by Ann Pearlman
Other Lives
by
Ann Pearlman
Dancing Books Press
Ann Arbor, MI
All text and images Copyright © 2013 by Ann Pearlman
ISBN (EPUB Version): 098032507
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-0-9890325-0-6
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Dedication
To those fortunate people who remember the time before they were born.
Table of Contents
Other Lives
About this Story
Acknowledgements
About the Author
More from Ann Pearlman
“Yes, remember? You weren’t my mother then. You were my best friend.” Leah’s eyes are so dark I cannot distinguish the pupils and I see myself in miniature. ”Don’t you remember? I don’t have pictures. I lost the pictures except in my mind.”
“No, I don’t. But that’s okay. You do,” I tell her. I sit on the couch of our family room while she stands between my knees. Our eyes are even that way.
“How come you don’t? I see it. Just like when I see myself in my cup of milk when I drink it.” Her brown hands are on my thighs. She leans into me as though she can get close enough to stare in my eyes and see the pictures that are in my head.
I kiss her, her arms around my neck and I smell the cheesiness of her hair. “Tell me, then, my darling Leah. Tell me about the time we were best friends together.”
“Oh, Mommy. We lived where it was warm all the time, and the trees had feathers on top and scales up their trunks. Birds always called each other. We lived next door and both our houses were made of gold stiff hair. Your aunt was my mommy then and she had the same white hair like she does now. Daddy was my Daddy and Allan was my baby brother.
I don’t know who your mommy and daddy were. I don’t know them now. I think it was Africa. Yes. Africa.”
“Africa?” I’m surprised she even knows the word. “What do you know about Africa?”
“It’s like when we were in Mexico. But different colors and different smells.”
I guess she’s right. I’ve never been to Africa except in magazines and movies.
“It must be Africa ‘cause I see hippos. They’re in Africa,” she tells me so solemnly that she could be giving me a lecture. “We played in the sand with our dolls. I was sad cause my Mommy said, ‘No more pets. No pets in the house.”
Leah steps back and waves
her arms, talking in a grown up voice. “ ‘No more animals in this house with their sandy or muddy feet,’ and she went like this,” Leah pretends she holds a broom and sweeps the floor. “’Out, out you go. Scat. Scat.’ My animals were all gone and I was alone with you. Only you and our stick dolls to play with. I missed them already.”
“That was the day the men with dog heads came, hair all over their faces. They ran at us and they hit Mommy. She fell down, slow, like she was dancing almost. I called her, but she never answered.” Leah arches her back as though she struggles. “ They grabbed you up, you and me. I dropped my doll in the sand and they pulled us away. I lost my necklace. You reached for me.”
She clenches her eyes. “We were in some place dark. The dark time. I didn’t see you, but I heard you. I called to you and you called back.
But you sounded different. No more mommy. No more daddy. No more Allan. No more pets. Only you crying. It was so dark, I couldn’t see. Hot. A wet hot all around me. I didn’t know the people near me. Then your voice was gone. I was so heavy in the wet dark; I couldn’t move my arms or eat. My tears were all gone. Then there was a light bright and burning.”
Leah turns to me, watching me with big eyes. “I don’t have any more pictures, Mommy. Just cold. I was cold and alone for a long time.”
I have a lump in my throat and feel the darkness. Her aloneness blankets with thick terror. I have an image of myself walking for decades without knowing who I am or caring.
“The coldness was better than the time of darkness,” Leah speaks again in her far away voice. “In the coldness, I just waited. I waited for you, Mommy. I waited so long I thought you got gone and I’d never see you again. And then, I was inside you and with you.”
She lifts her head and looks into my eyes. She asks, “Where were you? What happened to you?” in such a plaintive voice it shatters my heart.
“I don’t know. Maybe I knew once, but it’s gone from me now.”
I stroke her temple. Her hair is a black cloud under my fingers. I wish she could be back inside me where she’s safe, where we are together and she will not even have to think about being alone, or the separation our very bodies and skins bestow on each of us. She is already her own person. I guess she has been for a long time.
She waits, but I have no answer. She’s beyond me.
“I’m glad you remember, ”I tell her, “even the sad times.”
“Maybe you will someday, Mommy.” She nods her head encouraging me. “It was nice being best friends with you, before the dog men came.” She touches my cheek, her finger tracing the curve. The warmth of her hand feels like the sun.
She is off at nursery school when it happens. I don’t know what opens the door. Maybe it’s the play of a leaf that reminds me of things long ago and clouded over. The black walnut filters the sun so the light falls in speckles. Everything is still. The wind blows and the light shivers like broken mirrors to the ground.
The pictures come.
