Authors: SUNSHINE O'DONNELL
Open Me (25 page)
It dawns on her that this moment has already occurred. She doesn’t believe it is possible to relive any part of one’s life but she remembers this, her right hand barely touching the doorknob, her left hand squeezed around the money he had given her, she had just closed the door, she was shaking. What had he said?
If you don’t let me hire her I will turn you in
. He said,
They’ll take her away and send you to jail
. Neither of these had made her flinch. Who did he think he was, this decrepit old letch? Didn’t he know who he was talking to? If he was willing to spend so much money, Celeste had thought, if he had the balls to threaten her here, in her own house, he would be easy to manipulate. She thought she could play on his sense of power, she could milk this fucker dry. And then he said,
This is your last chance. You will never see your daughter again
.
Why didn’t she open the door?
Celeste without her daughter
.
She remembers the day of Mem’s naming, before any of the Aunts came to celebrate, how she had scattered handfuls of sacred salt from the
Via Salaria
across her patchy new lawn and watched as the rain pulled it down into the soil. Ayin said the rain was a good sign and read, aloud, what her books had to say about things Saturnine, Aquarius:
of water, sour, tart and dead, opium and those things which stupefy, and those which are never sown, and never bear fruit, or only bring forth black fruit, as the Cypress tree used at burials, as the herb pas-flower which they strew in graves before the bodies, and creeping things, solitary, sad and nightly, fearful, melancholy, and those that eat their young
. When Ayin noticed that Celeste was ignoring her, she had closed the book and put out the bowls of potato salad and macaroni
salad and tuna salad and several bags of rolls, sweating and panting the whole time, feeling her sister ungrateful for all the effort.
“Why do you keep your bread on top of the refrigerator instead of inside it?” she clucked as she passed with her arms full of soda bottles, rushing so that she could pick up Sofie, who had begun to cry again. “Don’t you know it could get moldy?”
Mem, born exactly two days and three months later than Sofie, was in the bassinet next to Sofie, and she was not crying. In fact, she had never cried, not even at the moment of birth. She seemed nonplussed by the wet, loud, cold world around her and simply moved her arms through the new clear space as Aunt Ayin rocked Sofie with one arm and lit more candles with the other. The flames of the candles licked at the reflection of water drizzling down the wall opposite the bassinets.
“Get me a clean vial,” said Celeste to Ayin. “A small one.”
Ayin fiddled through drawers, the stretched seams of her dress groaning, punctuating her labored breathing, the fumbling noises and torrents outside.
Dry cleaners shrunk it again
. Celeste looked at the quiet creature in her cradle and her own eyes filled with tears. Ayin made a triumphant little wheezing noise when she found the vial and handed the glass tube to Celeste, who lifted Mem out of the cradle. “Watch her head!” Ayin cried out unnecessarily.
Celeste admired Mem’s toes, lined up like baby sweet peas on a knife. She flicked the bottom of Mem’s foot with her fingernail, but Mem barely stirred.
Celeste flicked harder, then pinched Mem’s ankle, and the baby shifted, just a little, in her blanket. The rain got louder, then quiet, then loud again, as if it couldn’t make up its mind. Celeste, who was not an anxious woman, began to get anxious. She pulled at a piece of flesh on Mem’s upper arm where it folded over the elbow like a freshly-baked roll.
She pinched it and was surprised at how soft it was, how it gave way between her broad fingers like clay. Still Mem did not cry. She seemed, instead, fascinated by the world around her, thrilling with the movement of her tiny arms flailing between dust motes and the shadows of raindrops
cast on the blanket.
Celeste pinched harder.
And harder.
And harder, until finally, Mem’s face became closed and red as an apple, Mem’s whole self closing and then opening with a silent choking first, then a wail, and then sobs, her lungs filling with new air.
Celeste slid the vial along Mem’s cheek, meticulous to catch each hot drop. She handed the vial to Aunt Ayin, who closed it up with a wax stopper and looked a little disappointed; Sofie’s wails had never been that loud.
