mother, a daughter, a beach. Sky, water. Gulls,
mynas, also tiny canaries, bougainvillea. Mild
surf. The soothing, repetitive sound of its wash.
Two women walk by, wearing swim suits the mother
thinks resemble flowered underwear.
"Those suits," the daughter says.
"They look like they came from KMart."
"Well, we don't."
"Absolutely not. We have class." The
daughter laughs. Her declaration of solidarity
follows on their decision to buy the same black
bathing suits. The daughter tried on two piece
suits the mother thought ugly: daisy prints, and
those tropical floral numbers favored by grandmothers.
The daughter didn't like them any more than the
mother. I don't want to look like I'm still fifteen
and confused, she said. She tried on the same
suit her mother had decided on.
"You look smashing," the mother said.
In the daughter's mind her choice suddenly became
clear. She and her mother were a pair, handsome
women. Of course this was the suit she wanted.
Its understated elegance described whom she=d
finally become: a woman as worldly, poised and
competent as her mother.
Bathers, coming in, other bathers going out.
A short Japanese father walks past, followed by
his tall son. The daughter is fascinated by this
tandem rite. Her own father, who once commanded
a large part of the foreground now seems to stand
somewhere behind her and her mother. Or not stand
but recline, in a recliner, pipe beside the glass
of bourbon and water, while he follows the progress
of a documentary on the courtship practices of
bower birds.
He'd had to forego this vacation in order to complete
the design for the new Performing Arts Center,
part of the general refurbishing of the state
capitol. The mother and daughter were secretly
pleased. They wouldn't for the world hurt his
feelings, but right now they want to feel completely
free to indulge mother-daughterness. They want
to giggle together in a conspiratorial way, to
be impetuous, even rash with their mutual affections.
Though they know he would never object to this,
that he would in fact take pleasure in their pleasure,
still their solicitous regard for his feelings
would cramp their style.
The Japanese father has the gait of a Sumo wrestler,
out in front of his son, insistent on primacy.
Or perhaps this son truly honors this father who
is beginning to need to lower his cholesterol.
Though the daughter has the impression their tandemness
is less the son=s choice than the result of centuries
of custom, custom in which sons as well as daughters
were obliged to assume the position of females.
Such protocols are crumbling, she believes, and
not a moment too soon. Though the Equal Rights
Amendment failed, though women still make sixty-nine
cents on the dollar--for a while it was seventy-nine
cents, but it's gone back down--we are living
in a new world. And it belongs, here and now,
to egalitarian mothers and affectionate daughters.
Imagine walking behind your mother--preposterous!
"Are you coming in with me?" the daughter
asks.
She takes her mother's hand, as though she wants
to declare their love in public. The daughter's
long hair is straight, an auburn waterfall. The
mother thinks maybe she'll let her hair grow too.
She smiles to think she's taking her daughter
as a model. Also the mother does not tire of noticing
how the daughter tosses her long hair to one side,
how they share the same slenderness, the same
voracious metabolism. They eat a lot and often,
then burn it right up. Hand in hand they walk
toward surf: a double set of Renoir brush strokes,
moving toward water. They go in waist deep, stand
there. The water is pale turquoise. Suddenly the
daughter ducks down.
"Chilly!" she says. She kicks, putting
a little distance between them. "Come on!"
she cries.
The mother follows her. They paddle idly, not
going anywhere, being in motion together.
Things are peachy keen, and I know what you're
thinking. It's not a story unless something goes
dramatically wrong. You want dissention: conflict,
the frisson in each scene upping the ante, leading
to catharsis. Catharsis is what Aristotle prescribed,
and to get you there the characters have to suffer.
Suffering is uppercase. No comic interlude should
interfere with the smooth, ongoing flow of treachery.
O.K., all right, once in a while you'll accept
a happy ending, but only after harrowing distress.
But think about it. These two have a major fracas?
Not likely. They're into affectionate cooperation,
gooey love. The daughter likes holding her mother's
hand while they walk, and the mother eats this
kind of thing up. The mother could dislike the
daughter's boyfriend, but that's so predictable,
and besides, he's a sweetie. He and the mother
go for each other. She's beginning to indulge
the notion that he's the son she didn't have.
One of them might find out belatedly about a much
earlier betrayal by the other. But betrayal is
also predictable, and frankly I don't like it.
Where Hippocrates says friendship is treacherous,
I like to quote him as saying experience is treacherous
and friendship fleeting.
Anyway, these two had their torment much earlier.