I see Leah as she was then, her black skin touched with blue and shining purple under the leaves. Her eyes have not changed, they’re the same darkness that they are now. Around her neck gleams a brass tube and I see the miniature picture of me in her pupils. My black skin glows in the orange sun. The dolls that we love are twigs in our slender fingers wrapped in straw, dusted with sand. I see the clay and twig huts that are our homes.
My father is the same father I had who is long dead. I smile to see him, and my eyes fill with hot tears from missing him.
The wind stops. The light speckles on the bushes again and the picture is gone.
The next day is hot. I’m damp by the time I finish breakfast. The raisins are clotted in the granola; the curly ridges of walnuts stick to the side of Leah’s bowl before the water dislodges them and flushes them down the disposal. Again I sit on the sofa and want to read to Leah. She replaces the storybook with one from our past.
“It was like this Mommy. Hot like this. And I could hear the mosquitoes going awww awww aww aww always, and those little bugs got in my eyes. Daddy was wearing a thing like a tall skirt and a long cane and I wanted to go by the river to catch fish and get cool. Our mommies went with us. We held hands. Carried baskets.”
She stops to inhale, her arm raised to point at the wall. “See us holding hands, over there?” Her voice filled with excitement at her proof.
I see. The sun shines through the window and, caught in the beam like a collection of motes, is a wavy picture like you noti
ce sometimes on a hot road. In the shimmering air, I see two girls.
They hold hands and carry baskets on their heads. I watch their backs as they walk from the village of golden houses. It’s Leah and I, lush green surrounds us. My mother is my mother now, but young and graceful.
Leah is on my lap as we watch the picture together. The little girls walk down the path to a river with light rippling on the surface. Hippos laze in the water, their noses make soft bubbles. Fish swim and hump their bodies, leaping out of the water and into our nets. We’re naked and cool in the river. The sun is caught by her necklace which flashes like a star at the base of her throat. Leah catches a fish between her hands. She has waited patiently for it to swim between her hands when between her hands and, when it finally does, she clasps it, brings it out of the water, giggling. It’s her same giggle.
Drops of water are caught in her hair and I see the rainbows in them.
“We have rainbows in our hair, Mommy. See?” Leah asks, her voice sure and hopeful. If I cannot see it now, her manner tells me, she’s lost once again.
“Yes. I see them. And I see the fish and the river and the water in our hair.” Her hand clutches my fingers, hotter even than the rest of her.
“Remember now?”
“Yes,” I say afraid of my own voice. We sit together and watch the two girls caught in a sunbeam as though it is a movie. Leah’s body is warm on mine while we watch the vision. It is as if she has no weight, only warmth.
About this Story
Other Lives won a prize in Minnesota Ink literary Journal more than a decade ago. The idea of creating a picture book originally came from a fan who suggested I turn one of my paintings and its accompanying blog into a children’s book. A perfect way to combine my art and writing, and I thought this tale might be a fortuitous virgin voyage.
The illustrations are collages composed of butcher block and craft papers, gold leaf, pastels, as well as paste papers that I created. I have made books as well as written them for some time. You can check these out at AnnPearlman.net/art-gallery/altered-books-etc
As you see, I’ve had a great fun tearing apart my published books and combining them with my sculpture and art.
I loved illustrating Other Lives. While I write, I “see” images and now I have shared some of the pictures that were in my mind as the words flowed. Of course, I plan to do this again. This is a start of an series of storybooks that contain the thrill of illustrations as we loved in books when we were kids, but with narratives slated for adults.
Acknowledgements
First I must acknowledge Barbara Brown, book artist, friend, and teacher extraordinaire. I love books, both the written word, but also the tactile sense of the paper, glue, cover and anticipation of the journey bound between the covers. When I started painting watercolors, I wanted a way to bind them into a book. And that’s how I met Barbara. She taught me the art of French leather binding, wrapped leather journals, stab bindings, and box books, tunnel books and wonderful ways to play with art, and words. Encouraging as always, she helped turn the paper collages for this book into digital so my visual ideas were easily accessible.
Emlyn Chand and Pavarti Tyler and the entire group at Novel Publicity shepherded me every step of the way in spite of it being very busy times in their own lives. They were a complete resource in this first voyage into self-publishing guiding me from formatting to promotion to print on demand options. Thank you.
About the Author
Ann Pearlman is the author of seven traditionally published books. Keep the Home Fires Burning: How to Have an Affair With Your Spouse, garnered the attention of the Oprah Winfrey Show and many other TV talk shows. Infidelity was nominated for a Pulitzer and a National Book Review and was made into a Lifetime Movie. Inside the Crips, with a foreword by Ice T, took readers into the life of a Crip gang member and the California Prison system. The Christmas Cookie Club was translated into six languages and became a national and international bestseller. The Christmas Cookie Cookbook: All the Rules and Delicious Recipes to
Start Your Own Holiday Cookie Club was written with her friend, Marybeth Bayer, who is a terrific baker as well as the hostess of the cookie exchange Ann attends.
