“Mom, it’s different for me.”
In later years Eleanor would torment herself because she did not heed Rosa’s cries for help. It was as though Eleanor had been behind frosted glass while she watched a strange girl’s mute screams.
CHAPTER 12
THE CRACK IN THE EGG
Sometimes you would sit on the edge of my bed, barely visible in the darkness. There was something in you so soft and compassionate. A kind of electric current emanating from you seemed to draw out my words. I would fall asleep comforted, expecting you to help me.
But the next day it would be as if I had never spoken at all.
Blood was everywhere on the sheets and had soaked through to the mattress. Dried blood stained my pajamas and clung to my thighs. Your face was stony. “First we soak your sheets and pajamas in cold water. Then we’ll run them through the washing machine.” I felt we were engaging in something secretive and shameful.
Months earlier, after a visit to the pediatrician, you told me that soon I would get my period. To soften the blow, you told me what it had been like for you. How horrified you were at the age of thirteen when you found a brown stain on your underpants. How your own mother explained it, just as you were doing now.
But I was only eleven.
I felt as if a malign universe had transformed me in less than a year from a skinny child with long, wispy braids into a coarse-featured creature with breasts and pubic hair—and had stirred me with troubling desires.
The girls in my new class formed a tight bond. They had fairer hair, wore nicer clothes, and came from a world that you evidently wanted me to enter. But a new kind of shyness made my mind grow blank and choked my throat. I felt raw, as if my skin had been peeled off. None of them menstruated yet. One day one of them discovered a paper bag bulging from the pocket of my coat in the locker room. She opened it up and found a bloody sanitary napkin. With delighted shock, she told the others.
During recess they would walk with their arms around each other, whispering secrets, giggling. I sat alone on the steps each day and wanted to die, ashamed to let you know what was happening. I felt that something in me was changing, as if a wheel had been turned that could go in only one direction.
After the last day of school I broke down. “Mom, I hate it there! I don’t want to go back in the fall.”
You listened silently, propped up against the pillows of your bed, watching me sob across the far distance of your bedroom.
“We will see,” you finally said.
I dreamed that you ordered me to pedal my red bike down to the bottom of the sea, and I had to obey. When I woke up inside the dream, I was dead but still conscious. I found myself chained to a rock in a gray ocean, and above me there was a gray sky.
I dreamed of tidal waves engulfing me.
I attributed magical powers to you. I believed you would jinx anything I confessed to wanting. As a child, I had imagined my brain was made of glass and that you could see my thoughts.
A troubling memory haunted me. When I was four, shortly after Howard was born, I used to play with an imaginary family inside the wall. One night I imagined you dead. A beautiful blonde woman took your place. She hugged me close, pinched my cheeks, and exclaimed how rosy and healthy I looked. I jumped up and down on the bed with joy.
Then you came in.
“What’s the matter?”
“Mommy, I had a nightmare you were dead.”
You tucked me under the covers and left. I was sure you knew my true thoughts.
To cover my breasts, I began to wear large, shapeless sweaters at home because I could not endure Dad’s stare. At times he seemed to stare right through me, as if I were one of his clay figures. During this time he was creating women with huge buttocks and breasts but tiny serpent heads. If I met his gaze, he would glance away. When he embraced me, this too was swift and furtive, as if he were afraid of giving into his appetites.
Perversely, I wore tight sweaters on the street and welcomed the lustful looks and whistles of boys as they drove by in their big, shiny cars. I was hungry for love. I longed for touch—to hold, to be caressed. Late at night under cover of darkness, I would explore my body with a vague sense that I was not supposed to do so.
You rarely touched me except for a goodnight kiss on the cheek, or a tentative hug. Once, curled up in bed facing the wall, I reached behind to embrace you. By mistake, I felt your breasts beneath the soft cashmere sweater. I blushed fiery red, as if I’d touched a live wire.
You and Dad had unspoken rules about what could or couldn’t be said, even about what did or didn’t exist. Howard and Jesse were too little to confide in. I would burst into rage when you nagged at me because I had no words for what was tearing me up underneath.
My room was not my own. You chose wallpaper with a print of tiny red flowers to replace the harsh yellow walls. “I’d like blue,” I said, but no one heard. You chose the furnishings and pictures. One day I moved the bed. Dad erupted in rage. Why? I wondered. It wasn’t his room.
I didn’t seem to exist for anyone else as a full human being.
You urged me to phone a girl whose mother had been one of your Nursery School group. “I left her two messages, but she hasn’t called back. She doesn’t want to be my friend.”
“Try her again,” you said. “You’re imagining things, my dear.” Everything inside was dark and tangled, and I felt as if I were making my way across a treacherous, slippery terrain. People wore masks, I thought. While I might perceive what lay beneath your words and Dad’s, I clung to them as a shipwreck survivor clings to floating debris. These words, often carelessly spoken, worked like magic spells upon me. I began to doubt what I saw, what I thought.
One day there was a storm. The huge old oak tree along the side of the house trembled ever so slightly.
“That tree is going to fall,” I said.
“Impossible,” said Dad.
