choices as a personal affront. Dina is constantly rolling
her eyes, muttering under her breath about Molly’s various infractions—didn’t put
away her laundry, left a bowl in the sink, can’t be bothered to make her bed—all of
which are part and parcel of the liberal agenda that’s ruining this country. Molly
knows she should ignore these comments—“water off a duck’s back,” Ralph says—but they
irk her. She’s overly sensitive to them, like a tuning fork pitched too high. It’s
all part of Dina’s unwavering message: Be grateful. Dress like a normal person. Don’t
have opinions. Eat the food that’s put in front of you.
Molly can’t quite figure out how Ralph fits into all of this. She knows he and Dina
met in high school, followed a predictable football player/ cheerleader story arc,
and have been together ever since, but she can’t tell if Ralph actually buys Dina’s
party line or just toes it to make his life easier. Sometimes she sees a glimmer of
independence—a raised eyebrow, a carefully worded, possibly ironic observation, like,
“Well, we can’t make a decision on that till the boss gets home.”
Still—all things considered, Molly knows she has it pretty good: her own room in a
tidy house, employed and sober foster parents, a decent high school, a nice boyfriend.
She isn’t expected to take care of a passel of kids, as she was at one of the places
she lived, or clean up after fifteen dirty cats, as she was at another. In the past
nine years she’s been in over a dozen foster homes, some for as little as a week.
She’s been spanked with a spatula, slapped across the face, made to sleep on an unheated
sun porch in the winter, taught to roll a joint by a foster father, fed lies for the
social worker. She got her tatt illegally at sixteen from a twenty-three-year-old
friend of the Bangor family, an “ink expert-in-training,” as he called himself, who
was just starting out and did it for free—or, well . . . sort of. She wasn’t so attached
to her virginity anyway.
With the tines of her fork, Molly mashes the hamburger into her plate, hoping to grind
it into oblivion. She takes a bite and smiles at Dina. “Good. Thanks.”
Dina purses her lips and cocks her head, clearly trying to gauge whether Molly’s praise
is sincere. Well, Dina, Molly thinks, it is and it isn’t. Thank you for taking me
in and feeding me. But if you think you can quash my ideals, force me to eat meat
when I told you I don’t, expect me to care about your aching back when you don’t seem
the slightest bit interested in my life, you can forget it. I’ll play your fucking
game. But I don’t have to play by your rules.
Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
Terry leads the way to the third floor, bustling up the stairs, with Vivian moving more slowly behind her and Molly taking up the rear. The house is large and
drafty—much too large, Molly thinks, for an old woman who lives alone. It has fourteen
rooms, most of which are shuttered during the winter months. During the Terry-narrated
tour on the way to the attic, Molly gets the story: Vivian and her husband owned and
ran a department store in Minnesota, and when they sold it twenty years ago, they
took a sailing trip up the East Coast to celebrate their retirement. They spied this
house, a former ship captain’s estate, from the harbor, and on an impulse decided
to buy it. And that was it: they packed up and moved to Maine. Ever since Jim died,
eight years ago, Vivian has lived here by herself.
In a clearing at the top of the stairs, Terry, panting a bit, puts her hand on her
hip and looks around. “Yikes! Where to start, Vivi?”
Vivian reaches the top step, clutching the banister. She is wearing another cashmere
sweater, gray this time, and a silver necklace with an odd little charm on it.
“Well, let’s see.”
Glancing around, Molly can see that the third floor of the house
her eyes, muttering under her breath about Molly’s various infractions—didn’t put
away her laundry, left a bowl in the sink, can’t be bothered to make her bed—all of
which are part and parcel of the liberal agenda that’s ruining this country. Molly
knows she should ignore these comments—“water off a duck’s back,” Ralph says—but they
irk her. She’s overly sensitive to them, like a tuning fork pitched too high. It’s
all part of Dina’s unwavering message: Be grateful. Dress like a normal person. Don’t
have opinions. Eat the food that’s put in front of you.
Molly can’t quite figure out how Ralph fits into all of this. She knows he and Dina
met in high school, followed a predictable football player/ cheerleader story arc,
and have been together ever since, but she can’t tell if Ralph actually buys Dina’s
party line or just toes it to make his life easier. Sometimes she sees a glimmer of
independence—a raised eyebrow, a carefully worded, possibly ironic observation, like,
“Well, we can’t make a decision on that till the boss gets home.”
Still—all things considered, Molly knows she has it pretty good: her own room in a
tidy house, employed and sober foster parents, a decent high school, a nice boyfriend.
She isn’t expected to take care of a passel of kids, as she was at one of the places
she lived, or clean up after fifteen dirty cats, as she was at another. In the past
nine years she’s been in over a dozen foster homes, some for as little as a week.
She’s been spanked with a spatula, slapped across the face, made to sleep on an unheated
sun porch in the winter, taught to roll a joint by a foster father, fed lies for the
social worker. She got her tatt illegally at sixteen from a twenty-three-year-old
friend of the Bangor family, an “ink expert-in-training,” as he called himself, who
was just starting out and did it for free—or, well . . . sort of. She wasn’t so attached
to her virginity anyway.
With the tines of her fork, Molly mashes the hamburger into her plate, hoping to grind
it into oblivion. She takes a bite and smiles at Dina. “Good. Thanks.”
Dina purses her lips and cocks her head, clearly trying to gauge whether Molly’s praise
is sincere. Well, Dina, Molly thinks, it is and it isn’t. Thank you for taking me
in and feeding me. But if you think you can quash my ideals, force me to eat meat
when I told you I don’t, expect me to care about your aching back when you don’t seem
the slightest bit interested in my life, you can forget it. I’ll play your fucking
game. But I don’t have to play by your rules.
Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
Terry leads the way to the third floor, bustling up the stairs, with Vivian moving more slowly behind her and Molly taking up the rear. The house is large and
drafty—much too large, Molly thinks, for an old woman who lives alone. It has fourteen
rooms, most of which are shuttered during the winter months. During the Terry-narrated
tour on the way to the attic, Molly gets the story: Vivian and her husband owned and
ran a department store in Minnesota, and when they sold it twenty years ago, they
took a sailing trip up the East Coast to celebrate their retirement. They spied this
house, a former ship captain’s estate, from the harbor, and on an impulse decided
to buy it. And that was it: they packed up and moved to Maine. Ever since Jim died,
eight years ago, Vivian has lived here by herself.
In a clearing at the top of the stairs, Terry, panting a bit, puts her hand on her
hip and looks around. “Yikes! Where to start, Vivi?”
Vivian reaches the top step, clutching the banister. She is wearing another cashmere
sweater, gray this time, and a silver necklace with an odd little charm on it.
“Well, let’s see.”
Glancing around, Molly can see that the third floor of the house
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