Grist Mill Road (13 page)

Pauly dragged his eyes over to me. Yo, Hannah Solo, he said. You know, I think it might actually have been my fault. I kinda thought it through and I think, yeah, so don't worry, I'll tell her later some time.

I had no idea what Pauly was talking about, which wasn't unusual.

And then I heard Mom call out my name from the floor above, loud at first and then whiny. Han
-aaah
!
Haaa
-nah!

Now I wanted to run outside, jump on my bike, and pedal as fast as I could away from that place.

Coming, Mom, I called out, moving without any obvious haste.

*   *   *

MY BROTHERS WERE TEN AND
twelve years old when I was born (something of an unplanned blip), and by the time I entered the world, bawling and bright-eyed, my mom had been sitting on the family throne for years. She spent her days enjoying a regal portion of Jensen Royal Cement's profits (she had a wardrobe straight out of
Charlie's Angels
and an eye for antiques), employing and firing a succession of housemaids and gardeners, and doting on her sons.

My mom had successfully constructed for herself the world in which she wished to live—the large house, the hired help, the stoic and protective husband, all of these things earned, to her mind, by her womanly wiles, and now she was free to sit back and enjoy a lifetime of restful days. But unfortunately in her idlesse she became a role model to Bobby and Pauly, my two sweet brothers, who to me seemed as innocent as a pair of toy bears, all goofy smiles and plump bellies, stuffed to the seams every day with the fillings of their choice.

Bobby, the eldest, had been drinking for as long as I could remember. Not that he was an angry or violent drunk, just more like an overgrown kid who had discovered an endless supply of his favorite candy and spent his days constantly on the edge of a sugar coma. Meanwhile Pauly, who was two years younger, was the mellowest dude in the county, popular at school, even more popular at parties, and much in demand among the sort of girls who hated sunlight and loved listening to obscure British bands. But really I think there was, hidden deep down inside, a little of my father in both of my brothers, a faint voice fighting hard to be heard, a longing to strive for something more in their lives.

Unfortunately, the tragedy of Bobby and Pauly was that they had both found the remote control that could turn down life's noise. The remote control was free and it was good and the more often you pressed the button, the better the haze and the dimmer the voice nagging at you to do things you didn't want to do, or rather didn't need to do, which ended up amounting to the very same thing.

My brothers both had immensely sad eyes, which flipped over to kindness whenever they looked at me, even when they teased me, which they loved to do and did so lovingly, and I loved them back very much. However, in truth, I wanted to be nothing like them at all, neither my brothers nor my mother. Not that this impulse to be something different was intended as an act of rebellion—it was just the way I was built, I was my father's little girl all the way through, my father the feminist, who wanted me to be an engineer, an astronaut, or even president of the United States. My father was a hero who toiled without complaint in powdery monochrome, his cement plant an airless moonscape, and even when he wasn't working, he was busy, helping out fixing the church roof, painting a fence with a buddy, or picking up groceries for elderly members of the parish, and I was my father's more-than-willing little helper whenever I was allowed.

So if I reacted badly to my mother sometimes, it wasn't that I simply wanted to defy her. No, what I wanted was the chance to be me (or my father, perhaps). Not my brothers. And not her, I'm afraid.

If I was less than loving toward my mother sometimes, then I'm sorry now. It seems to me that if we'd ever had the chance, we might have become the kind of mother-daughter who share friendly hugs at Thanksgiving and leave each other thoughtful presents under the Christmas tree. However, throughout my childhood my mother took my desire to go in the direction of my own personality as criticism of her character, her sedentary ways, and I suppose there might have been a little of that, but what good had it done my brothers, trying to be like her? So if I mouthed off to her sometimes, then let's not forget that I was a girl on the
verge of that awkward transition to womanhood, and after the shooting, when things were at their worst between us, I was a self-conscious, hormonal teenager with only one eye. What chance did we stand?

