by Ellen Hagan
Quilt thrown over.
Remote in hand.
Mamaw, Mom, me.
Not so bad.
Mom Says
“Just so you know, now that your period has arrived,”
(as if it’s a package I’ve been waiting for
as opposed to my entrance to womanhood)
“you can get pregnant. You’re officially a woman.”
“OMG, why would you even say that?” I shout,
surprising myself & Mamaw, who perks up at us.
“I haven’t even kissed anyone yet,” I hiss-whisper.
Not even close. Not even almost close. Not even
anywhere in the vicinity of close. Jeez. Mamaw holds in
a giggle and says, “Everything has its time. You
can never be too careful, Beatrice.” “Your body
is your own,” we both say in unison. A song I’ve heard
hundreds of times. ’Course I’d read Our Bodies, Ourselves
& It’s Perfectly Normal. & I knew it was, but ugh, hearing
my mom & mamaw talking about me as if I’m not even here
makes me wish I wasn’t. When I retreat to my room, Mom
calls out, “Should we order takeout?” Why can’t my family
be normal?
Period Drama
Later that night, I hear my mom crying & laughing
on the phone with her best friend, Cindy, who I call
Aunt Cindy, even though she’s not my real, real aunt.
She’s telling her about me getting my period.
I’m about to lose it on her when I hear her say,
“Can you believe it? Just when she started hers,
mine is starting to end. Her life is just beginning,
and I’m so happy for her, but …
& then there is a silence
as big as the mountains heading out of town.
Rising
Rising
But what? I want to shout. Is she mad at me? Hurt, sad?
“You know, I always thought that I’d have another baby,
somehow give Beatrice a sibling, but every month
that goes by, I just feel older and older and like somehow
I’m not giving her enough.”
I resist the urge to yell out, You give me everything,
even though I complain, it’s enough, you’re enough.
My life is complete & enough.
You & Mamaw & this house & my room & my heart,
all of it is here & enough, enough, enough.
“You know, I met someone,” my mom says so quietly
that I have to lean on her doorframe, “so I guess all
is not lost.” There is a pause, & I almost push her door in.
“Harrison Douglas. Yeah, he’s my age. Perfect.
Medical sales. Met him at the hospital.
Can you believe it? Sometimes he shows up early
just to see me before my shift ends.
Also, he’s got a great head of hair.”
I hear my mom start to laugh, & then she says,
“I haven’t told Bea or Beatrice yet. But soon.
I think it’s about time. And I really think
it’s about time for me to have some
real happiness. A chance
at love.”
I Resist the Urge to Yell—
I love you! You love me!
We love each other. & Mamaw too!
We have loads & loads of love.
& real happiness too.
Harrison Douglas?! Who the hell
is Harrison Douglas? & WHY
does he have two last names?!
Google Search: Harrison Douglas
Before she leaves for work, Mom comes in my room.
She wants to congratulate me again. “Your period is here!
I am so happy for you. Rest easy tonight,”
she says before kissing my forehead
& walking out the door for her shift.
As soon as her car is out of the driveway, I rush
to turn the computer on with hopes it will actually
power up by the end of the decade. It chugs along.
I tell Mamaw I have some research to do
before school starts & need technology to do it.
Mamaw hardly ever checks up on me, since she thinks
computers can’t hold a candle to the human mind
(her words) & that our particular computer is possessed.
She’s not wrong, & she definitely does not believe
in the modern world. At all.
Google Search: Harrison Douglas. Images pop up.
His hair certainly is something to talk about.
It poufs up & off his head. Who in the world …?
As soon as I go for a deeper dive, Mamaw arrives,
a cup of hot jasmine tea steaming in her palms.
“That some new teacher of yours?” I close the tab
fast as possible. “No, no, no, it’s … I don’t even know,”
I lie. Mamaw can tell but says nothing. “I’ll do this later,”
I say, closing up the computer, figuring Harrison Douglas
& his hairdo can wait. Besides, they’ll probably break up
before I ever even meet him.
’Specially when Mom realizes
she’s got us & all the love
in the world
right here.
Gardens, Books & Bourbon
Mamaw’s club meets every month at our place.
