by Amy Huntley
Seems like we should just get to be happy. I tell Mom this.
"Ttmmm . . . " she says. "I can see why you might think
that'd be nice. Maybe the word pay isn't quite the right
description of it. I don't think it's an exchange like that. It's
more that. .. well, the two emotions are connected. They
are one thing. And in coming together they make each other
what they are. Without pain, you wouldn't understand happiness.
And without happiness, you wouldn't feel the pain."
""Let's just get rid of all happiness and feel nothing if it
means we don't have to feel pain," I say.
"You might find that boring," Mom says as she starts
opening up all the pockets of my backpack. Then she's
laughing again and pulling out my new planner. "Here it
is."
"You found it!" I shriek, reaching for it in excitement.
"Just think . . . if you hadn't experienced all those bad
feelings about losing this, you wouldn't get to feel this way
right now," Mom says, handing me—
i.a
should want to feel that way."
Right. It's official. My mother is crazy.
"1 he way you're feeling right now makes you appreciate
all the good times you have. All the pain of change
and loss . . . those make you realize how much you love the
things you have. Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about that,
you know."
Oh, please. Emily Dickinson? My mother and her poets
drive me crazy. None of my friends have parents who run
around pulling out poetry for every occasion. Shakespeare,
Dickinson, Frost, E l i o t . . . sometimes I just want to scream
when Mom starts reading me poetry. I mean, it was okay
when it was about the cat, the fiddle, and a cow jumping
over the moon, but now it's all this deep stuff she reads to
me, and she expects me to connect it to my life.
I scramble to think of something I can say to distract
her, but I'm not fast enough. Mom's already saying, "I'll just
go find that book. . . . " She's on her way out the door.
Why did I ever ask her for help in the first place?
I start looking for my planner again, but all too soon
Mom is back. "Here it is," she says excitedly. "'For each
ecstatic instant / We must an anguish pay / In keen and
quivering ratio / To the ecstasy."'
She looks at me as if I'm supposed to get this. Which I
don't.
"See what I mean?" Mom asks.
•
Yeah. I get Mom's point now. I think I have ever since I
started going back to the Daddy-Daughter Dance. The loss
of that ticket brought pain but also joy.
The Universe wants me to understand that I do have
some choices. One of the most important ones is whether
I accept painful moments and move beyond them. Forcing
pain out of life isn't always the right choice.
How come my mother (not to mention Emily Dickinson)
got to figure all this out while she was still alive?
I had to be dead to get it.
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witch s nails
age If
"I wish I could gee these stupid nails to stay on my fingers,"
I tell Sandra and her grandmother.
"Yeah, well, at least you don't have to wear this idiotic
wig. It feels like I've got a boat balancing up there."
"And my hat's supposed to be any better?"
We both break out in laughter. We might be complaining,
but we can't wait to get out there and trick-or-treat.
Years of Halloween have already provided us with standard
procedures regarding candy trades. We both keep all the
M&M's we get because we love them. But SweeTarts always
lf.C
around. She makes marvelous cookies, and she compliments
Sandra and me at least twenty times a day. She just
sort of makes me happy to be alive. She's always expected
me to call her Grandma Belle, too, so I do.
"I'd look better if these nails would stay on my fingers,"
I complain.
Grandma Belle picks one of the long green nails off
mv linger and examines the cheap adhesive on its back.
"Hfrmpf" she grunts. "I'M just find us some glue, Madison,
tor those nails of yours. That'll take care of them. They'll
stay on when Grandma Belle's finished with them." She
temporarily sticks the nail back on my finger.
We hear her rummaging around in the kitchen. I try to
straighten Sandra's clown wig. It's sliding off to the left, 3nd
strands of her curlv hair are starting to escape. "How about
a bobby pin?" I ask. "Mavbe that'll keep it on."
I'd volunteer to go up and get one out of the bathroom
for her, but Airs. Simpson is upstairs lying down because—
of course—she's just not feeling well. Another mystery
ailment that the doctor can't identify. When I went up there
to get something ten minutes ago, she emerged from the
bedroom and said, "My, what a lot of noise you can manage
to make, Madison." Then she looked me up and down and
said with a Southern drawl, "What a great witch you are."
And let me tell you, that wasn't intended as a Halloween
compliment. Somewhere along the line, Mrs. Simpson
16.'
go to Sandra. I hate them so much, I never even ask for a
trade. Now, Tootsie Rolls, though, I like enough to demand
an exchange for. I get her Snickers bars for them since Sandra
hates peanuts.
We're in the living room showing our costumes to Sandra's
grandmother before we take off for the evening. She
hugs us both. "Y'all su re look terrific," she drawls.