“Oh, Mem, that’s good, that’s right,” said Celeste, holding Mem to her breast, rocking her back to a safe place, back to quiet, where Mem’s sobs melted into soft hiccups.
Later Celeste would boil these tears with sacred salt, let the crystals climb up the string and scrape them into a locket. It was bad luck to wear your children’s tears, the worst luck of all. Celeste knew this. But she would do it anyway.
Let it be my own bad luck
, she thought,
and not my daughter’s. Let me carry her tears with me wherever I go
.
When she looked at her daughter, the love that came over her was without warning and immense, opening its many arms like flowers, filling up the room and bursting through the glass of the windows, its vines and fruits as warm and thick as blood and older than Celeste would ever be. She was a strong woman but she knew she would never be strong enough for this love that now filled and overfilled her like an ocean unfurling its waves into a thimble. Where did it come from? How would she ever contain it? She knew that this love was strong and deep enough to drown them both.
Celeste wept and was careful to keep her tears away from her daughter’s new skin; it was bad luck to let your tears touch your children. She feared they might leave invisible scars.
“I love you, Mem,” she whispered, and she kissed her daughter and the rain fell harder and she tasted Mem’s salt until she knew it by heart.
Celeste without her daughter
.
She will be nothing without her daughter but this doesn’t frighten her anymore. She would like to be nothing. Mem must never know. She breathes
in but it’s harder now, everything is so heavy, the air in her lungs is cumbersome. The door in front of her is huge and weighs a thousand pounds. All she knows is that she loves her daughter. It is all she knew the day Mem was born, the day of her First Funeral, the day with the old man. It is all she has ever known. She loves her daughter.
She loves her daughter.
She opens the door.
My Literary Advocates
My agent and crusader, Marianne Merola, from Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents, Inc., for years of laser-sharp reading, guidance and loving representation through about a dozen versions of the manuscript, for not giving up, for consistently going above and beyond.
Kate Nitze, my editor at MacAdam/Cage Publishing, for warmly helping to dead-head words and hone the narrative with devotion and a true delight for literature.
My Family
My parents, Mona & Carl Werbock, for making me, for playing music, telling stories, teaching me how to live every aspect of life like an art project, for buying that big, blank book and helping me to fill it with my own stories, for my first typewriter (the green Olivetti manual), for my first computer, for a lifetime of love.
My brother, Sage Werbock, for fearlessly diving into the creative process and understanding the drive to make something out of nothing.
My in-laws, Louise D’Alessandro & Rick Hamilton, for being early readers, for getting us the printer and providing unconditional support, Bob O’Donnell & Donna Gentile-O’Donnell, for helping me develop my shabby storytelling techniques and always being willing to celebrate even the smallest of victories with homemade soup and great wine.
My uncle Alfred Paul & Aunt Sharon Paul, for all of the love and incredible food.
My uncle Jeff Werbock, one of the first readers, for all of the enthusiasm. Cousins Ian and Peter O’Donnell for all of your affection, good humor and style.
My Teachers
Susan Field, my first-grade Language Arts teacher, who pushed me to enter the Young Authors’ Contest and convinced me that I would someday see my name on the spine of a book.
Robin Youngren, my 6th-grade English teacher, who secretly submitted one of my poems to a literary magazine and jumped up and down in the middle of the hall with me when it was accepted for publication. Heather Ody, my 8th-grade English teacher, for decades of confidence. Dr. Richard Wertime, English professor at Arcadia University, for bolstering my confidence and forcing me to apply to the University of East Anglia.
Professor David Bassuk, without whom I would never have graduated. John Scanlon, editor at The Northeast Times, aka Chief, for giving a green rookie the opportunity of a lifetime, teaching me everything I know about journalism, and always cheerleading my creative writing efforts, even when they took me away from the paper. Jim Burtt, high-school Humanities teacher and lifetime friend, for decades of love, brutal honesty, and faith.
