One Pink Line

by Dina Silver

  Patch is five years younger than me and has always been a peanut. A tiny, skinny little guy who hadn’t a care in the world, least of all bumping his head on anything. I remember when he was four years old our pediatrician said he was in the 25th percentile for height, and the 25th percentile for weight. That same day, she said I was in the 200th percentile for height, and the 150th percentile for weight. We looked forward to doctor’s appointments back then, because it was a tradition that we’d go for Dairy Queen after each visit, regardless of whether it was an annual check up, or vaccination. I remember that particular appointment because I was just beginning to understand what the percentages meant, and it was the last appointment I looked forward to. The nurse asked my mom if I’d gotten my period yet, when she was finishing her routine check.

  “Oh no, Grace hasn’t even turned ten years old,” Mom said.

  The nurse re-examined my charts. “Yes, of course, she’s just so tall!” she wailed. “I’m always thinking she’s so much older.”

  I gave her an evil look. “Maybe you should check Patch for pubic hair,” I suggested.

  My mother’s jaw dropped, and only Patch got ice cream that day.

  Whenever my mother was annoyed with something I’d done, she would ask my dad to have a word with me about my behavior. Oftentimes, he would just saunter into my room and say, “Mom wants me to have a word with you about your behavior.” And we would both smile and roll our eyes. I wasn’t a bad kid, and he knew it. Once he’d leave the room, I’d go looking for my mom and tell her that I loved her. She would hug me, and we’d move on. She never liked for there to be animosity between us.

  There were times when she and I would go shopping and spend hours at the mall. She’d pack sandwiches for both of us, and we would take turns sitting on the floor of various dressing rooms while the other tried on outfits. We had a very straightforward thumbs-up, thumbs-down rating system for things. No grey area, she’d say to me, either I thought she looked fabulous in the clothes, or they should be burned. Unfortunately we could never share anything because I was so much bigger than her.

  I received a Christmas gift from my Nana Lynne the same year I turned ten years old. As usual, it came via UPS in an enormous pink box. Patch looked at me and the elegantly wrapped package with envy because there was nothing from Nana Lynne for him. Inside were two shiny, new American Girl dolls surrounded by loads of miniature contemporary fashions and matching accessories. A vacation on the Swiss Alps? They’d be prepared. Horseback riding in Telluride? No sweat. Yachting in Bermuda? These gals had ascots in four colors. The problem was that I’d grown tired of American Girl dolls the year before. But as I unloaded the contents of the box, underneath the patriotic beauties and their travel gear was another, smaller box wrapped in red glittered paper. I fished it out and read the card.

  With love from your Aunts, it read.

  I tore open the paper and inside was a brand new iPod. Apple’s newest musical phenom, which had only just been introduced to the public, and there it was, like the Hope Diamond in my hands. My friend Amy’s older brother had one, but that was the only one I’d ever seen. I cradled it like it was an American Girl doll and I was five years old.

  “Mom!” I shouted from the kitchen.

  “In here, Grace,” she yelled from the family room.

  “You have to come here!”

  “On my way,” she said, and I could hear her place the remote onto the glass coffee table.

  I was holding the iPod high in the air as she walked in the kitchen where the pink and red boxes had exploded in a frenzy of sparkles and tissue.

  “What is it?”

  I walked over to her, and placed it in her hand. “It’s an iPod, can I use your computer?”

  She looked at me like I’d just gotten away with something. “This is too much for you, that was very generous of them.”

  “Mom, can I use your computer?”

  “Use your dad’s.”

  “I can’t, it has to be a Mac, and I can download a ton of music onto this tiny thing.”

  My mom handed it back to me. “Okay, sweetie, but please call Nana Lynne and thank her first.”

  Patch walked in to survey the excitement. “Can I listen too?”

  I ran past him, up to my parents’ room, closed the door and spent the next two hours with the instruction booklet and her computer. By the time I emerged, my mom was in the kitchen preparing her broccoli casserole to bring over to Grandma’s. Dad hated green beans.

