it’s that way with everyone, and what you have to do is smile, smile, smile
.
December 15, 1979
Michael looked at me in chemistry class today
.
The name gave Kate a jolt.
He turned around and smiled. The first time I thought he couldn’t be looking at me but then he did it again, so I smiled back. Near the end of class he turned completely around and leaned over to whisper something. “Would you pass that back?” he asked, handing me a note. And when I turned around to see what he meant, Alexis Matthews smiled and held out her hand.
I didn’t even want to be in the cafeteria during lunch I was so mortified, so I went to the art studio to work on the painting I’m doing for Mom’s Christmas present. I’m copying a picture of Anna when she was six, sitting on a bench eating ice cream with this really content sleepy smile. It’s my favorite picture of her. I hope she’ll like it. Our whole pretend-it-never-happened thing hasn’t been working for us very well. Maybe having Anna around looking like her best self will make Mom happier
.
January 12, 1980
I’m in Sarasota with Dad, went along on one of his off-site audits. We’ve been here for almost two weeks, and it’s been really cool learning to windsurf and sail. But I know he’s lying. There’s no way this was a belated Christmas gift. I got permission from my teachers and brought my books, but he doesn’t even seem to care whether or not I do the homework.
I think Mom went somewhere. When she called yesterday it was very windy like she was outside. There were people in the background and she sounded spacey and tired. The three times I’ve tried to call home there was no answer.
Before we left the house I saw them from the stairway when they thought I was still up in my room getting my bags. Mom was crying. Dad didn’t hug her, but he put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it. I heard him say, “I think this will do you good. Personally I don’t go for those kind of things, but it can’t hurt.” When I asked him about it later, he said he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Christmas was okay. I think she liked her picture of Anna, but I’m not sure it was a good idea after all. This was my corny idea of what would happen: She’d open it, gasp, and smile. Then she’d hug me and say, “It’s beautiful, Lizzie, thank you. What a wonderful way to remember her.” And then we’d start to talk about how we both missed her, and maybe end with some funny sweet memories.
Here’s what really happened. When Mom opened the painting she breathed in and stared with her eyes wide like she was watching one of those natural-disaster shows on TV. She sat that way for so long I started to wonder what she would do when she breathed again. After a good full minute she smiled and slowly said, “Thank you, what a good artist you are. I will have to think about where to hang it.” Then she went upstairs. When Dad came to get me for Christmas at his house I tried to wake her to say good-bye. But there was empty *soda* beside the bed and I don’t think she even knew I was leaving
.
June 15, 1980
Happy birthday to me. I have a good feeling about my 17th year. Mom and Dad gave me a present together: a bike tour this summer, the arts council one I’ve been bugging them about. For the whole month of July I’m going to be biking in Colorado, taking painting clinics and staying in hostels. Then when I get back home it’s road trips to check out colleges, some with Mom, some with Dad.
Mom seems much better. Ever since I went to Florida she’s almost been like a regular mother. She got a job at an advertising agency, and she hasn’t been sick since Christmas. I went ahead and asked her where she went while I was in Florida, and she said she was home ofcourse, but she got twitchy and overly nice. Maybe I was imagining it. Either way, it’s just going to be one of those things we don’t talk about.
She finally hung the painting of Anna. When I stand in
.
December 15, 1979
Michael looked at me in chemistry class today
.
The name gave Kate a jolt.
He turned around and smiled. The first time I thought he couldn’t be looking at me but then he did it again, so I smiled back. Near the end of class he turned completely around and leaned over to whisper something. “Would you pass that back?” he asked, handing me a note. And when I turned around to see what he meant, Alexis Matthews smiled and held out her hand.
I didn’t even want to be in the cafeteria during lunch I was so mortified, so I went to the art studio to work on the painting I’m doing for Mom’s Christmas present. I’m copying a picture of Anna when she was six, sitting on a bench eating ice cream with this really content sleepy smile. It’s my favorite picture of her. I hope she’ll like it. Our whole pretend-it-never-happened thing hasn’t been working for us very well. Maybe having Anna around looking like her best self will make Mom happier
.
January 12, 1980
I’m in Sarasota with Dad, went along on one of his off-site audits. We’ve been here for almost two weeks, and it’s been really cool learning to windsurf and sail. But I know he’s lying. There’s no way this was a belated Christmas gift. I got permission from my teachers and brought my books, but he doesn’t even seem to care whether or not I do the homework.
I think Mom went somewhere. When she called yesterday it was very windy like she was outside. There were people in the background and she sounded spacey and tired. The three times I’ve tried to call home there was no answer.
Before we left the house I saw them from the stairway when they thought I was still up in my room getting my bags. Mom was crying. Dad didn’t hug her, but he put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it. I heard him say, “I think this will do you good. Personally I don’t go for those kind of things, but it can’t hurt.” When I asked him about it later, he said he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Christmas was okay. I think she liked her picture of Anna, but I’m not sure it was a good idea after all. This was my corny idea of what would happen: She’d open it, gasp, and smile. Then she’d hug me and say, “It’s beautiful, Lizzie, thank you. What a wonderful way to remember her.” And then we’d start to talk about how we both missed her, and maybe end with some funny sweet memories.
Here’s what really happened. When Mom opened the painting she breathed in and stared with her eyes wide like she was watching one of those natural-disaster shows on TV. She sat that way for so long I started to wonder what she would do when she breathed again. After a good full minute she smiled and slowly said, “Thank you, what a good artist you are. I will have to think about where to hang it.” Then she went upstairs. When Dad came to get me for Christmas at his house I tried to wake her to say good-bye. But there was empty *soda* beside the bed and I don’t think she even knew I was leaving
.
June 15, 1980
Happy birthday to me. I have a good feeling about my 17th year. Mom and Dad gave me a present together: a bike tour this summer, the arts council one I’ve been bugging them about. For the whole month of July I’m going to be biking in Colorado, taking painting clinics and staying in hostels. Then when I get back home it’s road trips to check out colleges, some with Mom, some with Dad.
Mom seems much better. Ever since I went to Florida she’s almost been like a regular mother. She got a job at an advertising agency, and she hasn’t been sick since Christmas. I went ahead and asked her where she went while I was in Florida, and she said she was home ofcourse, but she got twitchy and overly nice. Maybe I was imagining it. Either way, it’s just going to be one of those things we don’t talk about.
She finally hung the painting of Anna. When I stand in
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