My Mental Health Mentor
Marylin Amidon, without whom I have no doubt I would not be here today, for your love, for your very patient guidance, intelligence and wicked sense of humor.
Rick Rappaport, guru extraordinaire, for helping me to move my own narrative point of view from the first to the third person, for keeping me present, for being the change.
My Employers (who made sure I could write and still pay my bills)
Janine Daniels, for getting me my first teaching grant.
Kelly Green at the Institute for the Study of Civic Values, for years of wonderful opportunities.
Elise Schiller at the National School and Community Corps. & EducationWorks.
Ignatius Weekes and Julia C. Weekes at NANA, Inc. & Grow From Your Roots, who kept me working no matter what, for teaching me how to charge what I’m worth.
John Taaffe at Carson Valley School.
My Friends & Chosen Family
Sheri Elfman, Matthew Hollerbush, Marielle Mariano, Alfredo & Rayne Matthews, Holly Pester, Dave & Philippa Stasuik, Kira Strong, Dylan & Ella Walker, for being there to share celebrations and laments.
My students, for providing constant inspiration and keeping me present. Julia C. Weekes, my best friend and sister, my most valuable reader, this book could not, would not, have become what it is without you.
My husband, Casey O’Donnell, for all of the chocolate croissants, for living with me through this whole process, for never telling me to give up and get a real job, for always supporting this bizarre idea I had of pursuing a lifelong dream of becoming an author and having a family. My son, Kieran O’Donnell, for arriving this year and making the other half of that dream come true.
UGGESTED
D
ISCUSSION
Q
UESTIONS FOR
R
EADING
G
ROUPS
Why do you think the author selected
Open Me
as the title for this book? What does it mean for Mem or any other character to be “opened?” What are they encouraged to expose or taught to keep hidden?The “historical” pieces sandwiched between each chapter are artifacts O’Donnell created to help reveal the history of Wailers from around the world. As faux excerpts of praise and blame, these relics were designed to serve as documentation that does not really exist. Why do you think there is so little real documentation available about Wailers? What is the cost of being feared and revered throughout the ages?
O’Donnell was a poet for many years before writing
Open Me
. In what ways is her training as a poet evident throughout the book? How does this poetic influence shape the narrative? Do you think it helps or hinders the storytelling?Why do you think Mem remains loyal to her mother even after she has been abused and exploited? How does Mem’s mother use shame and guilt as tools to reinforce this generational dynamic? What role do the Lessons play in maintaining this mother-daughter legacy?
Mem has been raised to understand that everything (and everyone) in this world is temporary, that all living creatures die and all material objects will eventually disintegrate or turn into something else. What are the benefits of possessing this kind of understanding at such a young age? What is the cost?
What does Mem fear most? What does Mem’s mother fear most? How are these fears interdependent?
Each chapter in the book begins with a question. Who do you think is asking these questions? Are the questions themselves important? Do the questions ever get answered?
Mem often has a voice in her head that offers a cruel running commentary. How does this voice change as Mem grows older? How did it get there? What purpose does it serve? What do you think Mem will have to do as an adult to control the voice?
Why do you think that, historically, mourning has been the role of women? Why do you think there are so few male characters in the story?
What is the significance of the Wailers having private and public names? How are the ideas of “public” and “private” defined and emphasized for Mem?
Even though she grows up in a typical suburban town, Mem spends most of her life feeling like an outsider. Sometimes this sense of being different from others is a point of pride and sometimes it becomes cause for suffering. How are these beliefs fortified by her mother? By the rest of society?
One of the first things O’Donnell realized when she began writing this book was that she would be a terrible Wailer because she hates crying in public. Do you think you could be a good Wailer? If you so, what would be your specialty?
Copyright © 2007 Sunshine O’Donnell
First published in the United States in 2007 by MacAdam Cage
Anchor Canada edition published 2008
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Anchor Canada and colophon are trademarks
Library and Archives of Canada Cataloguing in Publication has been applied for
eISBN: 978-0-385-67307-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in Canada by Anchor Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website:
www.randomhouse.ca
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