They take over the kitchen, mixing cocktails
& mocktails. “Old-Lady Brain Trust”
is what Mamaw calls them. Vintage. Veterans
with thousands of stories to tell & hundreds
of years between them. Seven in all. They are
Old Bardstown. Keepers of secrets.
They say, “Beatrice, you look just like your mamaw.”
They never say I look like my mom. Believe me.
I’ve listened real close. & I’d like them to.
Don’t get me wrong, Mamaw is striking
with her wild hair & strong jawline. But Mom
is the real stunner, with the smoothest skin,
deep brown eyes, & hair that loops in curls
around her heart-shaped face. She’s five foot eleven
& can reach to all the counters, her muscles
perfectly strong & fit. But I’m all Mamaw.
Scrappy & rough around the edges.
“Don’t slouch,” they say when I start
my daydreaming. “Aren’t you sweet.
Be sure to clear your plates. What a doll.
Be sure to keep up at school this year.
Such a good girl. Don’t talk back to your elders.
Have another helping. Don’t eat too much.
Aren’t you smart. Don’t correct your mamaw.”
Ahhhh, is what I think in my head. Complicated.
They want me quiet & loud. Spunky & timid.
Confident & modest. Bashful & bold. All at once.
Everything at the same time. Say back in the day
that’s what was asked of them. I wonder
why they’re still asking it of me.
Three Days Before School Starts
Begin the begging for real.
“Hairy legs = ugly.
Smooth legs = pretty.
Smooth + me = cool.
I saw it with my own eyes
twirling on the merry-go-round.
Heard it from Zoey Samuels,
a freakin’ fifth grader.
Let me shave my legs.
Please! I can’t be caught
looking like a schnauzer!”
“A what?” Mamaw asks,
acting like she’s never seen
a hairy dog or my hairy legs
& thought they looked alike.
“I look like a beast,” I say.
“Beatrice, don’t worry so much
about what everyone else thinks.”
“Don’t blame me.
Blame middle school.
Blame peer pressure.
Blame razor blades.
Ads targeting girls.
Blame Mariella, StaceyAnn.
Blame their moms.
& their grannies.
& their smooth legs.
Don’t blame me.
But seriously, please?
Mamaw? Mom? Anyone?”
Two Days Before School Starts
“Not yet,” they both say. “Wait
until the eighth grade,” they say.
“It’ll just grow thicker. Wait.”
Ah, so I can be a pariah, I think.
Run my hands over the fuzz.
Right now, I am part animal.
Bear. Wild boar. My legs like
a fur coat I’m sporting. School
will slaughter me. Gym class
will be the death of me.
Annihilation by laughter. Boys
who can’t even grow facial hair
will take their anger out on me.
Busting up about the wooly
mammoth covering ankle to
upper thigh. I’ll just about die.
Drama
Is what Mamaw calls me
when she thinks I’m over-the-top.
So instead of lecturing,
she pulls the last cherry tomatoes
from her garden. Slices
them over flatbread with mozzarella
& extra kalamata olives.
The way the two of us always love.
“Love,” she says, “is a warm oven
at the deep end of summertime. Love
is not what everyone else
is doing all the time. Being your own self
instead. Love is out of place
& unique. Eccentric sometimes. A standout.
Love doesn’t always fit in
& doesn’t all the time want to.” Pours me
sweet tea for the porch swing,
kicks us slow & steady while we wait.
Love is a constant rocking
& will hold you no matter what it takes.
Gardening with Mamaw
“Just so you know, to get a plant to grow
you have to be patient. Take your time,
make it slow.” She’s crouched beside beds
full of sweet potatoes & beans. Cherry
tomatoes, okra, peppers & squash. “Imagine
a future that doesn’t even exist yet. Trust
there will be a tomorrow & a day after that.”
Her knees splinter & crack. Palms covered
in soil. She passes me veggies, places my hands
in the dirt. “There’s not a thing scary
about the unknown. Not a thing to fret
about what’s to come. You just work
with all you’ve got and look for all
the goodness to arrive.”
Harvest Party
Mamaw, Mom & I host the biggest dang
harvest party in the whole neighborhood.
Everyone’s invited. Doors thrown open,
music on high volume. The Commodores
& Dolly Parton blast the entire block. Hips
shake & hands are thrown to the sky.