After the mother worship of childhood, the daughter,
at twelve, at fourteen, at sixteen, had felt the
mother's presence nearly unendurable.This mom
ran marathons. She climbed Mt. McKinley. She chaired
the Department of Theater and Dance at the University
and had played all the female leads in Tennessee
Williams, and she'd got rave reviews for her Lady
Macbeth, her Kate in Taming of the Shrew. She
sat on the State Arts Council board and helped
organized the annual AIDS Walkathon. There were
many finish lines, and life whizzed by at high
speed, a strong breeze snapping the mother's flags.
Or so the daughter told herself when she felt
uncertain of her own capabilities. Actually the
daughter was well aware that though the mother's
competence seemed formidable, she needed wrapping
and cuddling, little strokes and kisses, compliments
and presents. Though the mother could hold her
own in a marathon, she was easily wounded. Though
she spoke to large crowds without anxiety, she
could be stung by a cruel remark. The daughter
wanted to hurt her, just a little. It felt good,
sometimes, to turn coldly away.
The father had told her that once when he and
the mother quarreled, he'd suggested that she
dramatized things, perhaps overly. His wife looked
at him and laughed.
"What you get is what you get."
To the father this remark seemed titillating.
He'd laughed. But when the daughter listened to
the story, she heard the mother's remark as a
stiletto of ice. Soon after hearing this story,
the daughter hurled a soapy dishrag at the mother
and stomped out of the kitchen. How dare this
mother feel so sure of herself!
Why couldn't she have a mother less spectacular?
Someone who sometimes hesitated would have been
nice. Someone a little less directed, softer,
dreamier, less tightly knit.
"You always know what you want, and you
get it," the daughter said. Her hair was
matted on one side from lying on the bed, sobbing.
"Why can=t you just once in a while not know?"
Gone the mother's elan. She became an ache.
Hot baths didn't help. The word until presented
itself in the air and stayed there, ringing like
a phone no one was answering. She remembers that
time--several years--as a hair shirt she could
not take off. Every moment--and the present was
eternal--she was cast out. She could not find
a way back into the daughter's affections. The
daffodils came forward, tulips spread their arms
wide, but it was as though she stood outside her
own house, locked out. No fluffy bed, no boiling
tea kettle for her! No cozy hugs while she and
the daughter lounged on the couch, watching a
Nora Ephron movie. No shampoo and conditioner
camaraderie, no girly solidarity against pipe
smoke and football. No little presents in the
fringed box the daughter made at the Third Grade
Art Fair, where, beneath the clam shell lid, she
left magic marker love notes, and on Mother's
Day, a chocolate truffle.
The father watched from the sidelines. After
the soapy dishrag episode, he'd slung an arm around
his wife's shoulders. She'd wept. He'd embraced
her, patted her back. She went on weeping. He'd
had the good grace not to say this too shall pass.
Then the daughter called off her onslaught. Suddenly
she seemed very busy. She left home, got educated
and took a job as therapist, counselor and general
trouble shooter at the Safehouse. The women who
fled there were terrified, confused, indecisive
women. Their vacillation was excruciating. They
smoked one cigarette after another while they
tried to make up their minds whether or not to
leave the men who were hitting them and their
children. In the course of ministering to these
women, the daughter came to know herself more
exactly. She was not, she noted, anywhere nearly
so anxious, so tentative, so helpless as these
women. In their presence she possessed a confident
common sense and its attendant generosity, and
a very large capacity to imagine their terror,
their uncertainty, their longing. These qualities
had been in her all along, but she had not fully
experienced their dimensions until called upon
to do so. In this context the nuance of her acts,
which had seemed clouded by the shimmering figure
of the mother, appeared in all their rich, palpable
detail.
One day the mother had dropped in unannounced
at the Safehouse. As she entered the hallway,
she saw a band of co-workers swoop into the daughter's
office, bearing armfuls of blossoms. It wasn't
the daughter's birthday. So this daughter contained
surprises! And there was the time she’d
overheard the daughter speaking to her father
like a counselor. You might try, the mother heard
her say. What were they discussing? It was the
daughter's air of wise competence that caught
the mother's attention. And when she goes to the
daughter's apartment--for now the daughter’s
thrown open that locked door--there are new recipes
simmering, the aroma of unfamiliar spices. All
these things could happen without her, the mother!
Amazing, she thought. My daughter has a life!
Now the daughter feels affectionate. What once
resembled photo realism in the daughter’s
mind has taken on the character of a Mary Cassatt.
