Magnetism

  They don’t appoint her. When she gets back in the car her mouth is fixed in a straight line, but I can tell she wants to cry. ‘It’s a humiliation. I should have known they’d never elect me,’ she says. ‘People like me don’t win elections.’

  Feeling sorry for your mom is not a good feeling.

  On the second week of school, I have to go to the dentist. Not a kiddy dentist, but the one that Mom goes to. There are no Highlights magazines to read in the waiting room. It’s all boring stuff. Mom thinks I might need braces. She talks about this in the car. She says that Dad will have to understand, that it’s not the end of the world if I do. ‘There’s a lot of crowding in there, and we don’t want crooked to set in, do we?’

  ‘Why doesn’t Dad like braces?’

  ‘It’s not that he doesn’t like braces. Everyone likes braces. There’s no reason to not like braces. That’s not it,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t want braces,’ I say. ‘I want to be cute.’

  ‘Cute? Cute? Who wants to be cute? Women today have all sorts of choices. Cute is for babies and little kids, not for young women.’

  ‘When do you think I’ll get my period?’

  ‘We’ll have a women’s party to celebrate when it arrives, like they do in other cultures. What do you think? Lots of my friends are doing that for their daughters.’

  None of my classmates have mentioned anything like this. But then, my friends’ mothers are not friends with my mine.

  ‘I think that’s a parking spot.’ I add, ‘Please, Mom, please don’t tell the dentist about me and periods. Please don’t tell Dad. Please let this one thing be private. Please.’

  On the drive back, Mom is quiet. I’ve learned that I don’t have to wear braces during the day; he says I’ll get away with just a retainer at night to nudge my teeth into where they should be all the time. Actually it was kind of bad news, but it’s better news than having to have a lot of wire in my mouth all the time. Dr Tromane explained there’ll be something to wear over my head that I have to sleep in and elastic bands to tighten as we go along.

  ‘Are you sure she doesn’t need real braces?’ Mom asked him, more than once, and he said that he thought not, that things were basically sound, just needing a bit of tweaking. Then he looked at her and, just as plain as that, asked had she thought about doing something about her receding teeth? He could give her a price. She said she’d have to think about it.

  Come to think of it, though I don’t think she’s thinking about her teeth now, she might be worried about her teeth. Just in case, I need to take her mind off of it. I see a sign for a carpet store, ‘Have you ever thought about our carpeting, Mom?’

  ‘Carpeting?’

  ‘We could put down rugs instead of the carpets. Maybe rugs. They provide a lot of colour.’

  She laughs, and it’s the kind of fake laugh that tells me that things are not going to go well, now. There is nothing I can say but I think hard for something positive to say when she suddenly says to the windshield, ‘For the record, I love rugs. In my childhood a rug would have been wonderful, and carpets like we’ve got, well, they were just a pipe dream.’

  She turns into the parking lot, which is empty. She parks the car over the line between two places and opens the door. I get out, but she doesn’t. Instead of getting out, she is sitting with her legs out of the car. I come around the front of the car to her side. It’s hot now without the air-conditioning of the car and the shade of the shop fronts is inviting. The sun is beating down on my back. ‘Mom, are you thinking about your teeth? About what the dentist said. Don’t worry about that. Your teeth are fine.’

  ‘No, not really.’ Her face, now that she doesn’t wear make-up, looks like it’s caving in. She does look very sad.

  ‘Well, I’m really happy that I only need a night retainer. I won’t complain. It’ll be fine. Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get us a praline and nuts, please. Double scoop? Pistachio? Fudge brownies? Rocky road? You love rocky road, Mom. Please.’

  I feel desperate and helpless. I hate this. Finally, she gets up and takes my hand. I have to shut the door because she seems to have forgotten she’s responsible for the car. We go inside, into the cool air and the wonderful smell. Rexall’s drugstore is a mixture of perfumes and paper: books, notebooks, greeting cards, and ink.

