mother was put up for adoption when she was a baby. She didn't know anything about her real family, not until a couple of weeks before she died."
I hear Hannah walk over to my window and open it. I imagine her leaning out while she tries to decide what to believe. Her voice comes back, muffled. "Yeah," she says, "families can sure get messed up."
And an instant later she's plopping down on my bed, starting to talk about the dance. "Do you and Ted want to double with Ryan and me? I'll drive, since it's girl-ask-guy."
We don't say another word about families, not mine, not hers. It's like we've agreed to let it rest for now.
We go through my closet, and Hannah says maybe I'd better see if I can get something new because the holiday dance is pretty dressy. "Or you can borrow something of mine," she says. "We're about the same size."
Our talk is surface talk, but even that's a struggle to keep up with. Most of my mind is turned inward, trying to understand how Gwen could be my grandmother.
After Hannah leaves I go to the kitchen, where Aunt Emma is peeling carrots. She shaves off curls for me to nibble.
"You said Gwen was my grandmother?" I ask. "Mom said my grandmother's name was Margaret."
"Margaret Gwen," says Aunt Emma. "But she was always called Gwen. That's all I've ever heard your uncles call her."
"Mom told me she was Margaret," I insist.
There's a silence. Then Aunt Emma sighs. "Yes, well. I suppose your mother just knew from the legal papers, and they wouldn't have told what your grandmother was called."
Then, before I know what she's going to do, Aunt Emma pulls me to her in a hug. "Poor kid," she says.
"I am not," I say, stepping back. "Don't call me 'poor kid.' I am not poor."
"I didn't mean you are, Mandy," says Aunt Emma.
"Then what?"
Aunt Emma steps away also. "I guess that I feel sorry for Gwen, and for your mother."
"You didn't know my mother." I'm furious that Emma thinks it's OK to pity her.
"Of course not," Emma says. "You're right."
In my room I try to bring to a standstill the turning pieces of what I've learned. Try to make them into a new picture.
I go to the dressing table, find Mom's photo, move my hand to the picture next to it. Remember how it was blurred and shadowy and that, really, the only detail was a young man's grin. "So, if you're my grandfather, and if Gwen was my grandmother, then maybe you're Paul."
I imagine Paul in an airman's jacket. Imagine him grinning. Bring that together with what I remember of the picture I am holding and know I can make the two faces merge.
But it's too uneasy a shift to make, and I try to put it out of my mind. Gwen and Paul, my
grandparents
âsuddenly they're real and I don't think I want them to be. I shouldn't know what my grandparents were like when they were dating.
I make sure the window is closed tight, push the lace curtains back, and catch them behind hooks on the sides of the window frames.
And what's more, I want to be angry with Gwen, tell her I don't want to see her again. Tell her that if she didn't want to have anything to do with my mom, then I don't want to have anything to do with her. But what I really feel is bewildered. I want to ask what happened, why she did it. But not today.
I press my forehead against the cold glass. I don't want to hear more, not today.
I get out homework, but after a few minutes I put it away again. I can't do schoolwork, not through hot tears.
I pick out what I'll wear in the morning.
Then I turn on my notetaker. It's equipment that rehab got for me, sort of like a laptop computer only it's really a combination word processor and calculator with speech, and it has a typewriter keyboard. I type in
Christmas List,
and hit the key for audio feedback.
"Christmas list," a voice says.
But I can't get Gwen out of my thoughts. She's with me, a grief someplace inside that I don't know how to make go away.
I can't get away from Christmas, either, not with every place I go smelling of Christmas
I hear Hannah walk over to my window and open it. I imagine her leaning out while she tries to decide what to believe. Her voice comes back, muffled. "Yeah," she says, "families can sure get messed up."
And an instant later she's plopping down on my bed, starting to talk about the dance. "Do you and Ted want to double with Ryan and me? I'll drive, since it's girl-ask-guy."
We don't say another word about families, not mine, not hers. It's like we've agreed to let it rest for now.
We go through my closet, and Hannah says maybe I'd better see if I can get something new because the holiday dance is pretty dressy. "Or you can borrow something of mine," she says. "We're about the same size."
Our talk is surface talk, but even that's a struggle to keep up with. Most of my mind is turned inward, trying to understand how Gwen could be my grandmother.
After Hannah leaves I go to the kitchen, where Aunt Emma is peeling carrots. She shaves off curls for me to nibble.
"You said Gwen was my grandmother?" I ask. "Mom said my grandmother's name was Margaret."
"Margaret Gwen," says Aunt Emma. "But she was always called Gwen. That's all I've ever heard your uncles call her."
"Mom told me she was Margaret," I insist.
There's a silence. Then Aunt Emma sighs. "Yes, well. I suppose your mother just knew from the legal papers, and they wouldn't have told what your grandmother was called."
Then, before I know what she's going to do, Aunt Emma pulls me to her in a hug. "Poor kid," she says.
"I am not," I say, stepping back. "Don't call me 'poor kid.' I am not poor."
"I didn't mean you are, Mandy," says Aunt Emma.
"Then what?"
Aunt Emma steps away also. "I guess that I feel sorry for Gwen, and for your mother."
"You didn't know my mother." I'm furious that Emma thinks it's OK to pity her.
"Of course not," Emma says. "You're right."
In my room I try to bring to a standstill the turning pieces of what I've learned. Try to make them into a new picture.
I go to the dressing table, find Mom's photo, move my hand to the picture next to it. Remember how it was blurred and shadowy and that, really, the only detail was a young man's grin. "So, if you're my grandfather, and if Gwen was my grandmother, then maybe you're Paul."
I imagine Paul in an airman's jacket. Imagine him grinning. Bring that together with what I remember of the picture I am holding and know I can make the two faces merge.
But it's too uneasy a shift to make, and I try to put it out of my mind. Gwen and Paul, my
grandparents
âsuddenly they're real and I don't think I want them to be. I shouldn't know what my grandparents were like when they were dating.
I make sure the window is closed tight, push the lace curtains back, and catch them behind hooks on the sides of the window frames.
And what's more, I want to be angry with Gwen, tell her I don't want to see her again. Tell her that if she didn't want to have anything to do with my mom, then I don't want to have anything to do with her. But what I really feel is bewildered. I want to ask what happened, why she did it. But not today.
I press my forehead against the cold glass. I don't want to hear more, not today.
I get out homework, but after a few minutes I put it away again. I can't do schoolwork, not through hot tears.
I pick out what I'll wear in the morning.
Then I turn on my notetaker. It's equipment that rehab got for me, sort of like a laptop computer only it's really a combination word processor and calculator with speech, and it has a typewriter keyboard. I type in
Christmas List,
and hit the key for audio feedback.
"Christmas list," a voice says.
But I can't get Gwen out of my thoughts. She's with me, a grief someplace inside that I don't know how to make go away.
I can't get away from Christmas, either, not with every place I go smelling of Christmas
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