When she was a child she would carry a leaf or
a pebble into the house to offer her mother. Now
she has again begun to bring her mother little
gifts--a coupon, a new kind of candy bar. Earrings.
Choosing the same swimsuit is another version
of these presents.
So you see: all that's over. Passe, kaput. Here
they are at the shore, in love with each other.
When you're in love you refuse to let anything
spoil it. And this is not your average chocolate
chip cookie love. This is Baked Alaska love, replete
with nostalgia about little things which mother
and daughter have now decided to render significant
by dwelling on them.
Still, you say, we cannot let these two simply
persist! Persistence is not a story unless it
translates into triumph over overwhelming odds.
Conflict is rising action in the realistic mode,
bristling with interesting abrasions. It requires
AK47s and ammo. You’re used to bloody crashes,
exploding mines, death by drive by shooting, the
bombing of executive towers.
All right: for you, I'm prepared to invoke the
conventions to which we’ve become accustomed.
A young man changing a tire on the interstate
gets offered by a passing motorist. Russian wives
pay cash up front to have alcoholic husbands blown
away. Shell trashes the Ogoni, the Mexicans trash
the box turtles. Refugees trash each other for
a cup of water. And fifteen year old Martha Moxley
is beaten to death with a golf club on the grounds
of her family's exclusive Greenwich, Connecticut
estate.
The mother and daughter sip mineral water beneath
palms. They watch two vans pour out their stream
of primary school children. The kids run, shouting,
toward the pier. They run to the end, scream,
and jump off clutching their knees with their
arms, hitting the water in fetal position. They
fill the surf, bob, run up onto the sand.
These kids are mad exuberance. Unbounded energy.
The mother and daughter are charmed by their running
and shouting. When the daughter wearies of watching
them, she likes to look at her mother's body.
She can't tell if her mother is beautiful, or
if she thinks so because this is her mother. She
studies the little nicks--pimple, lizard skin
elbow, a tiny bruise on one thigh.
"You've still got those great legs,"
the daughter says.
"I'm not too happy about my face though.
It looks kind of saggy."
ASo what if it's not the face of a twenty-five-year-old.
That would be weird."
"Still," the mother says. She laughs.
You can discuss your neurotic anxieties with a
daughter, then giggle together. It's fun to have
foibles to titter about. Two little girls in pony
tails run to the end of the pier, take each other’s
hands and jump off.
“Your grandmother really was good looking,”
the mother says. “And she gave us both these
good bones."
The mothers call the children. One boy insists
on running one last time onto the pier and jumping
off. He scrambles out, runs to catch up. Children,
the mother thinks, are ever seeing some brightness
and rushing toward it--until they remember: mother--where
is she? Then they tear back, flinging themselves
at her with everything in them.
The daughter watches two mynas instruct their
offspring in scavenging. Beyond them the sea offers
its infinite slipperiness. Every evening the same
sunset: clouds, pale gray, and behind this scrim,
a hot pink ball. Night, when it comes, will be
a nest. Birds roosting, palm fronds rustling.
Soon they’ll discuss what they want for
dinner, whether the restaurant will offer Key
Lime Pie.
"Tell me everything you remember about
me when I was little," the daughter says.
"When you started to talk you chattered
away nonstop. You kept up a running commentary
on everything you were doing. Now I'm putting
Jane's shoes on--remember Jane, your first doll?
Now I'm putting Jane to bed. Now I'm sitting down
on the potty." The mother remembers how sweet
the daughter's body had seemed, how she held her
and kissed her and felt soft baby skin against
her own. "And you used sophisticated words
you'd heard people say. One day you watched a
car drive by, and you said what a delicate car."
"I didn't want you to have any children
but me," the daughter says.
"Once you and I were driving somewhere,
and you asked me if your father and I were going
to have another baby. You were eight or nine,
I think. And you declared yourself. You said I
want to be your only child."
"And you heard me," the daughter says.
"Of course," the mother says. "You
were wonderful. How could we have wanted more?"
Extravagant assertions! But really, what delight,
this trading of compliments, this basking in mutual
trust. Springy, like the mesh of a hammock so
wide you can't fall out of it.
You still don't like it. All this joie de vivre
is not how people actually have to live their
lives. There is no free lunch. This mother and
daughter enjoy their glass of sparkling intimacy
while another mother and daughter are made to
watch each other being tortured. But of course:
it happens. Our psyches have been battered: thus
we require battering. Comfort us, you say, with
the usual double on the rocks and an olive of
titillation on a toothpick.