Soon the wind increased in strength. The tree began to sway more and more, and its roots rippled beneath the earth. At last it crashed against the house as we all ran to the opposite side.
Nature, at least, had proven me right.
I dreamed of electricity. A radio without batteries on my bedside table began to play music. When I looked, I saw it was unplugged. In the dream it was night, and the glare of the lamp augmented the strength of this magical force. The walls were the same harsh yellow Dad had originally painted them.
CHAPTER 13
FIGHTS
Twice a week Eleanor picked up Rosa at school because athletic activities ended too late for her to take the bus. Eleanor simmered with rage while she waited in her car in front of the school, a large brick building surrounded by lawn and trees. Where was Rosa? She had said she would be ready at four-thirty, and now it was four-forty-five. It seemed Rosa did this on purpose to annoy her!!
She had rushed here from work, foregoing an invitation for drinks from Clyde, a drama instructor with whom she exchanged confidences. She had so much to do! Her tooth ached, and she needed to make an appointment with the dentist. Howard and Jesse’s shoes needed re-heeling. She should speak with their teachers because they, too, should probably switch schools.
At last Rosa appeared, arms heaped with books. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Dinner will be late, and Aaron has to teach tonight.”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got to be more responsible. Now I’ll have to rush to get dinner on time.”
“Okay, okay.”
“You knew I’d be here at four-thirty. It was your responsibility to be here.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Rosa, don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, Mom. Just shut up!” She screamed and burst into tears. Eleanor drove in furious tight-lipped silence. Something was terribly wrong between them. Whatever Eleanor did seemed to make things worse. Yet Rosa needed to be taught proper behavior. Often Rosa left the bathroom a mess and neglected her chores.
“I have a bone to pi
ck with you,” Eleanor said one day, summoning Rosa into the bedroom where she lay resting after work.
“What?”
“You didn’t clean the tub last night.”
Rosa fiddled with a strand of her hair, which frizzed out in a bushy halo.
“Your hair needs brushing.”
“Mom, I just brushed it! Stop picking on me.”
“I’m not picking, Rosa. Please clean the tub and brush your hair.” Eleanor stood up, straightening her skirt which had risen above her knees.
“MOM, I BRUSHED MY HAIR!”
“Don’t shout.”
“I can’t stand it! You’re always picking on me.”
“You need to be reminded.”
“MOM, GO TO HELL!”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“SHUT UP AND GO TO HELL!”
It wasn’t so much the words as her mother’s tone that made Rosa’s nerves shrill out, made her scream because it was unbearable.
“I never talked to my mother the way you do.” Eleanor’s voice caught with sobs.
Aaron had entered the room. “Apologize to your mother.”
“No!” shouted Rosa, rushing out of their bedroom and into her own. She slammed the door and collapsed on her bed in tears.
Aaron flung open her door. “Apologize! You’re causing your mother a great deal of pain.”
“No!” shrieked Rosa. “What about the pain she caused me?”
“Rosa, apologize! You’ve hurt her!”
His energy planted itself in her. An invisible force ripping through her. After he left, Rosa sat there motionless. She felt monstrous, overcome with shame, furious. Didn’t her feelings count? For him, evidently only her mother’s feelings counted. Why was he treating her this way? He hadn’t been this way when she was younger. This was the handsome, energetic father she adored. The one who took joy in life. The father with comforting hard-edged boundaries. The father who took long walks with her. Who showed her how to dive through the breakers. Who sang folk songs in a loud voice, although slightly off-key, on long family drives.
Like a clear sky that concealed bolts of lightning, he was treacherous. If he had been cruel in the past, she would have built up armor to defend herself. But she was like a woman shocked by a lover’s irrational rage who decides that she herself is to blame.
His words cut into her as if she were the sole star in blackness. Far out in a velvety black universe glistened distant stars as they spun too far away for the human eye to discern—millions of light years too distant. Like knives, his words slashed at her core. She felt jangled, raw.
“He did not validate your feelings,” a psychologist would say many years later. But for a long time the psychologist’s words were only black letters dancing on the surface of her brain. It took a long time for them to penetrate to the child’s consciousness that still lay within her.
A tense hour of silence followed. She was too upset to write her history essay or do her math homework. Yet she had to get it all done. Aaron’s will filled her, giving her no peace. Finally she walked downstairs into the kitchen where Eleanor was putting potatoes on to boil. She trembled at the sound of Rosa’s footsteps.
“I’m sorry,” Rosa said, though she felt as if she had sold her soul. They gave each other a ritual hug.
A few days later Rosa asked for a lock on her door.
“It’s an old door. We can’t put a lock on it,” said Eleanor.
Rosa did not question this. Nor did she mention the lock again.
CHAPTER 14
ROSA AT FOURTEEN
At night when you and Dad were out, I sometimes rummaged through your bureau drawers in an effort to discover your secrets. Everything of yours was immaculately folded. I admired your filmy underwear.
“We’re poor. We can’t afford it,” you would say if I asked for something like a new sweater or if, more significantly, I asked to go away to boarding school. Nonetheless, you spent large amounts dining out and shopped at the most expensive stores.