*   *   *

HANNAH, WHERE ARE YOU, WHAT'S
taking so long? yelled my mom from upstairs.

Mom was an epic summoner. Throughout the day she liked to bellow my name from some part of the house, most often her bedroom, and I would be expected to come running. Upon my arrival, she would then tell me she was exhausted (she was always exhausted), and I needed to go find something for her—a cup of coffee, her
Good Housekeeping
magazine, a small bowl of fancy mixed nuts.

Coming, Mom, I called out again, wearily this time.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I was greeted by the familiar smell of death, which was ever present in the top story of our home, an old house with a roof always in need of repair (even my industrious dad couldn't keep up), and with numerous chimneys and crooked attics. Somehow squirrels or chipmunks or bats would find their way into our home, wedge themselves into an unfindable space, and then promptly lose the will to live.

(
Han-aaaaah
! Walt, what is wrong with that girl?)

I knew how they felt.

There was always a bag of lavender hanging from a hook at the top of the stairs. I held it to my face and took a deep breath before turning right toward my parents' bedroom, and when I reached the open door, the first thing I saw was my father sitting on the corner of the bed, motioning me to hurry up. Moving into the room, I saw my mom lying on top of the bedcovers, her leg swathed in a thick protective cast and raised up on a stack of several pillows. It made me think right away of
The Princess and the Pea
.

Look, honey, I broke my leg, said Mom, sounding perfectly tranquil. And then she performed her sad-face pout, but I could tell that what she really wanted to do was burst into song—

I broke my leg

I broke my leg

Everyone has to do what I say

Everyone has to answer my call

For six weeks at least

Or maybe eight

With any luck

I broke my leg

Mom patted at a spot beside her on the bed. I went and sat down while my dad put his hands on my shoulders.

Oh, Hannah, it's not your fault, said my mother.

My father squeezed me tenderly while I made a confused face.

It was your tea-party table, she said, you left it out in the den and I tripped and fell. But don't blame yourself, honey.

Now I remembered what Pauly had said about something being his fault, and I knew for a fact that I hadn't left any miniature tables in the den. I might not have been in the full flush of puberty, but I was a long way from make-believe tea parties. Pauly often used that table as a convenient joint-rolling surface, it being just the right height, like one of those trays with legs for eating breakfast in bed.

We're all going to have to help your mom around the house a little more for a while, said my dad.

Which made me think instantly, Not all of us, Dad.
You and I
.

Mom gave me a look suggesting she was hurt on my behalf and then said, You don't blame yourself too much, do you, Hannah?

I responded with a series of hard blinks and then a hard
No!

My mom look horribly aggrieved. But you did leave that table right where I could trip over it, Hannah, she said.

What was I supposed to say? I wasn't about to throw my brother under the bus, and anyway, there wouldn't have been any point, my brothers' vices were something completely ignored in our household, as if my mother had been hypnotized into not seeing the signs right in front of her—Bobby's slurred speech and stum
bles, the smell of weed that leached from Pauly's room when he forgot to blow his smoke out the window.

Sorry, Mom, I said, without much enthusiasm.

My father squeezed my shoulders some more. It's not your fault, Hanny Bee, but let's be a little more careful in future. And for a while, your mom's going to need a lot more help around the house. Can you do that for me?

Yes, Dad, I said, half-turning to look up at him beaming at me like he'd never been prouder, the same look I got from my father a dozen times every day.

Good girl, Hanny Bee. Wanna help me make dinner tonight?

Sure, I said, but I promised Jen that I'd go over to her house. It's only an hour. Can I help when I come back?

At which point my father's smile started turning to a wince as I heard my mom say, Oh, that is absolutely not happening, Hannah.

I turned back to face her, my mother looking breathless with irritation. How could I think to suggest such a thing at a time like this?

And not just today, she continued. While I'm in this cast, I need you to come straight home from school every day. No more going around to Jen Snell's for a while.

No, I cried out, you have to let me go to Jen's today, you have to, it's all arranged.

