushed too far. But I pressed on. “I have this memory. Of a man, in a white coat. And he did something to my ear….”
It was no use. Even in the dim light, I could see her lips press together. She wrapped her arms around her waist, angled her head away from me, did everything short of slapping duct tape on her mouth and flashing a DON’T ASK sign.
“Why won’t you answer me?” I whispered, even asthe familiar weight of rejection settled on my shoulders. “Please. This has been hard for me, too.” I hated the beggarlike quality to my voice, but I couldn’t help it.
Her hand lifted, like she might stroke my cheek, the way she used to in Philly every night before bed, back when her nails weren’t brown from horse grime or pungent with liniment. I caught my breath while seconds built up between us. While my heart pounded out its yearning for a return of that nighttime ritual.
She shoved her hands into her lap and turned back to the storm.
I curled my toes to subdue the building scream. Had my faulty memory erased some terrible thing I’d done—was that it? Was that why Mom couldn’t resurrect even a tiny piece of our old relationship? Why I’d somehow lost both parents when only one had burned in the fire?
Under the cover of my hair, I pressed a trembling hand to my own cheek, half expecting to touch something repugnant. Instead, my skin felt normal. Slightly slick from the moisture-filled air, but warm and soft. Nothing that should scare a mother away.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” I whispered, to no one, really. Because I knew she wouldn’t answer.
I rose. Though the storm still raged overhead, its allure drained away as surely as the water that dripped from my hem and pooled at my feet.
“The counting gives you an approximation of how far away the lightning really is. Five seconds for every mile.”
Mom’s steady voice paused me after only one step. Was this her deluded attempt at an olive branch? Sorry, Mila, can’t hug you, but I can inundate you with random facts about storms.
Gee, thanks.
I didn’t have to listen to this.
Anger fueled my short walk to the door. I opened it, determined to escape to the safe haven of my room, where Atwood and my smelly quilt awaited.
“The thunder comes after the lightning, but it’s an illusion. It just seems that way because the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound.”
My grip tightened on the doorknob. I’d asked for her love, and instead got the speed of sound? Really?
“Also, the lightning bolt we see doesn’t really originate from the sky. It comes from the ground up.”
That did it. The door slam echoed in the night. I whirled, glaring at the sight of her slender back and that sleek, serene ponytail. “Why are you telling me this?”
I don’t care about the origins of lighting bolts and the speed of sound! I wanted to scream. I care about things that matter . About my missing memory and her missing love, about the wrenching pain in my heart that never went away. Not about some stupid storm in
“Yes. When you were little. But…but only toenail polish, and only if your dad and I would wear it, too.”
She started off hesitantly, but the longer she talked, the more the story gained steam. “In fact, this one time, your dad forgot to take it off, and then he went to the gym…well, you can imagine the looks he got.”
She reached out to squeeze my shoulder, laughing. “Can’t you picture it? Your big, manly father…sporting pink sparkle nail polish.”
And with her words as my guide, I could picture it. My stout, dark-haired father. Standing in his gym shorts in the locker room and shaking his head at his sparkling toes. I reveled in the image for a moment before pressing on. Her laughter, the shoulder squeeze, had made me bold.
“Did the doctors do anything to my ears, after the fire?”
The second her hand dropped away, I knew I’d made a mistake, pushed too far. But I pressed on. “I have this memory. Of a man, in a white coat. And he did something to my ear….”
It was no use. Even in the dim light, I could see her lips press together. She wrapped her arms around her waist, angled her head away from me, did everything short of slapping duct tape on her mouth and flashing a DON’T ASK sign.
“Why won’t you answer me?” I whispered, even asthe familiar weight of rejection settled on my shoulders. “Please. This has been hard for me, too.” I hated the beggarlike quality to my voice, but I couldn’t help it.
Her hand lifted, like she might stroke my cheek, the way she used to in Philly every night before bed, back when her nails weren’t brown from horse grime or pungent with liniment. I caught my breath while seconds built up between us. While my heart pounded out its yearning for a return of that nighttime ritual.
She shoved her hands into her lap and turned back to the storm.
I curled my toes to subdue the building scream. Had my faulty memory erased some terrible thing I’d done—was that it? Was that why Mom couldn’t resurrect even a tiny piece of our old relationship? Why I’d somehow lost both parents when only one had burned in the fire?
Under the cover of my hair, I pressed a trembling hand to my own cheek, half expecting to touch something repugnant. Instead, my skin felt normal. Slightly slick from the moisture-filled air, but warm and soft. Nothing that should scare a mother away.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” I whispered, to no one, really. Because I knew she wouldn’t answer.
I rose. Though the storm still raged overhead, its allure drained away as surely as the water that dripped from my hem and pooled at my feet.
“The counting gives you an approximation of how far away the lightning really is. Five seconds for every mile.”
Mom’s steady voice paused me after only one step. Was this her deluded attempt at an olive branch? Sorry, Mila, can’t hug you, but I can inundate you with random facts about storms.
Gee, thanks.
I didn’t have to listen to this.
Anger fueled my short walk to the door. I opened it, determined to escape to the safe haven of my room, where Atwood and my smelly quilt awaited.
“The thunder comes after the lightning, but it’s an illusion. It just seems that way because the speed of light is faster than the speed of sound.”
My grip tightened on the doorknob. I’d asked for her love, and instead got the speed of sound? Really?
“Also, the lightning bolt we see doesn’t really originate from the sky. It comes from the ground up.”
That did it. The door slam echoed in the night. I whirled, glaring at the sight of her slender back and that sleek, serene ponytail. “Why are you telling me this?”
I don’t care about the origins of lighting bolts and the speed of sound! I wanted to scream. I care about things that matter . About my missing memory and her missing love, about the wrenching pain in my heart that never went away. Not about some stupid storm in
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