  She smiled at me when I sat down at our breakfast table, which looked like a restaurant booth, tucked away in an alcove near the back door. She was happy when I was happy. I adjusted my headphones and listened to the ten or so songs I’d downloaded. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears mostly, and watched as my brother ran in and out of the kitchen showing Mom different drawings of frogs that he’d been working on while she was cooking. From where I was sitting, each frog looked like a misshapen green circle, but she reacted like he worked for Pixar, sending him running with glee back to his waterproof markers to work on his next creation.

  “Why doesn’t Nana Lynne send anything for Patch?” I asked, then pulled one of the earphones out of my head and let it dangle on my shoulder.

  She answered, but kept to her casserole. “You know why honey.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “She sends him a card on his birthday sometimes,” she said, reminding me of his consolation prize.

  “Why nothing at Christmas?”

  “I don’t know, she’s not related to Patch, honey,” she said quietly. “Just you.”

  I got a similar answer every time I asked, and each year I hoped for a few more details on the matter…but they never came, and I never pressed the issue. I was only ten years old, and not well-versed enough in the art of interrogation. I popped the earphone back into my head and easily fell back into my musical euphoria.

  It was a year later, when I was in the fifth grade, that I learned my height and my gifts from Nana Lynne weren’t the only things that made me different.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days before my fifth grade class was set to study sex education, a note was sent home to our parents. We were instructed not to open the sealed envelope that it was housed in, but since no other notes from school came home in a sealed envelope, I tossed the envelope and read the note on the walk home.

  Dear Pleasant View fifth grade parents:

  Next week we begin our studies in Human Sexuality. As you may have already heard from your child, we will be doing some of the lessons in a unisex group, but most will be taught in segregated boy or girl clusters. With this sensitive subject, there are typically many topics that can be intimidating and confusing to our children. Because of this, we want you to know that we are here for you if you should need any assistance in answering questions at home, or simply need someone to talk to yourself.

  We have set up a hotline that will be available to you from the hours of 11:30am – 1:00pm. Thank you for your cooperation.

  Best Regards,

  The Pleasant View Staff

  “Are they serious?” I asked myself aloud. The infinitesimal group of kids in my grade who didn’t know what sex was could be narrowed down to Deborah Zernagen, Miles Hurphman and Cletus Marberg. And quite honestly, I could’ve sworn I saw Cletus dry humping his backpack once.

  I tossed the note and continued walking. I remember laughing to myself, thinking how smart I already was, and how hilarious it would be to watch my teachers try and teach us things about sex that we already knew. I mean, I was eleven years old, what more was there to know?

  Later that week, I sat through two jaw-dropping, cringe-worthy days of sexual anatomy and sexual intercourse. In which I counted penis was said seventeen times, testicles eleven, vagina fifteen, uterus ten and ovaries nine.

  But when day three ended, and our lesson on sexual reproduction was complete…I realized I wasn’t laughing or feeling full of myself anymore. No, I was struck w
ith a reality baseball bat, and realized I still had a lot to learn about exactly how I came into this world…and the answers were not at school.

  From what I’d just been told, the only way to create a life was for the sperm to enter the egg on the day of conception. How then was I conceived if my parents married when I was two years old?

  Prior to having my dad in my life, it was just my mom and I in the old apartment. I don’t remember everything that happened to me at that age, but I did have vivid memories of their wedding day. Mom even framed the pink ballerina dress and lavender sash I wore in a boxy Lucite frame that hung in our second floor hallway. She said that I wouldn’t walk down the aisle unless I had a purple ribbon and a ballerina skirt. She also said I refused to drop flower petals, and insisted on carrying her bridal bouquet instead.

  My memories of that day remain unscathed, due partly to the seven photo albums we have, and partly because we moved into a house with my dad the very next day. Boxes were hauled in, Grandma was unpacking dishes and making lemonade, and everyone was congratulating me on getting my dad.

