from a mug of dark beer.
“Carl and I talked about it. Sam for a boy, Samantha for a girl.”
“Family name?”
“No.” Frannie brooded over that, thinking about Alexandra and the rest of her family. She didn’t write to anyone but Alexandra, and even her letters to Alex were dutiful. Alexandra sent pictures of her son, who was almost four now, and brief, polite notes occasionally. Frannie thought her sister had not forgiven her for having the courage to run away. “She’s named for Elizabeth Montgomery.” Frannie told Jane finally.
“Huh?”
“Samantha. On
Bewitched.
”
“You’re naming your daughter after a TV witch? You
want
your kid to grow up being named after a witch?”
“A
good
witch,” Frannie corrected her. “Like the good witch in
The Wizard of Oz.
”
“Huh? That witch was named Samantha too?”
“
No
. She was named Glenda. The point is, there are good karmas and bad karmas, and Samantha represents the good.”
“Karmas?”
“Never mind.” Frannie rubbed a fingertip across one of the baby’s tiny hands. “Look at these beautiful little hands. Frau Mitteldorf, would you read her palm for me?”
“Oh, jeez,” Jane said, and left the room.
The midwife shuffled over and sat down heavily beside them. Balancing her beer on one broad knee, she pressed the baby’s right hand open and peered at it. “
Gut
hands,” she proclaimed.
“Good? Really?”
“
Ja
, good luck in her hands.” The woman squinted and frowned. “She will need it.”
Frannie was too guilt-stricken to ask why.
Almost two years passed in agonizing denial before Frannie admitted that something was wrong with Samantha. “Say ‘Daddy,’ ” Carl coached every morning, hunched beside Samantha’s high chair while his breakfast turned cold. And every morning Samantha solemnly smeared baby cereal on her mouth and said nothing. “Say ‘Mama,’ ” Frannie would croon. “Look, Carl, she almost did it.” Frannie was sick with fear.
But every morning Samantha merrily whacked her baby bowl with her spoon and simply stared at them.
One evening, sitting in the living room watching Samantha, Carl threw his newspaper on the floor, scrubbed his hands over his eyes, and muttered hoarsely, “She can’t talk or won’t talk. This is killing me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her.” Frannie huddled next to him and struggled—as she did every day—not to cry. Samantha sat on the living room floor, appearing cute and normal in a pink jumper, as she solemnly stuffed bits of twine into a shoebox, then pulled them back out, arranged them in neat rows on the carpet, then put them back in the box. Her chubby little hands were extraordinarily graceful and precise. “She has a real love for order,” Frannie noted hopefully. “Just like her adoring daddy.”
Carl grunted. “She’s training to be a pack rat.” He sat on the floor, and Samantha toddled over to him, grinning, as he held out his arms. “You’ll make a damned fine pack rat too,” he said. “But I’m taking you to another doctor.”
That specialist did the same tests as the ones before him, and told them the same thing: He could not diagnose the mystery that kept words locked inside their little girl.
On her second, silent birthday, Carl paced the living room with his hands knotted in his trouser pockets, watching her methodically examine a stuffed bear, her eyes bright, her hands quick. “She’s not an idiot,” he announced loudly. “Goddammit, I don’t understand her. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s not feebleminded.”
Two years of guilt flooded Frannie with confession. She made a garbled sound and blurted out, “Something’s wrong with her, and it’s my fault.”
Carl halted, rammed his hands through his short-cropped hair, and stared at her. “What?”
Frannie shivered. “I lied to you. She wasn’t born at home unexpectedly. I was so afraid something would go wrong if I went to the hospital—everything had gone
“Carl and I talked about it. Sam for a boy, Samantha for a girl.”
“Family name?”
“No.” Frannie brooded over that, thinking about Alexandra and the rest of her family. She didn’t write to anyone but Alexandra, and even her letters to Alex were dutiful. Alexandra sent pictures of her son, who was almost four now, and brief, polite notes occasionally. Frannie thought her sister had not forgiven her for having the courage to run away. “She’s named for Elizabeth Montgomery.” Frannie told Jane finally.
“Huh?”
“Samantha. On
Bewitched.
”
“You’re naming your daughter after a TV witch? You
want
your kid to grow up being named after a witch?”
“A
good
witch,” Frannie corrected her. “Like the good witch in
The Wizard of Oz.
”
“Huh? That witch was named Samantha too?”
“
No
. She was named Glenda. The point is, there are good karmas and bad karmas, and Samantha represents the good.”
“Karmas?”
“Never mind.” Frannie rubbed a fingertip across one of the baby’s tiny hands. “Look at these beautiful little hands. Frau Mitteldorf, would you read her palm for me?”
“Oh, jeez,” Jane said, and left the room.
The midwife shuffled over and sat down heavily beside them. Balancing her beer on one broad knee, she pressed the baby’s right hand open and peered at it. “
Gut
hands,” she proclaimed.
“Good? Really?”
“
Ja
, good luck in her hands.” The woman squinted and frowned. “She will need it.”
Frannie was too guilt-stricken to ask why.
Almost two years passed in agonizing denial before Frannie admitted that something was wrong with Samantha. “Say ‘Daddy,’ ” Carl coached every morning, hunched beside Samantha’s high chair while his breakfast turned cold. And every morning Samantha solemnly smeared baby cereal on her mouth and said nothing. “Say ‘Mama,’ ” Frannie would croon. “Look, Carl, she almost did it.” Frannie was sick with fear.
But every morning Samantha merrily whacked her baby bowl with her spoon and simply stared at them.
One evening, sitting in the living room watching Samantha, Carl threw his newspaper on the floor, scrubbed his hands over his eyes, and muttered hoarsely, “She can’t talk or won’t talk. This is killing me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her.” Frannie huddled next to him and struggled—as she did every day—not to cry. Samantha sat on the living room floor, appearing cute and normal in a pink jumper, as she solemnly stuffed bits of twine into a shoebox, then pulled them back out, arranged them in neat rows on the carpet, then put them back in the box. Her chubby little hands were extraordinarily graceful and precise. “She has a real love for order,” Frannie noted hopefully. “Just like her adoring daddy.”
Carl grunted. “She’s training to be a pack rat.” He sat on the floor, and Samantha toddled over to him, grinning, as he held out his arms. “You’ll make a damned fine pack rat too,” he said. “But I’m taking you to another doctor.”
That specialist did the same tests as the ones before him, and told them the same thing: He could not diagnose the mystery that kept words locked inside their little girl.
On her second, silent birthday, Carl paced the living room with his hands knotted in his trouser pockets, watching her methodically examine a stuffed bear, her eyes bright, her hands quick. “She’s not an idiot,” he announced loudly. “Goddammit, I don’t understand her. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s not feebleminded.”
Two years of guilt flooded Frannie with confession. She made a garbled sound and blurted out, “Something’s wrong with her, and it’s my fault.”
Carl halted, rammed his hands through his short-cropped hair, and stared at her. “What?”
Frannie shivered. “I lied to you. She wasn’t born at home unexpectedly. I was so afraid something would go wrong if I went to the hospital—everything had gone
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