The Kids Are All Right

by Diana Welch

  LIZ

  SITTING ON A train, reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, I had barely used my voice in days except to say “Tusen takk,” to shop clerks and waitresses and train conductors. After saving money from babysitting, I decided to set out in mid-October on a month-long tour of Scandinavia by myself. I left Oslo on a train bound west for Bergen, the colorful coastal city. I liked the anonymity and freedom of traveling alone. I continued north to Trondheim, where I spent two days wandering aimlessly around the city before heading south toward Sweden.

  On the train, I watched the Norwegian countryside barrel by—houses with grass roofs, fields dotted with sheep, country roads, the occasional Peugeot, and gray skies forever. When I’d been on the road for over a week, for the first time I felt a pang of sadness, as if the loneliness and loss I had been running from suddenly plopped down next to me in the otherwise empty seat. I realized that I had no idea where I was other than south of Norway’s third-largest city. And if I had no idea, that meant no one could find me if they wanted to. Not Amanda, or Auntie Eve, or even the Ankers. I wondered if anyone was worried, or even thinking about me.

  Just then, the train entered a deep tunnel, and the cabin went dark, transforming the engine’s steady, high-pitch scream into something dull and hollow. We emerged on the other side, and the sun’s muted rays first hit a family of four sitting across the aisle from me before flooding the entire car. I’d noticed them before. The children were tow-headed elves, small and sweet with pointy noses and freckled faces. The parents, ruddy-cheeked and blond, were chattering back and forth as the mom pulled lunch out of her leather rucksack. The dad unwrapped the sandwiches while the mother poked straws into two boxes of juice before handing them to her children. The girl, who looked about eight years old, reminded me of Diana. While living in Oslo, I’d received a handful of letters from her. In wobbly, knock-kneed purple print, she wrote that she was on the soccer team, they had won their first game, and she was learning the clarinet. And she’d always sign the letters “love, Di,” dotting the i with a tiny heart. And then, at the bottom of the page, she’d add another heart, this one pierced with an arrow and big enough to fit her name plus mine inside.

  Seeing the Norwegian girl bouncing in her seat, drinking her juice, I felt a pang of jealousy. I wished I could go back in time to those precious moments when I’d mindlessly eaten the Dannon yogurt Mom handed me at horse shows, or munched on the popcorn Dad bought me at movie theaters. Now, anytime someone offered me a meal, I said “Tusen takk,” a thousand thanks. I was acutely aware that if someone offered to buy me pancakes with blueberry sauce, as the Ankers had done the Sunday before I left for my trip, it was a very specific gesture and completely different from doing the same for their own children. I worked for my food. At least Diana wasn’t working for hers. I imagined Nancy hiring a clown for Diana’s birthday and Ted teaching her how to kick a soccer ball. I imagined sit-down chicken fricassee and beef Stroganoff dinners, served at 6 p.m. when Ted got home from work. I imagined salad forks and plates, and Diana waking up in the morning and coming down to a table already set with bowls and spoons and a variety of breakfast cereals. Her lunch would already be packed for her—a turkey sandwich with the crusts cut off, a piece of fruit, maybe a few Oreos or homemade cookies! And always a box of juice just like the one that little bouncing girl had. And just like that little girl, Diana would think nothing of it, because that was what being in a family meant. And as happy as I was that Diana had a family, it somehow made me feel all the more alone.

  My eyes wandered from the happy Norwegian family across the way and farther down the train car to where a man sat, like me, by himself. He was middle-aged and had a slight double chin and thinning hair. His fat, hairy fingers grabbed hold of the hardback book he was reading. I could see the scaly red patches of skin on his face and neck. And I wondered, would he marry me? Would he want to take care of me?

  DIANA

  MRS. CHAMBERLAIN THREW ME a party for my ninth birthday, and a bunch of girls from my grade came. We played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and wrapped each other up in toilet paper so we looked like mummies. It was Mrs. Chamberlain’s idea and it was really fun. Also, Mrs. Chamberlain made angel food cake with chocolate icing and strawberries, my favorite, and she gave me a magic set.