  “Hi, special girl,” he’d shout when I’d enter the room. “Guess what…you can call me daddy now,” he said and threw me in the air, igniting my signature toddler giggles. “You are the most beautiful little princess, you know that?”

  “I know that!” I would yell on the descent.

  He always called me his beautiful little princess.

  Sitting at Pleasant View School, after learning precisely everything I didn’t know about sex, I went numb. My mouth was dry as dirt, my skin was tight and my stomach felt like someone was stepping on it. I left the classroom without permission that day and ran to the nurse’s office.

  Nurse Goode greeted me as soon as I crossed the threshold. “Hello, Grace,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

  I sat on the squeaky vinyl daybed and looked into her eyes. She was a sweet, quiet woman who always had the right answer. She never made anyone feel like they were a burden to her, and whether she knew the students who were hypochondriacs or not, she always treated every ailment with kid gloves.

  “I don’t know who my father is,” the words erupted from the pit in my stomach, and caught both of us off guard. I had every intention of complaining about a sore throat.

  She spun her stool around and faced me before standing up and closing the door. Then she sat back down, smiled caringly, and folded her hands in her lap. “Grace, what’s going on?”

  “My dad didn’t come until I was two,” I was talking fast. “And the sperm needs to travel through the cervix, into the uterus and plant itself into the egg before fertilization can begin. Only then can a fetus be created, and it’s nine to ten months from there,” I took her through everything I’d just learned, as though she didn’t know. “So how could he have come along two years after I was born?”

  I’ll never forget the look on Nurse Goode’s face. I’d stumped the panel, I’d taken that lovely, unassuming woman who could dispense Neosporin faster than the speed of light, and rendered her speechless. She was frozen, instant-read thermometer in hand, but frozen nonetheless. “Maybe we should call your mom?”

  After about twenty minutes, and a brief, softly spoken phone conversation with Nurse Goode, my mom arrived at the school. She was wearing her workout clothes and looked like she needed a shower.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and patted my mom’s back on her way out.

  My hands were shaking, and I knew, simply based on the fact that Nurse Goode answered none of my questions, and instead called my mom to the school, something wasn’t right. I had just literally learned about sperm, ovaries and fertilization, so my mind was incapable of coming up with any answers on my own. My friends and I had never discussed when their fathers had come into their lives, so I had nothing to compare my situation to. I couldn’t help but wonder in that moment whether or not I was alone in my situation…whatever it was.

  “Why do I feel scared?” I asked my mom, but kept my gaze securely fixed on the floor. I saw her wipe her eyes in my peripheral vision.

  She took a seat on the wheeled nurse’s stool. “I’d hoped the school was going to send a note home letting us know when you were scheduled to begin your Sex Ed lessons.”

  I couldn’t look at her, but I was desperate to hear what she had to say.

  My mom rolled closer to me and took my hand in hers before she spoke. It looked like she was holding an empty glove.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sydney

  The night before I was supposed to meet Ethan’s parents for the first time, I was plagued with horrible menstrual cramps. So in addition to the nerves, I had cramping and bloating. The Reynolds we’re having their annual summer block party, and Ethan had invited me as his guest. He seemed to have a close relationship with his parents, and talked fondly of them. Ethan was Catholic, and although we were only in our late teens, my mother had warned me that all Catholic mothers want their sons to marry nice, full-blooded Catholic girls. She also warned me to be on my best behavior, to thank Mrs. Reynolds for the invitation immediately upon arrival, to introduce myself using my full name (not just my first), and to be sure and give her the gift that my mother sent along. Lastly, she reminded me that I was not Catholic.

  “All I’m saying is that my Jewish roommate in college dated a Catholic boy from New York, and their relationship ended soon after she met his mother,” Mom informed me an hour before the Reynolds gala.