  We sit and order the ice-creams at the counter at the side of the shop. On hers the top scoop is rocky road – our very favourite – and she has pistachio on the bottom. I have rocky road and fudge brownie; fudge brownie is the top scoop on mine. Then she starts to talk, slowly. ‘You see, honey – ’ she licks the pistachio ice-cream as it begins to dribble down the cone ‘ – the thing is you have to decide what kind of a person you’re going to be. We all do, and it’s important not to get it wrong, even if sometimes you do at first. It sets a trajectory and it can take you in the wrong direction. I’ve wanted your dad to be someone he can’t be and I’ve tried to give you a good life – better than the one I had. But I’m not the right sort of person either.’ She pauses for a deep sigh. ‘I’ve been lonely, I guess. That’s all.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Come on, Mom,’ I say. ‘You’ve got me. It’s okay.’

  On the way out, we stop at the school supplies section. She doesn’t hurry me. I choose four notebooks and a compass and a new pen set. ‘I’m going to work hard,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get straight A’s. You’ll be real proud of me. Just you see.’

  She smiles limply at me, like now she feels sorry for me; like I don’t, or like I can’t, understand anything.

  1970

  Baby Bird

  Mom and I are working in the kitchen, making an angel food cake, and Dad is about to come home from work. I crack the eggs and roll the gloppy white from one half of the shell to the other before dropping the bright yellow yolk into the small bowl, for another time. The egg whites go into the mixing bowl. I whisk them by hand for a minute and she sets up the mixer and it whirrs into action. It vibrates and rocks on the table top and makes a mighty racket.

  She shows me how to fold the flour and sugar into the whites by turning with the spatula gently over and over, then I take charge. She sits down at the table and lights a cigarette. I hear her inhale again, and on the next exhale she says it’s ready: the batter can go into the cake pan.

  Then I put it into the oven, and begin to wash up the utensils. A good cook cooks in a clean kitchen. I tell Mom about how by next week I’ll have earned my cooking badge. We just need to do a one-pot meal and a snack, maybe Friday? I’m doing sour cream mixed with powdered onion soup for my snack, with chips. We could have that as an appetiser. She’d better include some cream of mushroom soup too when she gets the groceries; I’ll need it for the base for my casserole. I explain that, as it happens, I am also working on my sewing badge. I’m already a competent swimmer so the swimming badge won’t be too hard and I want to get that too by the summer.

  ‘Well, chatterbox,’ she says, ‘can’t you earn your sewing badge by sewing on your cooking badge yourself?’

  ‘No way. It’s way more than that. I have to make a whole item of clothing, like a half-slip – that’s pretty easy – or maybe a skirt. You have to use the zipper foot for putting in a zip.’

  ‘You’ll zip through the zip,’ she says and we both laugh.

  Just as I finish putting the mixer away, Dad comes in. He asks what his two girls are doing and I say that we’re making something de-e-e-licious for his dessert.

  ‘Did you wash your hands?’ he asks.

  I ignore the question. This is the first thing you have to do when you’re cooking. Then he tries to kiss Mom but she leans away. She walks past me to stub out her cigarette in the sink. I won’t tell her that Mrs Palmer, our troop leader, says that smoking is a dirty habit.

  Dad says he’s sure I’m right, that it’ll be very tasty, before he leaves us to watch the news. Mom finds the news too sad to watch and doesn’t understand why he has to have it on while we have dinner. He said last week
that he doesn’t know why she’s changed. ‘Pot and kettle. Leopards and spots,’ she said, and I don’t know what either of them was trying to say.

  In bed that night, before I turn my light off, I recite the oath: I will do my best to be honest and fair, friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong, and responsible for what I say and do, and to respect myself and others, respect authority, use resources wisely, make the world a better place, and be a sister to every Girl Scout.

  I don’t bother with making the salute, because I am holding the card, and also no one is watching. I have to check the words twice the first time, and only once the second. Unless I get the whole promise right all the way through I don’t think the badges really count for much. A person is her values. If I don’t even know what they are by heart – and Mrs Palmer says it’s not ‘by heart’ by accident – what kind of junior Girl Scout will I be? I could be a troop leader one day if I work hard at it. I fall asleep wondering what it would be like to be in charge of people. I reckon I could do it.