It's out of the question, Hannah.

Please, Mom,
pleeease,
I pleaded.

Jeesh, said my mom, you and that vapid little girl sit on the school bus together every single day. You have classes together. What more is there to talk about? No, I can't spare you, Hannah, it's settled.

But Cathy can help. (Cathy was our latest maid.)

Cathy finishes at three, she has her own family to worry about.

No, it's not fair, I said, my voice getting louder. It's like I'm being grounded and I didn't even do anything wrong.

Nothing
wrong
? said my mom, her voice rising as she peered
meaningfully down at her leg. This is ridiculous, Hannah, don't act like you're being punished.
Puh-leeze
.

That's exactly what's happening, I shouted, close to tears, I am being punished.

Then my mom shouted back, her voice a bitter rasp at the back of her throat. If helping around the house is such a punishment, then I get punished every single damn day of my life, Hannah.

There was nowhere else for my rage to escape, I had to spit it out and I yelled furiously back at her—I wish you'd broken your stupid damn neck!

There was a shocked pause, a moment of silence as if a clock had just stopped, and then my mom reached out and slapped me hard in the face.

In some sense the slap came as a relief because now I could cry, everything that had been building up could have its release, and my tears burst forth with a furious speed, my body stiffening with the sting of unfairness.

I got up from the bed and ran from the room, my father shouting after me, Hannah, you come back right now and apologize.

No, let her go, I heard my mom call out. Ungrateful
wretch
.

By the time I threw myself, wailing, onto my bed, I was certain that my life was absolutely over, that nothing in the world could be more painful than this and that now, thanks to my mother, I would never get close to Matthew Weaver.

And yet, on all three counts, I was wrong.

*   *   *

MIGHT EVERYTHING HAVE TURNED OUT
differently if my mother hadn't broken her leg that day? My guess is that, had I gone with Jen to Patch's house that afternoon, had I got to know Matthew much earlier in 1982, the four of us would have become friends and surely then, however naive I was, I would have discovered at a much more leisurely pace that the Matthew I had invented in my head was not the Matthew that existed in real life.

Instead of this I would be kept at arm's length from my fantasy for another eight weeks while my mother's leg gradually
healed. Eight more weeks in which I could paint an even more intricate Matthew inside my head, eight weeks of an intense burning at the unfairness of life as my brothers remained free to sink into their evening fogs after their days
hard at work learning the family business,
to use my mom's frequently whipped-out phrase.

Really? However much I loved them, Bobby and Pauly were learning the family business about as much as I was learning the secret ways of the ninja. Only very rarely did either of them spend more than a couple of hours at the cement plant, although Pauly sometimes put in a longer shift if he was having trouble locating a new pot dealer, my dad having a long-held policy of quietly ushering out a steady string of his suppliers.

So instead of getting to know Matthew and Patrick, I had to endure eight weeks in the role of Cinderella, performing household chores each day while pining for my prince, making and carrying drinks for my mom and cooking dinner each night with my dad, a series of Mom's classics, such as French onion soup meat loaf (the
soup
coming in dehydrated form from a packet), tuna noodle casserole (sprinkled with crushed cheddar Goldfish crackers), and my brothers' all-time favorite, chili con wieners.

For the next eight weeks, I talked it through obsessively with Jen every day at school. Had Matthew just made eye contact with me when we passed in the hallway? What did his look mean? Did he run his fingers through his hair a lot when I was around or did he just run his fingers through his hair a lot? Was his decision to wear denim that day some kind of secret sign?

Yes, for eight weeks everything built and built inside me until finally the cast came off my mother's leg and that same day, Jen sauntered over to Matthew and Patrick between lessons, while I hung back in awe of my best friend's astonishing possession of two functioning legs and a fully operational voice box while she fixed up a new liaison at the McConnell household for the following evening. Once the arrangements were made, Matthew waved at me and let out a kindly chuckle when I waved back with all the vigor of a fainting damsel.