  “Thanks for the confidence boost, Mom. But we’re not Jewish.”

  Kendra looked at me from across the kitchen table and shook her head.

  “But we’re also not Catholic,” she added. “In fact, your grandma Eddie was Jewish, and the rest of her family is Protestant. And what with uncle George being an atheist. All I’m saying is that you don’t have that edge going in.”

  “Let the girl enjoy the block party for God sake,” Kendra interrupted with food in her mouth.

  Mom put her hands up in defense; she didn’t make a habit of arguing with Kendra. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen it happen. Anyway, don’t forget the wine for Caroline,” she gasped. “Only don’t call her Caroline!” her finger waved in front of me. “And be smart,” she paused to contain herself. “Do you want to borrow my silver earrings?” she asked. “Or, I know, how about my sandals? You know, the ones with the gold anchors on them?”

  “Nope, I’m good,” I said, strumming my fingers on the table.

  “You sure? You always say how much you love them when I have them on.”

  “On you, I do.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked defensively.

  “She’s just fine, Mom,” Kendra said to appease her and to keep me from getting into it with my mother. My sister was always trying to train me on how to handle that woman. Kendra was no idiot; she and everyone else saw how my mother would torment me even over the littlest things. Simple questions could turn into arguments in a New York minute.

  Mom turned away, and left the kitchen. Chapter ten of child rearing book #2 clearly states: choose your battles.

  I made a gesture like I was ringing someone’s neck with my hands, and Kendra just looked at me like I should stop. “Relax and enjoy yourself, Ethan is nuts about you, and who cares what his mother thinks anyway. If she doesn’t like you, she must be crazy.”

  “And we’ve filled our crazy mother quota already,” I added.

  “Why don’t you bake her a potato kugel and say it’s your grandma Eddie’s famous Passover recipe,” Kendra laughed.

  “Oy!” I yelled.

  I drove over to Ethan’s house around six o’clock. The iron gates at the end of his driveway were open, so I pulled my car up to the valet, grabbed my hostess gift off the passenger seat and rang the bell. Although we’d been dating for five weeks, it was the first time I’d met his parents. I rang the bell a second time, and just as I was about to walk around back, his father answered the door and proved to be the source of Ethan’s hei
ght and deep-set eyes.

  “You must be Sydney,” he greeted me with a baritone voice as their golden retriever, Sparky, galloped up beside him.

  I lifted my head and shoulders to meet his gaze. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds, thank you for having me, you have a beautiful home. I’m Sydney Shep…”

  “Ethan is out back with the others,” he said and left me at the door. Sparky sniffed my crotch, then chased after him. Meeting the father was a breeze.

  I stepped inside their foyer and marveled at the intricate moldings and elegant decor. My house did not have a foyer, in fact the bottom of our stairwell was so close to the front door, it felt like you were stepping onto an escalator when you walked in. The Reynolds reception area was covered in black and white square marble floor tiles, and there was a large circular table in the center of the entry that held family photos and a four-foot ceramic vase of hydrangea stems. I walked past it, through the library and out the double glass doors onto their back patio. Ethan was sitting on a cement ledge that surrounded the terrace.

  “Hey, you,” he stood and walked over to me. “Come with me to the kitchen, my mom said to bring you over as soon as you got here.”

  Ethan looked amazing. He was wearing a white linen dress shirt with a pair of faded Levi’s and no shoes. He kissed my cheek as soon as he reached me.

  “I brought her some wine,” I held up the bottle. “Well, my mom sent her some wine actually.”

  In the short time that we’d been dating, we’d had ample conversations about our families, and he knew the challenges I faced living with a woman who wiped her feet on my self-esteem almost daily. I’d told him how she’d always favored Kendra, and how, try as I might, there was nearly nothing I could do to impress my mother. These were things I never shared with anyone, and eighteen-year old boys weren’t necessarily bred to be therapists, but confiding in Ethan always made me feel better.