  After all the kids had gone home, I decided to put on a magic performance for the whole family in the library, without having read the set’s instructions. I was going to wing it! I put a cassette of Cats! The Musical on the stereo and fast-forwarded to “Mr. Mistoffelees” before calling everybody in. Once they settled on the couch, Margaret between her parents and William on his mother’s lap, I felt nervous, shaky, and hot. But I decided to keep on. I took the cards out of the red plastic kit and attempted a trick. There was a top hat, which I wore, and a wand, which I waved in the air, but the magic just wasn’t there. I think I was expecting clapping and laughter. Instead, my theatrics were faced with awkward silence. Finally, Mrs. Chamberlain’s voice, which seemed to be growing more and more irritable the longer I lived in her house, suggested slowly, “Maybe you should practice first.” I felt so stupid. I packed up the wand and the cards and the colored scarves and went up to my room and put it all under my bed. Then I glumly stared out the window until I heard Mrs. Chamberlain’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

  “I have something for you,” she said as she entered my room. She opened the hard blue box that was in her hand. Inside was a familiar-looking necklace, thin gold hearts connected by a delicate gold chain. I reached my hand out to touch it but stopped and looked up at Mrs. Chamberlain first, unsure. She smiled at me, her chin folding into her neck. “Go ahead,” she said. “It was your mother’s.”

  It was so strange to hear her say “your mother’s.” Mrs. Chamberlain never mentioned Mom, never talked about anyone in my family, as though they didn’t exist. I took the box from her hand and stared at the necklace, trying desperately to remember it on Mom’s neck. I couldn’t. “Thank you,” I said. I started to shake, so I sat down, right there on the carpet, at Mrs. Chamberlain’s feet.

  After she left the room, I took the necklace out of the box and put it on, the tiny clasp digging into my finger as I struggled to keep it open long enough to snap it on the other end. Once it was on, I swore never to take it off. This necklace around my neck was proof that there was something before this, that I hadn’t just dreamt my old life. There had been something solid before I was so unsure.

  Ecstatic, I wore the necklace to school the next day. I couldn’t keep it out of my mouth. Throughout class, I sucked on the hearts, felt the chain straining against my chin and the back of my neck. I pulled it out of my mouth and looked at the iridescent sheets of spit that clung to the chain.

  Then, out on the blacktop, playing foursquare, I felt something pop and slither down between my chest and my T-shirt. I stopped dead in my tracks, the ball bouncing away behind me. I frantically pulled at my shirt until I found it, shiny in the waistband of my pants.

  Back in my room after school, I held Mom’s necklace in my hands. I had broken it. I couldn’t even remember it around her neck. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t deserve something so precious.

  When Mrs. Chamberlain came up to ask me why I wasn’t practicing my clarinet, she found me with the necklace in my mouth, crying. She got angry. “I told you to take care of it,” she said, her face twisting with disgust. Then she took the necklace from my hands and walked down the stairs.

  AMANDA

  THAT NOVEMBER, I decided to have Thanksgiving at my apartment. I called the Chamberlains to invite Diana, and surprisingly, Nancy agreed to let her come. I was so excited! I don’t remember why Dan and Karen didn’t come, but all my friends were there—Dennis, Donny, Patrick and Rafa, this guy Mike, and this punk girl Christine.

  When Ted dropped Diana off, she seemed in her element, totally comfortable. She and Rafa had the best time. He had a ball playing with her all night, riding her on his shoulders an
d dancing. Everyone knew how important it was that Diana was there, so that Thanksgiving was totally normal; no one was doing cocaine or anything like that. I made a turkey, stuffing, and an apple pie, and I set the table with Mom and Dad’s wedding china. After dinner, Rafa and I pushed two armchairs together in the living room to make a little bed for Diana, and we tucked her in. It was very cute. I went to bed hoping these visits would continue.

  I had no idea that it would be the last time I saw her for five years.

  DIANA

  I REMEMBER BEING on Rafa’s shoulders and playing with his ponytail. And I loved falling asleep listening to the sound of Amanda’s laugh, hearing the murmurs of conversation, and smelling the familiar, dusty scent of the down-filled armchair from our old living room. When I was little, I hated having to go to bed when a party was going on, so I would curl up in a chair, close my eyes, and fall asleep listening to the voices and the laughter. I didn’t want to miss anything.