The paperback of A Gift for My Sister, which follows two sisters who first appeared in The Christmas Cookie Club will be on the stands in February 2013.
Learn more about Ann, her life, and her many books at AnnPearlman.net/books
Connect with Ann on Facebook at facebook.com/AnnPearlman or on Twitter by following @AnnPearlman.
More from Ann Pearlman
A GIFT FOR MY SISTER
Learn more and read an excerpt at AnnPearlman.net/blog/book/a-gift-for-my-sister
A Gift for My Sister is Ann’s most recent novel, available in late February, 2013. It’s a fast paced, riveting page turner that poses the larger questions of where did I come from, how did I become me, and how do we form a family. Set in a backdrop as vast as a continent, and diverse as plush beach condos, inner city Detroit, and exhilarating rap concerts, it’s a tale told by two fatherless daughters struggling with family curses, eccentric luck, and the complicated multiculturalism that is hallmark of our era.
Praise for A Gift for My Sister:
“A fast-paced novel...(with) no easy answers but lots of soul searching and heart racing action.” - Booklist
“I feel like I could wax poetic about A Gift for My Sister all day long and simply not do it any justice. This is a book I don’t even want to tell you about; I just want you to read it...It addresses so many issues... but most importantly: how you live your life. It was heartbreaking and it was happy...this is the contemporary read I recommend everyone read at least once in their lives.” - Jennifer, The Bawdy Book Blog
“An eloquent and moving novel.”- Minding Spot
“A moving, deeply resonant novel...By rendering shared experiences via their opposing personalities and viewpoints, Pearlman skillfully evokes empathy on both sides,”-Kathleen Gerard for Shelf Awareness
INFIDELITY
Learn more, check out the reviews, and read an excerpt at AnnPearlman.net/blog/book/infidelity
Ann Pearlman’s Infidelity is the story of the devastating effects of marital betrayal on three generations of American women: her grandmother, her mother and herself. In seamless prose and a mesmerizing voice, the author paints rich scenes moving characters across the span of the twentieth century. As a psychotherapist, Ann wrote a book on the joys of sexual monogamy and embarked on an author’s tour appearing on TV talk shows (Oprah, Donahue, Sally Jessie Raphael) as an expert on marriage. As the century drew to a close, Ann discovered her husband’s affair with a married Japanese woman. Again, Ann was forced to revisit infidelity, an echo from previous generations.
Infidelity was nominated for a Pultizer Prize and the National Book Award. A movie based on the book appeared on Lifetime.
INSIDE THE CRIPS
Learn more, check out the reviews, and read an excerpt at AnnPearlman.net/blog/book/inside-the-crips
The situation with the birth and launch of Inside the Crips is so complicated and dramatic it deserves a book on its own. My agent put Colton Simpson and me together to write his story. So why did I, a white, middle aged, middle class, woman living in middle America write a book on the life of a black gang member? I thought we would be able to bring light and curtail the continued inner city black on black violence, racism, the problems of our prison and justice system. I looked forward to the challenge of writing as a black man. Colton hoped to use the book as a launching pad to help stop gangs. Unfortunately, Colton was charged with a crime that occurred a quarter of century after the misdeeds detailed in our book. His trial was set for a week after publication and, worst of all, the book was admitted as evidence. I tried to stop what seemed to me a breach of our constitutional rights and loss of freedom. But energies were being consumed by the Patriot Act. The trial was delayed until shortly after the publication of the paperback. I was subpoenaed and t
estified for a day and a half. Colton was sentenced, unbelievably, to 126 years to life in prison. Colton’s case remains on appeal.
THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE CLUB
Learn more, check out the reviews, and read an excerpt at
AnnPearlman.net/blog/book/the-christmas-cookie-club
Every year at Christmastime, Marnie and her closest girlfriends mark their calendars for a cookie exchange. Everyone brings homemade cookies and a bottle of wine to share, but this year, it’s their stories that are especially important—the passion and hopefulness of new romance, the betrayal and disillusionment some relationships bring, the joys and fears of motherhood, the stress of financial troubles. On this evening, at least, the sisterly love they have for one another rises above it all. Celebrating courage and joy in spite of hard times and honoring the importance of woman’s friendships as well as the embracing bonds of community, the delightful novel speaks to us all.
In addition to laughter and tears, the book is sprinkled with delicious cookie recipes. The Christmas Cookie Club has been translated into German, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Chinese and Croatian becoming both an international and national bestseller.