Sandra's grandmother is fantastic. I'm glad, too. With
the mother Sandra has, she deserves to have—and does
have—the best grandmother in the world. I just don't get
it, though. How could this wonderful woman have been
the parent of Sandra's mother? It's like trying to get your
min-d around the possibility that Mary Poppina could be the
mother of Cruella De Vil.
Grandma Belle, as Sandra calls her (that's short for
Bellerue, her grandmother's last name), is a true Southern
lady. The most important thing in her life is her family, and
she'll do anything to make them happy. [ get to see quite a
bit of her because Mrs. Simpson is always sick (or at least
she thinks she is), so Grandma Belle will fly up to Michigan
and take care of Sandra and Mrs. Simpson whenever her
daughter complains that she has the littlest headache. Mr.
Simpson is polite to her, although Sandra thinks her dad
doesn't actually like having Grandma Belle around quite so
much.
I can't see how anyone could not want Grandma Belle
161
learned the art ofusinga compliment to deliver underhanded
insults. She's the queen of it. And she manages to use a tone
of voice that really lets you know that you're being insulted
behind words that otherwise seem harmless, even friendly.
I can still hear Grandma Belle out in the kitchen rummaging
around for the glue. Then the intercom on the
phone
buzzes. Grandma Belle drops everything and runs
upstairs. Her daughter needs her.
"Forget the nails," Sandra tells me. "Let's just go."
She hands me a pillowcase for what I hope is going to be
the mother lode of candy. That's when I notice that another
one of my green nails has fallen off. "Oh, skunk!" I say.
"Another one's gone."
Sandra and I get down on the floor to look for the nail,
but we can't find it. After a few minutes, I say, "Oh, just
forget it. Let's go."
I rip off all the other witch's nails, too, and leave them
sitting on the coffee table in the living room.
Maybe Mrs. Simpson will want them for the tinishing
touches on the costume she should be wearing ever)' day.
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Hanw.tCa!|it>A.^SJM!??iA __
pass to class
ooe 17
My arm gets tangled up in the phone cord as I'm trying to
hang it up.
Stupid t h i n g . ..
Stupid school policy, too. Why can't we just use our
cell phones? It would be so much easier for me to call my
mother on that than to have to get a pass from a teacher to
use the office phone....
Stupid . . . oh, all right. . . stupid me. I wouldn't even
be making a phone call if I had remembered to bring my
homework to school. I've just had to listen to Mom drone
l;i
on and on about how she was not happy to discover she'd
have lo leave work, drive home to pick up my homework,
and bring it back to me . . . all by sixth hour. I'm certain to
have to listen to more of the same over dinner tonight, too.
I grunt out my frustration as I pull my arm out of the
super-long, must-be-ab!e-to-go-anywhere-in-the-office
phone cord. Vice Principal Patterson's office door opens,
and the air current whisks my pass right off the counter and
onto the floor of the forbidden territory lying beyond the
Great Counter Divide.
Must have pass to go back to class.
Must not cross the border into the sovereign territory of
principals and secretaries.
Now what?
Wait.. .why are the cops coming out of Mr. Patterson's
office? This does not look good.
Tammy follows the police, and Mr. Patterson brings up
the rear.
This looks even worse. Somehow, Tammy's gotten
caught. The question is, at what? She's done enough illegal
stuff that it's anyone's guess. But mine is the whole drug
thing.
My great deductive skills are confirmed when she catches
my eye as she walks through the gate separating the Land of
Office Staff and the Land of Students. Her eyes flash at me
with something so . . . feral . . . I'm terrified. Maybe she's
W
smarter than to threaten my life verbally in front of the
police, but she communicates effectively with her eyes. The
message You're dead stabs me with knifelike force.
I swallow.
I look away.
Tammy follows the policeman out of the office, but even
as the door closes behind them, I can still feel Tammy's eyes
on me through the glass window between the office and the
hall. She thinks I've told someone about what I saw in the
bathroom a few weeks ago.
"Can I help you?" one of the secretaries asks me.
Probably not. Unless you're good in hand-to-hand combat.
Or have a weapon I can use to protect myself. "Ummm,"
I say, "my pass? It fell onto the floor on that side. I need it
to get back to class."
She glances around at the floor. "I don't see it here. Are
you sure it fell on this side?"
"Yeah."
She looks around for a few more seconds and then gives
up and writes me a new one.
All in all, I'm glad it's taken a little extra time to clear up
the pass issue. It's pretty certain that the police have gotten
Tammy out of the building by now.
I'd rather not see her at the moment.
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!&HBgSMiMftfefebgg&
baby doll
age I
"Mommy, play now."
"It's time to go to sleep now, Madison. Lie down. I'll
cover you up. See the Pooh Bear blanket? He's waiting to
cover you up."
