head snap backward. She leaves a print that stains me
long after it's faded. Just so you know: shame is five-fingered.
Once, when Kate was eight and I was five, we had a fight and decided we no
longer wanted to share a room. Given the size of our house, though, and the
fact that Jesse lived in the other spare bedroom, we didn't have anywhere else
to go. So Kate, being older and wiser, decided to split our space in half.
“Which side do you want?” she asked diplomatically. “I'll even
let you pick.”
Well, I wanted the part with my bed in it. Besides, if you divided the room
in two, the half with my bed would also, by default, have the box that held all
our Barbie dolls and the shelves where we kept our arts and crafts supplies.
Kate went to reach for a marker there, but I stopped her. “That's on my
side,” I pointed out.
“Then give me one,” she demanded, so I handed her the red. She
climbed up onto the desk, reaching as high as she could toward the ceiling.
“Once we do this,” she said, “you stay on your side, and I stay
on my side, right?” I nodded, just as committed to keeping up this bargain
as she was. After all, I had all the good toys. Kate would be begging me for a
visit long before I'd be begging her.
“Swear it?” she asked, and we made a pinky promise.
She drew a jagged line from the ceiling, over the desk, across the tan
carpet, and back up over the nightstand up the opposite wall. Then she handed
me the marker. “Don't forget,” she said. “Only cheats go back on
a promise.”
I sat on the floor on my side of the room, removing every single Barbie we
owned, dressing and undressing them, making a big fuss out of the fact that I
had them and Kate didn't. She perched on her bed with her knees drawn up,
watching me. She didn't react at all. Until, that is, my mother called us down
for lunch.
Then Kate smiled at me, and walked out the door of the bedroom—which was on
her side.
I went up to the line she had drawn on the carpet, kicking at it with my
toes. I didn't want to be a cheat. But I didn't want to spend the rest of my
life in my room, either.
I do not know how long it took my mother to wonder why I wasn't coming to
the kitchen for lunch, but when you are five, even a second can last forever.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the line of marker on the walls and
carpet, and closed her eyes for patience. She walked into our room and picked
me up, which was when I started fighting her. “Don't,” I cried.
“I won't ever get back in!”
A minute later she left, and returned with pot holders, dishtowels, and
throw pillows. She placed these at odd distances, all along Kate's side of the
room. “Come on,” she urged, but I did not move. So she came and sat
down beside me on my bed. “It may be Kate's pond,” she said,
“but these are my lily pads.” Standing, she jumped onto a
dish-towel, and from there, onto a pillow. She glanced over her shoulder, until
I climbed onto the dishtowel. From the dishtowel, to the pillow, to a pot
holder Jesse had made in first grade, all the way across Kate's side of the
room. Following my mother's footsteps was the surest way out.
I am taking a shower when Kate jimmies the lock and comes into the bathroom.
“I want to talk to you,” she says.
I poke my head out from the side of the plastic curtain. “When I'm
finished,” I say, trying to buy time for the conversation I don't really
want to have.
“No, now.” She sits down on the lid of the toilet and sighs.
“Anna… what you're doing—”
“It's already done,” I say.
“You can undo it, you know, if you want.”
I am grateful for all the steam between us, because I couldn't bear the
thought of her being able to see my face right now. “I know,” I
whisper.
For a long time, Kate is silent. Her mind is running in circles, like a
gerbil on a wheel, the same way mine is. Chase every rung of possibility, and
you still get absolutely nowhere.
After a while, I peek my head out
long after it's faded. Just so you know: shame is five-fingered.
Once, when Kate was eight and I was five, we had a fight and decided we no
longer wanted to share a room. Given the size of our house, though, and the
fact that Jesse lived in the other spare bedroom, we didn't have anywhere else
to go. So Kate, being older and wiser, decided to split our space in half.
“Which side do you want?” she asked diplomatically. “I'll even
let you pick.”
Well, I wanted the part with my bed in it. Besides, if you divided the room
in two, the half with my bed would also, by default, have the box that held all
our Barbie dolls and the shelves where we kept our arts and crafts supplies.
Kate went to reach for a marker there, but I stopped her. “That's on my
side,” I pointed out.
“Then give me one,” she demanded, so I handed her the red. She
climbed up onto the desk, reaching as high as she could toward the ceiling.
“Once we do this,” she said, “you stay on your side, and I stay
on my side, right?” I nodded, just as committed to keeping up this bargain
as she was. After all, I had all the good toys. Kate would be begging me for a
visit long before I'd be begging her.
“Swear it?” she asked, and we made a pinky promise.
She drew a jagged line from the ceiling, over the desk, across the tan
carpet, and back up over the nightstand up the opposite wall. Then she handed
me the marker. “Don't forget,” she said. “Only cheats go back on
a promise.”
I sat on the floor on my side of the room, removing every single Barbie we
owned, dressing and undressing them, making a big fuss out of the fact that I
had them and Kate didn't. She perched on her bed with her knees drawn up,
watching me. She didn't react at all. Until, that is, my mother called us down
for lunch.
Then Kate smiled at me, and walked out the door of the bedroom—which was on
her side.
I went up to the line she had drawn on the carpet, kicking at it with my
toes. I didn't want to be a cheat. But I didn't want to spend the rest of my
life in my room, either.
I do not know how long it took my mother to wonder why I wasn't coming to
the kitchen for lunch, but when you are five, even a second can last forever.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the line of marker on the walls and
carpet, and closed her eyes for patience. She walked into our room and picked
me up, which was when I started fighting her. “Don't,” I cried.
“I won't ever get back in!”
A minute later she left, and returned with pot holders, dishtowels, and
throw pillows. She placed these at odd distances, all along Kate's side of the
room. “Come on,” she urged, but I did not move. So she came and sat
down beside me on my bed. “It may be Kate's pond,” she said,
“but these are my lily pads.” Standing, she jumped onto a
dish-towel, and from there, onto a pillow. She glanced over her shoulder, until
I climbed onto the dishtowel. From the dishtowel, to the pillow, to a pot
holder Jesse had made in first grade, all the way across Kate's side of the
room. Following my mother's footsteps was the surest way out.
I am taking a shower when Kate jimmies the lock and comes into the bathroom.
“I want to talk to you,” she says.
I poke my head out from the side of the plastic curtain. “When I'm
finished,” I say, trying to buy time for the conversation I don't really
want to have.
“No, now.” She sits down on the lid of the toilet and sighs.
“Anna… what you're doing—”
“It's already done,” I say.
“You can undo it, you know, if you want.”
I am grateful for all the steam between us, because I couldn't bear the
thought of her being able to see my face right now. “I know,” I
whisper.
For a long time, Kate is silent. Her mind is running in circles, like a
gerbil on a wheel, the same way mine is. Chase every rung of possibility, and
you still get absolutely nowhere.
After a while, I peek my head out
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