  Back at the Chamberlains’, I made the mistake of telling Mrs. Chamberlain about this cool thing I had learned from one of Amanda’s friends: Christine told me she had pierced her ears when she was eleven by filing down her mother’s favorite diamond earrings and then jamming one through each earlobe, numbing the area first with an ice cube and putting a potato behind her ear so she wouldn’t stab herself in the neck. I thought it was awesome, but as soon as I said it, I realized it was a betrayal, as though I had tattled. When I saw the sour look on Mrs. Chamberlain’s face, I wished I could take it back, but it was too late.

  AMANDA

  THEN I GET this letter from Nancy, on her fancy fucking monogrammed stationery. She called Diana a child in need and said that they had sought professional help for her emotional problems. I had already heard from Nancy that Diana wasn’t doing that well in school and that she was losing things. But what did she expect? A totally carefree kid who would just show up and be happy? The letter went on to say that, after consulting a child psychologist, they realized that Diana was a child in need of boundaries and security. I was like, uh, yeah, lady, that’s why we wanted her to live with you and your perfect family in the first place.

  Then the letter got weird. Nancy started talking about how Diana was asking for their permanent commitment of love and a guarantee that they wouldn’t die. Since they couldn’t guarantee the latter, she wrote, they needed time to prepare Diana for our visits, which were only going to happen at their house, supervised. In other words: no more Thanksgivings in Brooklyn. Fine, I thought. I get it. I’m a pothead fuckup. But then she went on to request that we not call the house asking to see Diana. She said that she’d call each of us individually and invite us over when she felt Diana could handle it. She ended the letter by telling me I needed to understand that she wasn’t trying to break up our family.

  This letter confused me at first. Diana had seemed so happy at Thanksgiving, so comfortable. I thought she had fun. The only conclusion I could draw was that the Chamberlains had gotten a retarded child psychologist. I definitely didn’t think that they were going to cut us off from seeing Diana entirely. That just wasn’t even a remote possibility, not in my mind. And, to be honest, the letter really hurt my feelings. I never gave the Chamberlains a hard time about anything. On the contrary, I treated them with total respect. But I also knew I had to go along with it.

  More than anything, I wanted what was best for Diana.

  LIZ

  MY LETTER FROM Nancy was a little bit different. It was waiting for me in a stack of letters when I returned to Oslo in late November after traveling as far as Finland. The only reason I didn’t get to St. Petersburg was that I didn’t have enough money to stay in Helsinki and wait for a Russian visa. Otherwise, I would have kept traveling.

  Nancy’s letter said that Diana was having a hard time transitioning from her old family to her new one, and since the Welch kids were so scattered, we should be respectful of Diana’s need to merge with her new family. That meant limiting our contact and always calling to make an appointment to see her when we were back in Bedford.

  I thought this was odd, especially since Diana always seemed so happy to see me, Amanda, and Dan—we were her siblings after all. But then again, I saw no harm in having to call ahead before visits. I didn’t think it was a big deal.

  DIANA

  SOON, I STARTED to get into trouble. One day, I came home from school and went into the kitchen and did something—I don’t know exactly what—that set Mrs. Chamberlain off. I think I lied about something, or said something mean to Margaret. I can’t remember. All I remember was Mrs. Chamberlain asking me “Who do you think you are?” real loud before ordering me to the sink, and that Margaret was standing in the corner, looking scared, with her fingers in her mouth.

  My face was close to the empty silver sink as Mrs. Chamberlain grabbed the sponge. It had a clear plastic handle filled with bright green soap. She told me to open my mouth. I did. She squinted her eyes and the plastic handle knocked against my teeth. The soap released into my mouth, and I started to gag on the froth. When she was done, she threw the sponge into the sink where it dinged, plastic against metal. I had heard of people getting their mouths washed out with soap, and I think I had even been threatened with it, but this was new. I had never been touched in such an angry way.

