Mum’s vagina, my head crowning, my nose, ears, screwed-up eyes, sliding into the forty-watt light of my parents’ bedroom. Ugh. Hard to believe in the stork now.
Mum looks up and stares at me, eyes pinkish and watery. She looks like she might be about to cry. “I don’t mean to make you angry.”
It’s worse when she apologizes. I am crucified with guilt. “It’s fine.”
“I worry. You know why, don’t you?”
“That was different.”
“Perhaps. But he did leave.”
Silently. I saw him before I went to bed. “Good night, doll,” Dad said, and kissed me on my forehead, in between the eyes. I imagined there would be a kiss imprint there forever afterward, like one of those spots the Indian lady who ran the corner shop had. The next morning he was gone. Not just gone to work. But gone, gone. The hardware of Daddy’s existence—his four good suits, cracked brown brogues, and drill kit—went, too. I was nine. Mum served up our breakfast the next morning without saying much. It looked like she’d lined her eyes with red crayon. Later, while I was at school, she had all her long brown hair butchered off by Julie at A Cut Above. I’d never seen her with short hair before. Soon, the weight began to drop off, too. She started wearing red-rose lipstick. She looked like someone else, thinner, smarter, not my mummy. And for some time she acted like someone else, quieter and more distant. Another Jean.
We didn’t see Dad again for three months. A wet Tuesday in March. Mum took us to the swings, unable to take her eyes away from the familiar figure in the long gray coat who strode toward us, always so sure of himself. He hugged me into the damp scratchiness of the coat’s flannel. Then he looked at Mum and said, Jean? Like he was asking a secret question only adults could understand. Mum shook her head and walked quickly away, leaving us careering giddily round and round the perilous seventies playground. We didn’t know then but that “Dad time” had to keep us going for a while.
“He did leave. But you cannot blame yourself, Mum. He was sleeping with that woman in the ukulele group . . .”
“She couldn’t even play properly.” This still gives her a sly kick of triumph.
“And she had terrible hair. Like a Brillo pad.”
Mum laughs, crow’s feet folding like a fan. “One thing I never slacked on. My mother, bless her, taught me to brush it a hundred times before bed. It’s a miracle I didn’t brush it all out, looking back. But still . . .” Long pause. “It’s easy to get complacent.”
“Yes, let’s not forget those nighties.” Huge voluminous floral winceyette marquees with lacy Jane Austen necklines. She wears washable “satin” now.
“Ooo, Amy! My nighties were lovely!” She laughs, slaps me playfully on the knee. “One day
you
will discover the joys of wearing a nice loose nightie.”
“Then Joe really will have good reason to leave.”
Joe appears with tea and chocolate biscuits. “And what will be good reason to leave?” he asks, smiling.
Six
I LIKE TELEPHONES BECAUSE THE PERSON ON THE OTHER end can’t see what you look like. “Alice, it’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“Sorry, Amy.”
“Amy! Hi! How’s it going?” Alice sounds a bit distracted, like she might be watching telly or painting her nails.
“Not that great, actually. Alice . . .” I take a deep breath and unintentionally blow it out loudly into the telephone receiver. “Alice, I was wondering. Do you remember what you said about um . . . you called it Project Amy or something?” This is embarrassing.
“Project what?”
“Er, Amy. We chatted about it after the night-of-the-breast-pad.”
Silence for a few painful moments. Then rustling. It sounds like she’s shooing someone away. “Ah! Project Amy! Of course. I knew you’d come round.”
“My mother’s just accused me of being a frump.” There is a shocked silence. Perhaps not everyone has a dysfunctional relationship with her
Mum looks up and stares at me, eyes pinkish and watery. She looks like she might be about to cry. “I don’t mean to make you angry.”
It’s worse when she apologizes. I am crucified with guilt. “It’s fine.”
“I worry. You know why, don’t you?”
“That was different.”
“Perhaps. But he did leave.”
Silently. I saw him before I went to bed. “Good night, doll,” Dad said, and kissed me on my forehead, in between the eyes. I imagined there would be a kiss imprint there forever afterward, like one of those spots the Indian lady who ran the corner shop had. The next morning he was gone. Not just gone to work. But gone, gone. The hardware of Daddy’s existence—his four good suits, cracked brown brogues, and drill kit—went, too. I was nine. Mum served up our breakfast the next morning without saying much. It looked like she’d lined her eyes with red crayon. Later, while I was at school, she had all her long brown hair butchered off by Julie at A Cut Above. I’d never seen her with short hair before. Soon, the weight began to drop off, too. She started wearing red-rose lipstick. She looked like someone else, thinner, smarter, not my mummy. And for some time she acted like someone else, quieter and more distant. Another Jean.
We didn’t see Dad again for three months. A wet Tuesday in March. Mum took us to the swings, unable to take her eyes away from the familiar figure in the long gray coat who strode toward us, always so sure of himself. He hugged me into the damp scratchiness of the coat’s flannel. Then he looked at Mum and said, Jean? Like he was asking a secret question only adults could understand. Mum shook her head and walked quickly away, leaving us careering giddily round and round the perilous seventies playground. We didn’t know then but that “Dad time” had to keep us going for a while.
“He did leave. But you cannot blame yourself, Mum. He was sleeping with that woman in the ukulele group . . .”
“She couldn’t even play properly.” This still gives her a sly kick of triumph.
“And she had terrible hair. Like a Brillo pad.”
Mum laughs, crow’s feet folding like a fan. “One thing I never slacked on. My mother, bless her, taught me to brush it a hundred times before bed. It’s a miracle I didn’t brush it all out, looking back. But still . . .” Long pause. “It’s easy to get complacent.”
“Yes, let’s not forget those nighties.” Huge voluminous floral winceyette marquees with lacy Jane Austen necklines. She wears washable “satin” now.
“Ooo, Amy! My nighties were lovely!” She laughs, slaps me playfully on the knee. “One day
you
will discover the joys of wearing a nice loose nightie.”
“Then Joe really will have good reason to leave.”
Joe appears with tea and chocolate biscuits. “And what will be good reason to leave?” he asks, smiling.
Six
I LIKE TELEPHONES BECAUSE THE PERSON ON THE OTHER end can’t see what you look like. “Alice, it’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“Sorry, Amy.”
“Amy! Hi! How’s it going?” Alice sounds a bit distracted, like she might be watching telly or painting her nails.
“Not that great, actually. Alice . . .” I take a deep breath and unintentionally blow it out loudly into the telephone receiver. “Alice, I was wondering. Do you remember what you said about um . . . you called it Project Amy or something?” This is embarrassing.
“Project what?”
“Er, Amy. We chatted about it after the night-of-the-breast-pad.”
Silence for a few painful moments. Then rustling. It sounds like she’s shooing someone away. “Ah! Project Amy! Of course. I knew you’d come round.”
“My mother’s just accused me of being a frump.” There is a shocked silence. Perhaps not everyone has a dysfunctional relationship with her
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