The Braun travel clock on the bookshelf ticks out seconds. I close my eyes and put the book to my nose, breathe in the smell of Jack’s fingerprints, his innermost thoughts, his longings. He would never know. But I would. Knowledge can be power, but it can also be poison. I put the book back where I found it, push the bed against the wall, and unmake the covers. I do not want the weight of any more secrets.
1984. October, New York.
In our dark, heavy apartment, something is cooking. If I’m lucky it will be hamburger, frozen corn, and creamed spinach. But I’m not holding my breath. Last night my mother cooked a whole chicken, still wrapped in cellophane. She’s been distracted lately.
“I’m home,” I call out.
I find her in the kitchen stirring chicken livers and onions in a cast-iron pan, an apron over her jean skirt. There’s a bowl of rice and some ketchup already waiting on the table, glazed terra cotta pots hanging on the walls, spices, dried hot peppers in a glass jar that never get used. A stained potholder has fallen to the floor.
“Orchestra went late,” I say, reaching down to pick it up.
“Hand me the oregano, would you?” she says, without looking up.
I open the food cupboard. The panes of glass in the doors have been painted white so we don’t have to see what’s inside: a box of Shredded Wheat, three cans of jellied consommé, cat food, an expired can of Metrecal. I shove aside a tin of Colman’s Mustard and grab the oregano.
“I spoke to Anna earlier,” she says. “She called me from Los Angeles. She sounded well. Though I still cannot understand how communications can be considered a major. It’s like majoring in eating. Or walking. Go wash your hands for supper.”
The apartment is dim. I head down the hallway, flicking on lights. Since Leo left last year, Mum has become obsessed with saving energy. I tell her it uses more energy to turn the lights on and off than to leave them on, but she says that’s an urban legend.
It takes a while for the hot water to come out of the bathroom taps, and when it does, it scalds me. I wipe my hands dry on my jean jacket, dump my backpack in my room. The cat has curled up on my bed. Across the interior courtyard, I can see my mother through the kitchen window, setting the table for the two of us. I watch her place a fork and knife beside each plate, then a wineglass. I’m halfway to the kitchen when I stop and run back to turn off my bedroom light. It’s a small thing, but she cares about it.
It’s odd that I didn’t notice it before, I think. My old journal is lying out open on my desk. I approach it cautiously, as if it might jump up and bite me. I pick it up, afraid of what she has found, heart beating hard in my chest, and riffle through time.
Today is the last day of school!! Becky and I are going to Gimbels tomorrow to get new bathing suits. I’m using my allowance. Mum says she’ll contribute an extra $15.00. Becky told me they’re teaching Transcendental Meditation every Wednesday night at the Town Hall this summer and she wants us to try it.
I flip forward a few pages.
Back Woods tomorrow!!! I can’t wait to see Jonas.
Summer to-do list:
Read 12 books
Practice flute every day
Vegetarian?
Learn to sail
Lose 15 pounds
Then, below the list:
I’m so scared. What if he does it to me again. What if he comes to my room again? I hate him. I want to die . . . Mum can never, ever know. It would ruin her whole life if she knew.
I hate him
I hate him
I hate him
I turn to the next page.
my period is late. what if I’m pregnant? Please God don’t let me be pregnant.
After that there is one more entry, the page tearstained, blue ink blurred.
They found Conrad’s body on the beach today. The lady said his eyes were open. I can’t breathe. Why didn’t I throw him the life preserver? I’m sick.
And then nothing but blank pages.
* * *
—
I turn off my bedroom light and stare out the window. Somewhere, on a higher floor, a neighbor starts vocalizing, running soprano scales up and down the courtyard walls. My mother slams the kitchen window shut, pours herself a glass of wine, puts it to her lips and drinks it down in one shot. Pours herself another glass. She knows. The courtyard hasn’t been swept in a while. The ground is littered with takeout menus, plastic bags. At the edge are two empty tins of cat food—one of the doormen feeds the strays, strictly against building policy. From somewhere above comes a sudden rain of green peas. They hit the concrete like hailstones. Anna and I used to do the same thing: scrape peas, broccoli, cooked carrots, fish sticks—whatever we didn’t want to eat—out the window into the courtyard as soon as Mum turned her back. If she knew, she never said a word.