  In Home Economics on Tuesday afternoon. Miss Manning says a half-slip is the ideal project for those who are inexperienced dressmakers (which of course we all are; we’re only kids). This is because it involves only seams, darts and hems. And, if you want to make it easier, then doing an elastic casing can substitute for darts. It will get me my badge and no one but Miss Manning would ever be interested in what it looks like at the end, unless I have to take it in for Mrs Palmer to examine. I hope not, because sloppy hemming could be my downfall. For some reason I find it difficult to make my stitches even in size; they always look uneven. Miss Manning said that my running stitch gallops at times. I’ll have to watch that.

  Miss Manning calls us to the front one at a time while everyone else looks on. For a full slip you measure waist, hips, nape to waist and bust. Our measurements are written down in four columns on the blackboard against our names. I have exactly no bust. That’s what Miss Manning says, and she also says, ‘You have a very mature face with that extraordinary nose, but a remarkably immature and short-waisted body.’

  Then we spend an hour comparing our actual measurements with the pattern so that we can calculate adjustments. In order to get the sewing badge you are required to demonstrate an ability to adjust a pattern to personalise it, even if you don’t actually have to make it. Miss Manning agrees a half-slip would be a good project for me. It might last me longer if I ever develop a figure.

  ‘Only Dorothy Ellis in our class had a perfect body,’ I tell Mom when I get home.

  ‘What do you mean, “perfect body”?’

  I explain how Dorothy Ellis’s measurements matched the Butterick pattern exactly. That mine will always need a lot of adjustments because of my short-waistedness, and maybe another thing I’ll have to think about is the type of hats I can wear, because of my nose.

  Mom says that I am perfect, that I mustn’t take any of it seriously, but I reply that I’m not worried. This is not a problem to me. Miss Manning was pleased with my ability to adjust the pattern. I’ve always been good at math. What I look like will not hold me back.

  ‘Seems unfair that this Dorothy Ellis with her “perfect” body can get a badge for doing nothing.’

  ‘It’s just the luck of the genetic draw,’ I say, which is what Miss Manning said when she reviewed our figures. ‘She lucked out. Not her fault. You can’t disqualify her. That would be unfair.’

  But when Dad comes home Mom tells him that she’s going to complain to the school board. ‘Do you want your daughter to get a complex from her Home Economics class?’

  ‘Things aren’t perfect. She may well be short but she’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not that I’m short,’ I say. ‘I just have a large nose and a short waist. It’s how I’m made.’ I point to the back of my neck and start to describe how the short waist refers to the measurement from the nape to my natural waistline, but he’s not listening.

  ‘The news is on,’ he says.

  ‘We are your family,’ she says, ‘She needs your support. You’re supposed to be her father.’

  But Dad has already left the room, heading to the TV.

  After school Thursday Vanessa comes over to the house and we walk over to the swimming pool. Today I’m the one who’s got gum. Sometimes it’s her. Sometimes it’s me. One of us always has gum. I pass her a piece, and lick the powdery surface before I pop the other stick into my mouth. It gives way and quickly becomes as soft as a melted marshmallow and sweet as sugar.

  Vanessa is very good at blowing bubbles. One emerges now from her mouth like a pink balloon, eclipsing her face, covering her nose as well as all of her mouth until it pops with a sharp smacking sound. She sucks it back in fast and nothing is left on her face. I can’t blow bubbles like that yet. I make tiny tentative bubbles with my tongue and pop them with a snap. Vanessa says I just need to practise a bit more.

  It’s May, but the weather is already hot. Even with my shoes on, I can feel the heat of the tarmac beneath us, and it makes me think about barefoot walking. Barefoot is for when school is out, when the rules vanish and every day is empty and hot and lazy. Cookouts and cold soda in the back yard.