This garden can feed the county, come
on, grab a bag & fill it to the brim. “Come
hungry and leave full,” she says. Props open
the screen door, fills the cooler with ice.
Mariella’s folks bring BBQ chicken. Her
sister joins too, shows us all the moves.
Someone starts the Electric Slide, & all feet
hit the grass dance floor. Mom’s mood
is lifted. Summer’s officially over; school
will keep me more than occupied forever,
or that’s what it feels like. She can see
my whole life, me already on my way.
She hugs me around the neck, whispers
how proud she is, but I haven’t even started.
I pack bags overflowing with vegetables. Eggplants
& fennel for days. Hand out Mamaw’s recipes.
Neither of them knows how scared I am, terrified
of fitting in. Belonging anywhere besides
this backyard. StaceyAnn & Mariella beside me.
Can’t see myself anyplace else. & worried
no one will see me when I show up.
Mom Says
“Even though middle school sometimes
stinks, you’ll make it. You’ll thrive.
Keep your head all the way up.”
Don’t:
Worry about what other kids say.
Worry about what you look like.
Stress out about what other kids have.
Get in your head too much.
Do: Your homework every night. Breathe.
Make sure the teachers know your name.
Spend time with the friends you love.
Focus on yourself & your own brilliant mind.
Listen to what Mamaw & I tell you.
Take it easy. Relax, Beatrice.
We’ve been there before, & we know
exactly what we’re talking about.
Mamaw Promises
We can work it out.
No matter what happens.
Life is very short,
& we’ve got you every step
of every way.
Don’t you worry about one
little thing. Not one.
We’ll be the shelter
in your rain. Cover you
& protect you.
Put your trust in me, us.
You know what you are—
the sunshine of my life.
& I mean it from the very
bottom of my heart.
It takes me a few minutes
to realize that Mamaw
is just repeating
her favorite lyrics
from her most beloved
Stevie Wonder songs.
“Ah, Mamaw, come on.” I sigh.
“Well, if Stevie said it best,
then why do I need to re-create
what it is I want to say?
Besides, I promise you
nothing will happen in middle school
that can’t be fixed by playing a song
by Stevie Wonder. Mark my words.
Now, try and get some sleep.
Tomorrow’s a big day.
Don’t be so uptight.
Everything is all right.”
Garden at Midnight
Night
blooming
jasmine pulls
me in. I rise
middle of the night
wide sky holding above
rest of the house calm, silent
so quiet I tiptoe outside
put my whole face to the flowering,
smell the very deep end of summer.
Try to adjust who I’m supposed to be
roll my shoulders back, face all the stars
count everything I’m thankful for
my mom, my mamaw, my heart
& how it loves so hard
& don’t forget luck
wrap my arms around
myself
tight.
Mom = All Buttoned Up
Mamaw = All the Way Let Loose
Before school, Mom wants me neat & presentable.
Hair combed, face washed, teeth brushed, clothes ironed.
Mamaw has never ironed an article of clothing
in her whole life. I’m not even sure she could pick one out
of a lineup of home goods.
She’s all loose all the time. Mamaw cares more
about the inside, that’s for sure,
& making certain I have homemade bread
laced with rosemary and Himalayan salt,
garden tomatoes with cucumber.
&n
bsp; A salad on bread for breakfast.
Says the ways I take care of the insides
will make my outside shine.
“Not if she’s full of crumbs and wearing a wrinkled top,”
Mom says, shoving me out the door & into the car.
“And especially not if she’s late
for her first day of school.”
“Well, run along, you two. But don’t worry so much.
You know what I always say … Time is a …”
“CONSTRUCT,” we shout.
Mom Slams the Car Door
“Just so you know. Time is real.
It’s really 8:02 a.m. right now.
And you are currently late
and I am actually tired
and tired of your mamaw
constantly coming up against the way
I’m trying to raise you.
You really woke up at 7:37
and your mamaw truly insisted
on making you a fresh farm-raised
organic fried egg at 7:42,
which means you
didn’t get to wash your face
or brush your teeth at 7:53,
and she definitely got the chance
to tell us that time is a construct.
Well, let me tell you something.
No matter what any of her kooky
or wild healers or mystics tell her
or you or me, I am here to tell you
that time is real. It’s real. I’m real.
You’re real. And I’m really fed up.”