  One afternoon, that past summer, I’d stepped on a bee while playing in the yard by the pool. When I’d limped into the kitchen, Mrs. Chamberlain had been so nice to me, wiping some white paste on my swollen red foot and telling me that I was a tough little girl and that bee stings hurt. I thought of this as I wiped my mouth and spit soap into the sink. I turned away from her to go up to my room, where I was told to stay until dinner.

  Dinner was usually something gross, like veal and spaghetti squash. I helped Rhonda make it sometimes, banging the gray meat with a wooden mallet before sprinkling it with lemon pepper. Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain ate when it was dark, after Mr. Chamberlain got home from work, in the dining room, with candles and fancy plates.

  Margaret and William and I usually ate in the breakfast room while it was still light outside. One time, we were lucky and got pizza. Margaret and I were laughing and stretching cheese out of our mouths when I noticed that William was silent in his high chair, his head a tethered balloon weaving back and forth. He was slowly turning blue. His pizza was on the white plastic tray in front of him, cut up in chunks that he had been eating one by one. Without thinking, I reached into William’s mouth and felt around, my thumb and forefinger sinking into his wet throat. I pulled out a chunk of cheese, all gooey and hard at the same time, like worn-out chewing gum. William coughed and began to cry. Margaret had her piece of pizza in both hands, her tiny teeth clenched at the tip of her slice. Mrs. Chamberlain came in when she heard William crying, and she saw the chewed-up chunk in my hand. As she lifted William out of the high chair, I said, “I reached in there and pulled it out,” somewhat mystified and proud.

  Mrs. Chamberlain tucked her chin over one of William’s shoulders, which were shaking with sobs, and closed her eyes as she hushed the scared little boy. Once William’s screams had turned into little hiccups, Mrs. Chamberlain opened her eyes and looked at me and said, “You’re good under pressure.” She smiled her smile that looked more like a frown.

  Another time, Margaret, William, and I were eating a dinner of chicken and rice. We were all three quiet, just eating. Suddenly, a hand smacked down on the tabletop next to my white plate. I froze, mouth open. The chicken on my fork quivered.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to shovel your food?” Mrs. Chamberlain said loudly, her body right behind mine. This had been a recurring issue: Mrs. Chamberlain thought my manners were atrocious, and she often told me so. On my behalf, she instituted Sunday-night manner parties, where she and Mr. Chamberlain graded us on our manners. We would all dress up and eat together in the dining room, the fancy plates lit up by candles. First things first, place your napkin in your lap, but only after Mr. Chamberlain had don
e so. Second, never put your elbows on the table. Third, always have one hand in your lap unless you are using both fork and knife, and so on. I didn’t mind the manner parties; I thought they were fun. I remembered that, when I went out to dinner with my real family when I was little, the waitresses always said what good manners I had. That was when Dad was alive, when those things mattered. I’d had good manners once. I could get them again.

  “Your face is inches away from the plate, Diana,” Mrs. Chamberlain continued, her voice almost desperate. “Sit. Up. Straight,” she said, shoving her hard fingers into my back. Her voice hurt my ear, so I lifted my shoulder up to protect it and rested my fork on the edge of my plate. “Remove it,” she said sternly. I did. As my bite of chicken hung in the air between us, skewered by the pewter tines, Mrs. Chamberlain yanked the plate away, leaving nothing to block my view of the plastic placemat. It had a map of the world on it. I stared at Africa as I heard the door to the back patio creak open and slam shut. I heard Mrs. Chamberlain muttering. I checked to see what Margaret and William were doing. William’s eyes were big as he chewed his precut chunks of chicken. Margaret stared at her plate, both her hands in her lap, her face reddening. Both were silent.

  The patio door creaked and slammed again, and Mrs. Chamberlain was back, her body close again as she placed Thurman’s dog bowl in front of me. There, inside the greasy brown plastic container chewed around the edges, was my uneaten chicken and rice. “If you’re going to eat like a dog, I’ll feed you like one,” she said in my ear, quieter this time but meaner. Then, turning to the other kids, she said cheerfully, “Okay, guys, finish up.”