  I love swimming and this is the pool where I learned how. Dad showed me the jellyfish float first. I had to get used to having my face in the water and holding my breath. Then I learned back-float. Dad held me with one hand underneath my back until I stretched out and relaxed enough to let the water support me and then one day I floated right out of his hands. I couldn’t change position to see his face, but I knew he was happy because he’s a really good swimmer and wanted me to learn how to do it too. That was a long time ago now, but the back-float is a very useful thing to know. It’s something you can do whenever you get tired of actually swimming. It’s good for thinking.

  Inside the swimming pool part of the Athletics Center the air is thick with humidity and even the high-ceilinged entrance has that stingy chlorine smell. We are members and I show my pass. I sign the book, putting a check mark in the box to say that Vanessa is my guest. As we go through to the changing room, I feel the moisture in the air worm its way into the ends of my long curly hair.

  ‘Look at it.’ I clutch a handful and wave it in Vanessa’s direction.

  Her mother is half Japanese and her hair does not frizz. Now, as she looks at mine, she blows a thoughtful bubble. ‘It’s very thick.’

  ‘I’m thinking of cutting it. All off.’

  She allows the bubble to expand to bursting. ‘What if you look like a boy?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  We change into our swimsuits. I have to leave my glasses in the locker with our clothes. When we walk down the passage to the pool I’m blind as a bat. I’m used to it, but don’t like it. I can’t make out that Vanessa actually is Vanessa and I have to feel along the side of the wall. Once there, I can make out some moving fuzzy blobs, splashes of colour in the water. These are the other swimmers.

  I get in fast and swim right to the deep end. The water is cool but not cold. Vanessa follows me. We mustn’t get in the way of people doing laps, but we play Marco Polo. Some other kids join in. I don’t even have to shut my eyes but I do, because otherwise someone might think I’m cheating.

  Afterwards we go to her house and have peaches to eat. My legs and arms ache and I have that bleached-clean feeling from the pool. The fruit is fresh from the icebox and dense with cold and the fuzzy skin sets my teeth on edge. We talk about my hair again which hangs in heavy clumps onto my shoulders and back. ‘When are you going to do it?’ Vanessa asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Just some time soon.’

  She puts down her half-eaten peach. ‘How about now?’ She gets up and begins to look closely at my hair, picking up strands, softly sweeping the dangling bits that lie on my cheeks and tucking them behind my ears.

  ‘I think I don’t want to do it today,’ I say, feebly.

  But Vanessa is already running to fetch the scissors, calling back, ‘Yo
u said you wanted to do it. Lock the door. I forgot to lock the door when we came in. And take off those glasses.’

  Friday morning, I wonder if Mom or Dad will notice I’m wearing one of Vanessa’s mom’s scarves at breakfast.

  Mrs Stroming, our neighbour, was babysitting when I got home because Mom was sick. She said my mom had a bad head and she should be making an appointment to see the doctor soon, she should get someone to take a look at it as they’re terrible, and that my dad had to go out, which is why he called her to come over, and did I want to eat something or watch TV with her or could she go along home now? I said she should go and I had two bowls of Cap’n Crunch and went up to my room to go to bed.

  Mrs Stroming might be so old that she doesn’t pay much attention to anything, but today Mom and Dad will find out what’s happened to my hair. What Vanessa did to it is terrible, maybe worse since I slept on it. I look so ugly I don’t ever want to go out of the house again.

  I go as far as the kitchen door, just poking my face in. I listen to Mom telling Dad neighbourhood news, how there are plans for a big Fourth of July picnic in the park in a couple of months and that she’s going to be responsible for organising games and put his name down now to do some of the cookout. She gets like this – all talky – after she’s had one of her headaches. It’s like she’s got a new battery in her or something, but it doesn’t last. Later she’ll be crying and then tomorrow, maybe, she’ll be normal. She’s speaking while setting the percolator on the stove and he’s concentrating on putting his tie on. I notice this because Dad hasn’t worn a tie since we went to church at Christmas.