I never felt well-dressed. So I would save up my pocket money and go to discount stores and factory outlets via infrequent bus connections. I wanted to get a job and have money of my own to spend, but I couldn’t because of the long school day.
In the locker room at school I felt embarrassed with my worn, stretched panties and the gray grime that wouldn’t wash out from my bra. The “in” girls possessed lithe, petite bodies, impeccable white lacy bras and fresh cotton underpants that looked as if they had just been taken out of their Best’s tissue wrappings.
I would secretively wash out several pairs of blood-stained cotton panties after they had accumulated in my closet. Then I would dry them on a rack behind a towel in the attic bathroom, where I hoped they would be invisible. The stains never came completely out. They came from blood that leaked over the edge of my sanitary pads. I bled far too much. The smell of the dark, dried menstrual blood embarrassed me. It was rich, sweet, heavy. I would bleed huge purple clots of blood. This would go on for many days. When I asked for new underwear, you said vaguely, “We’ll see,” adding that I needed to wash what I had more thoroughly.
When I was ten, struck with a desire to look like other girls—this had never concerned me much before—I asked to have my braids cut off. Now my hair was full and frizzy, and you were constantly telling me to brush it. In your mind, my hair was someone else’s, smooth, flat, and shiny. I longed for you to help me with my hair, but you never did.
At times you had generous impulses. You bought me a few beautiful dresses, as well as some that seemed chosen for someone who wasn’t me at all—glaring yellow or chartreuse. It was hit or miss. I seemed to be an abstraction in your mind. There was no connection with the fibers and nerves and reality of me.
When a boy at school invited me to a prom, you took me from store to store in a tireless search for the perfect dress. Finally we found a pale blue strapless gown that I thought far too expensive. But you liked it. As a finishing touch, you bought me a pair of sheer blue nylon panties. I was shocked. Why the sexy underwear for a boy I barely knew?
When I did buy clothes, I feared making a wrong choice. I was also afraid of choosing the wrong music on the car radio. What you considered bad taste would invoke something worse than scorn. It would make me an inferior being in your eyes. This was evident from the way in which you judged and mocked others.
Mockery was like an invisible, electric fence all around me.
None of us, in truth, were spared your mockery, except perhaps for Howard.
“Rosa said something so funny the other day … I asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up, and she said, ‘I want to work hard.’” Everyone laughed uproariously. It was Sunday night, and we were gathered on the terrace. Lights from candles flickered on the table. The food had been exquisite; the guests, who consisted of three or four faculty members and a White Russian refugee who had fallen on hard times, were a little in awe of you. I laughed, too, but I felt undone.
For a while we had a black spaniel named April who was very high strung. “I need to take Rosa to get spayed. Oh, I meant to say the dog.” You found this slip of the tongue most amusing.
I wanted to be a cheerleader. For days I would practice, although I feared your mockery, ever ready to surface. I could imagine you saying, “Rosa spent hours thumping up and down on the floor. She was going through the strangest contortions.”
I was never chosen.
Was it because I was unpopular? Clumsy? Or was it because of my arm?
I would look into a mirror, see just how far I could stretch it without revealing the extreme double-jointedness, and I practiced how to camouflage its crookedness. I chose clothing with sleeves that hid the bulk of bone on my upper arm.
Old Photo: I’m standing on Jones Beach, a skinny girl of ten in a bathing suit with a big smile on my face, not yet conscious of the glaring crookedness of my outstretched arm. I imagine Dad scrutinizing my body as if I were a piece of sculpture. The
re is a closure over his heart. He watches my brothers ride the waves hand in hand. A breaker knocks Jesse over. He stamps his feet furiously, beats the water with his fists, and battles the next one, while Howard dives smoothly through.
We lived inside our dreams at home. At times you would lower your voice and let your words trail off, as if speaking were superfluous. Reality was filtered. There was little connection between our strangely censored, muted world and that found in books, movies, theater, and black families down the street whose loud voices and music spilled out through the walls of their houses.
The way you and Dad had of averting your glances, of changing the subject, of dismissing what I said, of not hearing me—all this silenced me. The strange thing is, I believed your words, while part of me knew that far different truths lay beneath. It was as if between the words and the core lay an entire sphere of reality that I did not know how to deal with.
Another girl and I—one of my friends from the old public school—are in a photo booth at a bus station. We are twelve. We take pictures of ourselves, and we’re giggling a lot. Two boys begin to flirt with us. Heady with their attention, I don’t notice what they’re doing. After they leave, I realize that they’ve taken my wallet.
I’m riding a subway in Manhattan. After I get off and the train zooms away, I realize I’ve left my new red purse behind. My spaciness scares me. I go to Travelers’ Aid, but they’re no help. Finally, I scrounge up change from strangers to get home.
Spacey. Like you, Mother, I was spacey. But who was I really? The “real” me—not one, but many identities—at times erupted in strange, frightening ways.
CHAPTER 15
STUDIO PARTY, 1953
Am I me?
Am I a mother?
The person in the office
Incidentally, your wife and lover
The fire that warms the cold empty house
That comes to life when I walk in.
Oh, I am sick with the old sicknesses,
Dying Unfinished Page 5
