path of an approaching vehicle. The driver of the car, a black Mercedes, swerved to avoid a head-on collision. Mattie heard the squeal of tires, the crash of metal, the shattering of glass. There was a loud pop, like an explosion,as Mattie’s airbag burst open, smacking her in the chest like a giant fist, pinning her to her seat, pushing up against her face like an unwelcome suitor, robbing her of breathing space. Black and white colliding, she thought, clinging to consciousness, trying to remember what Jake had said in his summation about few things being black or white, only varying shades of gray. She tasted blood, saw the driver emerge from the other car, screaming and gesticulating wildly. She thought of Kim, beautiful sweet wonderful Kim, and wondered how her daughter would manage without her.
And then, mercifully, everything disappeared into varying shades of gray, and she saw nothing at all.
F IVE
K im’s earliest memory was of her parents fighting.
She sat at the back of the classroom, blue ballpoint pen scribbling a series of connecting hearts across the cover of her English notebook, her head tilted toward the teacher at the green chalkboard at the front of the class, although Kim was barely aware of his presence, hadn’t heard a word he’d said all period. She shifted in her seat, looked toward the window that occupied one whole wall of the tenth-grade classroom. Not that there was anything outside to see. What was once a grassy courtyard had been paved over the previous year and filled with portables, three in all, ugly prefabricated gray structures with tiny little windows too high to look out or see in, in rooms that were either too hot or too cold. Kim closed her eyes, leaned back in her seat, wondering which it would be by the time her math class rolledaround. What was she doing in this stupid school anyway? Hadn’t the whole point of moving to the suburbs been to get her out of overcrowded classrooms and into an environment more conducive to learning?
Wasn’t that what all the yelling had been about?
Not that her parents did that much actual yelling. No, their anger was quieter, trickier to get a handle on. It was the kind that lay coiled and sleepy, like snakes in a basket, until someone got careless and removed the protective lid, forgetting that the key word here was
coiled
, not
sleepy
, and that the anger was always there, ready and waiting, eager to strike. How many times had she woken up in the middle of the night, roused to consciousness by the sound of strained whispers hissing through tightly clenched teeth, and run into her parents’ bedroom to find her father pacing the floor and her mother in tears? “What’s the matter?” she would demand of her father. “Why is Mom crying? What did you do to make Mom cry?”
Kim remembered how frightened she’d been the first time she’d witnessed such a scene. She’d been, how old? Three, maybe four? She was having her afternoon nap, sleeping in her small blue brass bed, nose to nose with a large stuffed Big Bird, a slightly ratty Oscar the Grouch tucked tightly underneath her arm. Maybe she’d been dreaming, maybe not. But suddenly she was awake, and she was frightened, although she wasn’t sure why. It was then that she became aware of muffled noises from the other bedroom, Mommy and Daddy whispering, but not the way people usually whispered. These were really loud whispers, as cold and biting as a winter wind, whispers that made her cover Big Bird’sears and hide him under the covers beside Oscar the Grouch when she went to investigate.
Kim slouched down in her seat, her right hand absently patting the tight little bun at the top of her head, checking to make sure there were no stray hairs at the base of her neck, that everything was rightly secured and in its proper place, the way she liked it. Miss Grundy, her mother sometimes teased, a laugh in her voice.
Kim liked it when her mother laughed. It made her feel secure. If her
And then, mercifully, everything disappeared into varying shades of gray, and she saw nothing at all.
F IVE
K im’s earliest memory was of her parents fighting.
She sat at the back of the classroom, blue ballpoint pen scribbling a series of connecting hearts across the cover of her English notebook, her head tilted toward the teacher at the green chalkboard at the front of the class, although Kim was barely aware of his presence, hadn’t heard a word he’d said all period. She shifted in her seat, looked toward the window that occupied one whole wall of the tenth-grade classroom. Not that there was anything outside to see. What was once a grassy courtyard had been paved over the previous year and filled with portables, three in all, ugly prefabricated gray structures with tiny little windows too high to look out or see in, in rooms that were either too hot or too cold. Kim closed her eyes, leaned back in her seat, wondering which it would be by the time her math class rolledaround. What was she doing in this stupid school anyway? Hadn’t the whole point of moving to the suburbs been to get her out of overcrowded classrooms and into an environment more conducive to learning?
Wasn’t that what all the yelling had been about?
Not that her parents did that much actual yelling. No, their anger was quieter, trickier to get a handle on. It was the kind that lay coiled and sleepy, like snakes in a basket, until someone got careless and removed the protective lid, forgetting that the key word here was
coiled
, not
sleepy
, and that the anger was always there, ready and waiting, eager to strike. How many times had she woken up in the middle of the night, roused to consciousness by the sound of strained whispers hissing through tightly clenched teeth, and run into her parents’ bedroom to find her father pacing the floor and her mother in tears? “What’s the matter?” she would demand of her father. “Why is Mom crying? What did you do to make Mom cry?”
Kim remembered how frightened she’d been the first time she’d witnessed such a scene. She’d been, how old? Three, maybe four? She was having her afternoon nap, sleeping in her small blue brass bed, nose to nose with a large stuffed Big Bird, a slightly ratty Oscar the Grouch tucked tightly underneath her arm. Maybe she’d been dreaming, maybe not. But suddenly she was awake, and she was frightened, although she wasn’t sure why. It was then that she became aware of muffled noises from the other bedroom, Mommy and Daddy whispering, but not the way people usually whispered. These were really loud whispers, as cold and biting as a winter wind, whispers that made her cover Big Bird’sears and hide him under the covers beside Oscar the Grouch when she went to investigate.
Kim slouched down in her seat, her right hand absently patting the tight little bun at the top of her head, checking to make sure there were no stray hairs at the base of her neck, that everything was rightly secured and in its proper place, the way she liked it. Miss Grundy, her mother sometimes teased, a laugh in her voice.
Kim liked it when her mother laughed. It made her feel secure. If her
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