you.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“Sometimes that happens between parents and children. An inability to communicate.”
A dull light came in through the windows making the three sculptures seem forlorn. “Was that what happened between you and Essie?” he asked.
His grandmother rubbed her pointer finger with her thumb.
“Nana, I’m not completely blind. My mother never visits you. Why is that? And I remember the two of you fighting all the time when I was a child.”
“What can I say, Julian? My daughter and I never got along.”
“But why not?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t a good mother. I wish I could have been, but the world I grew up in molded me. I made promises to my parents. I had responsibilities to my brother. Maybe I just didn’t have enough left over to be a good mother, too.”
“I don’t buy that,” he said.
She turned her gold wedding band around. Her fingers were knobby from arthritis. These were the hands that had once created intricate sculptures; now they resembled her work.
“My mother told me about your brother Saul.”
His grandmother started, as though she’d heard a sudden noise. “What did she tell you about him?”
“That he was an artist.”
“He liked to paint, but he was never an artist.”
He looked at the walls, unadorned except for a purple neon clock and fan-shaped sconces. “Do you have any of his paintings?”
“No.”
“Did you know Essie has one?”
Her face grew pale.
“Saul gave her the painting that’s hanging in our living room.”
“She has that?” Her voice was practically a whisper.
“Yes,” he said. “And she told me you hid it from her. Why did you do that?”
“It was a terrible painting.”
“It was her birthday present.”
She shook her head, angry about something.
“Essie told me that you and she fought about it,” he said. “Is that why you’re still upset with each other? Because of the painting?”
“I wanted to protect her. That’s all I ever hoped to do.”
“She said you and Saul didn’t get along.”
Her face hardened, her lips forming a straight line. “Your mother knows nothing about my relationship with Saul. He was my baby brother. I sacrificed everything for him.”
“Then tell me, Nana.” He sat forward on the chair. “Tell me about your parents and your brother. Tell me so I can understand my mother. So I can understand myself.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
“Why not? Is there something you don’t want me to know?”
Her eyelids opened. She licked her lips. “It’s all in the past. Nothing in the past can help you.”
“But I think it can.”
She seemed to shrink into the big turquoise chair. Her eyes clouded over as she stared at the three sculptures.
“Please, Nana.”
Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, Julian. I’ll tell you our story. I only hope it will help, not hurt you.”
He almost reminded his grandmother about Nietzsche’s words— What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger— but he had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate them.
CHAPTER 8
She didn’t want to tell him any of it, but her grandson had a point. How could he ever be himself if he didn’t know where he had come from? So she would tell him some of the story, but never would she reveal everything. Not to Julian, not to anyone.
Mariasha looked across the room at the sculptures she had created. Mama adjusting the treasured hat she had made for herself. Papa immersed in a favorite book. And Saulie, poor Saulie, playing a momentous game of stickball. The frozen figures had emerged from her desperate effort to preserve the people she loved in a moment of happiness, so she wouldn’t have to dwell on how she had failed them.
Julian was on the edge of the other chair, his stocking foot tapping on the floor, impatient and frustrated, just like her brother had once been.
She studied the optimistic swoop of the rods that formed the shoulders of Boy Playing Stickball. “First, I would
“Then what’s going on?”
“Sometimes that happens between parents and children. An inability to communicate.”
A dull light came in through the windows making the three sculptures seem forlorn. “Was that what happened between you and Essie?” he asked.
His grandmother rubbed her pointer finger with her thumb.
“Nana, I’m not completely blind. My mother never visits you. Why is that? And I remember the two of you fighting all the time when I was a child.”
“What can I say, Julian? My daughter and I never got along.”
“But why not?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t a good mother. I wish I could have been, but the world I grew up in molded me. I made promises to my parents. I had responsibilities to my brother. Maybe I just didn’t have enough left over to be a good mother, too.”
“I don’t buy that,” he said.
She turned her gold wedding band around. Her fingers were knobby from arthritis. These were the hands that had once created intricate sculptures; now they resembled her work.
“My mother told me about your brother Saul.”
His grandmother started, as though she’d heard a sudden noise. “What did she tell you about him?”
“That he was an artist.”
“He liked to paint, but he was never an artist.”
He looked at the walls, unadorned except for a purple neon clock and fan-shaped sconces. “Do you have any of his paintings?”
“No.”
“Did you know Essie has one?”
Her face grew pale.
“Saul gave her the painting that’s hanging in our living room.”
“She has that?” Her voice was practically a whisper.
“Yes,” he said. “And she told me you hid it from her. Why did you do that?”
“It was a terrible painting.”
“It was her birthday present.”
She shook her head, angry about something.
“Essie told me that you and she fought about it,” he said. “Is that why you’re still upset with each other? Because of the painting?”
“I wanted to protect her. That’s all I ever hoped to do.”
“She said you and Saul didn’t get along.”
Her face hardened, her lips forming a straight line. “Your mother knows nothing about my relationship with Saul. He was my baby brother. I sacrificed everything for him.”
“Then tell me, Nana.” He sat forward on the chair. “Tell me about your parents and your brother. Tell me so I can understand my mother. So I can understand myself.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
“Why not? Is there something you don’t want me to know?”
Her eyelids opened. She licked her lips. “It’s all in the past. Nothing in the past can help you.”
“But I think it can.”
She seemed to shrink into the big turquoise chair. Her eyes clouded over as she stared at the three sculptures.
“Please, Nana.”
Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, Julian. I’ll tell you our story. I only hope it will help, not hurt you.”
He almost reminded his grandmother about Nietzsche’s words— What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger— but he had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate them.
CHAPTER 8
She didn’t want to tell him any of it, but her grandson had a point. How could he ever be himself if he didn’t know where he had come from? So she would tell him some of the story, but never would she reveal everything. Not to Julian, not to anyone.
Mariasha looked across the room at the sculptures she had created. Mama adjusting the treasured hat she had made for herself. Papa immersed in a favorite book. And Saulie, poor Saulie, playing a momentous game of stickball. The frozen figures had emerged from her desperate effort to preserve the people she loved in a moment of happiness, so she wouldn’t have to dwell on how she had failed them.
Julian was on the edge of the other chair, his stocking foot tapping on the floor, impatient and frustrated, just like her brother had once been.
She studied the optimistic swoop of the rods that formed the shoulders of Boy Playing Stickball. “First, I would
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