"I standing up!"
"I know you're standing up. Lie down now and go to
sleep."
"Play. I play now."
"No, it's sleepy time now. We'll plav tomorrow. There's
a good girl. Lie down now. See how nice it is when Pooh
•i}
Bear covers you up? I love you, sweetie. I'll see you in the
morning."
"Need Baby Sarah Give me Baby."
"She's right there at the foot of the bed."
"Give Baby Sarah. I want Baby Sarah. Please give Baby
me."
"Here you go. Here's Baby Sarah."
"Baby Sarah bad. She not eat all dinner."
"She didn't? You didn't eat all your dinner, either, did
you? Maybe Baby will be good tonight, though, and go
right to sleep."
"Baby no sleep. Baby play. Maddy playing, too."
"Night-night, Maddy."
"All gone Mommv. Baby, Mommy all gone. We play
'gether now. I standing up. Baby. When we ate dinner. Baby
Sarah cry and said I don't want eat dinner. I don't like carrots.
Then Daddy ma:l at Maddy and Baby Sarah. Daddy
said eat. Daddy said ;at carrots 'cause they're good and
make grow. Like milk. Milk make my grow, too, Baby. But
my and Baby said no. And Mommy said. Mommy said when
no cake. Baby make Maddy bad girl.
"I laying down Baby. We sleep. But Baby Sarah isn't
sleeping now. Bad Baby. Bad Baby didn't no carrots. Bad
Babv, time to go sleep, but play instead. Time out, Baby
Sarah. Time out. Sit :here, Baby. Still playing. Baby. But
time out. Bad Baby go under bed. Time out.
"Now, Baby, be good baby. Sleep. Baby sleep . . . 'cause
my a good g i r l . . ."
• • •
". . . Today I go :o babysitter house . . . Mommy take
me. But I not cry 'cause. 'Cause—I not cry 'cause Mommy
come back . . ."
"How's my sweetie this morning? Time to get up and
go. We'll have a good breakfast this morning. How about
some pancakes?"
"Pancakes yes. My love pancakes. Baby. Where Baby
Sarah? Baby breakfast too."
"7 don't knot? where your baby is, Maddy. She was in bed
with yon last night. I dm't see her. Lei's look under the covers...
No. She's not there. Behind your pillow? Not there, either. We
can find her later, swettie. We have to get ready to leave now or
Mommy will be late fo>' work. Come on. . . . Oh, you're getting
heavy to carry."
"Want Baby now . . . want Baby now. Baby can't
find—"
Not so freaky as going all the way back to being a baby.
But still.
Definitely freakyenough. I mean, it's like I know what's
happening but also like I don't know what's happening.
Worth a second try . . .
••:'»
. .. And a third try .. .
• • •
. . . I'm not sure what fascinates me about being two
again. The fee! of that wet diaper in the morning? So not
that. It's almost enough to keep me from going back there.
But not quite.
It must be the way it feels to have Mom pick me up and
carry me away from my bed. Or the feel of falling, falling,
falling asleep.
Traveling back to two is way less disconcerting than
going back to infancy. I can at least name things while I'm
two. I think that's why the baby experience disturbed me so
much. No language there.
This realization helps me understand how being dead
now is different than, well, the last time I wasn't alive.
There had to be such a time, right? I mean, there was a
time before I was born, and my body wasn't alive then, but
I must have had a soul, an energy, a something in existence. I
couldn't have come from, well, nowhere, could 1? According
to physics, energy is never created or destroyed. I'm a form
of energy, so I must have existed in some form before life.
Only, back then I don't think I knew that I existed.
Because I didn't have language. I guess the reward for having
gone through a whole lifetime is gaining language.
Here in //1 still get to use words. Silently only, maybe. But
I still have them.
I guess I'm an old soul now.
Or maybe just not a new one.
Makes me realize how powerful words are. They have
some kind of miraculous ability to make me who I am.
Or was.
No, am. Because I still have them.
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H^tper Collins Puf>iis_ht.n
photo in the wind
age 17
The scrapbook and folder of pictures is slipping around in
my arms. Too much stuff. I'm bound to drop it and lose half
my pictures in this ridiculous wind. I shouEd have accepted
Gabe's help carrying this stuff into the house.
Too late now. He's pulling out of the driveway.
What's that on the front porch? It's right in my way.
I'm not sure I can manage to step over it while juggling all
this—
"Ohmygod!" I scream, dropping everything, I don't
care what happens co it.
trickled from her mouth at the end. That same mouth with
the scratchy sandpaper tongue she used so many times to
lick ice cream off my lingers.
"Who'd do this?" I choke out around sobs, pulling away
from Gabe.
"No one," Gabe says. "At least not on purpose. It was an