But what’s true at one juncture of the
space/time continuum is not necessarily true at
another. And what’s true, right here, right
now, is that bliss reigns, interrupted by occasional
trips to the toilet (an act not without its own
pleasant slant on sensuality!), or into the cafe
to get a latte. Notwithstanding the fact that
in a London subway a bomb is exploding, that in
the Balkans a dead man lies face down in a burst
sack of flour, what's going on here is bliss,
prettily punctuated by modestly lavish sunsets,
and little children who shred our cynicism. Not
one single kid is sobbing. There isn't even one
skinned knee!
You protest. Don't distract us with a shiny
bauble! We have to live in the real world, and
it's hell out here. Listen, I hear you. Still,
every moment reality is up for grabs. You've constructed
your reality, and your take is indeed savvy--no
one will put one over on you--but it’s a
construction. So is mine, of course. But right
now I prefer mine, replete with sudden bursts
of irrational well being, affection that resembles
an underground spring bursting up through the
crusty earth. I’d like to talk you around,
however briefly, to checking it out. Come on over:
it's free and mellow yellow, here where there's
no matricide, no child abuse. Here where the sand
has been raked into evenness and the water is
shamelessly gorgeous.
The sea, the mother thinks this morning, is
a monster. They’ve scarcely finished breakfast,
and already she's lost an earring in the water.
At first she felt that a precious object--almost
a part of her--had been stolen: her daughter gave
her these earrings! But then it seemed fitting:
of course you must give something up to this animal
roiling! Great grandmother beast--bone washer,
rock breaker, lady of the floating hair gobbling
dead sailors. Primalness must have her sacrifice,
the mother tells herself. Think of it as feeding
the ancestor.
They settle into chairs. Before them, two lovers
on the pier, woman in bikini, man in wet suit.
He has unzipped the wetsuit halfway and thrown
off the top so that it hangs down his hips. The
top of the woman's head comes to the middle of
his breastbone. She is darker than he is, maybe
Mexican. Her long black hair in a braid. They
hug, he lets go. But she reaches up, grabs his
arms, puts them back around her.
"Jack used to do that," the daughter
says, remembering another boyfriend. "He'd
let go too soon, or forget to hug me at all, and
I'd have to take hold of his arms and put them
back around me."
"Some of them have a hard time reading
signs," the mother says. "But your father
wasn't like that."
"Neither is Alan," the daughter says.
Her present boyfriend is a first class cuddler.
He seems to want to cuddle even more than she
does, and without it necessarily leading to sex.
He even has a word for it. Nuggies, he says. Let's
have some nuggies. The daughter lies back in the
blue cocoon of a towel. She reads a book, Investing
for Women, but it's boring. She lets the wind
turn some pages.
"It's nice to piddle around,” the
mother says. AI don't have to make a list of things
to ask you because we only have an hour."
The daughter smiles. The mother remembers those
years when she saw her daughter infrequently.
When the time came for their lunch, she'd been
too anxious to enjoy it. There would be scarcely
enough time to talk about what was crucial, let
alone important past and present trivia. And she
needed more time just to look at her daughter!
She missed drinking in that pertness, her daughter’s
freckled complexion which sunburned easily, and
the furrow in the daughter's brow caused by serious
consideration of things like the Palestinian-Israeli
question.
The lovers come onto the sand. The man strips
off his wet suit. They towel themselves, and the
woman asks him to oil her. He obliges, and when
he finishes, kisses her shoulder. A few divers
toting gear walk onto the pier. A boat appears,
approaches, docks. The divers climb on. The mynas
have flown. The daughter’s book lies open
on her lap. Her eyes are closed.
Parents should die before children, the mother
thinks. But this is often not the case. Children
get cancer or they're killed in war, or run down
by drunk drivers. The mother imagines how easily
her daughter could be hit by a stray bullet from
a gang fracas or from the gun of a crazy person
going ballistic in a mall. Or she could die of
something toxic, aluminum in deodorants, acid
rain or arsenic. Or something not yet detected,
say a substance used in the manufacture of rayon.
She imagines the daughter, ignorant of this, buying
a poison dress that will kill her in five years.
The daughter wakes, takes a drink of water.
AWe could eat something,@ she says.
“Wait just a minute,” the mother
says. She stands up with resolve, strides to the
water, wades out up to her waist. Takes off the
other earring and drops it in. Take this, Old
Gal, and be full. If it isn’t enough, tell
me. Tell me if I should give up my Subaru, start
tithing. As for me, I have only one request: pass,
please, on the live sacrifices. Or if you have
to have them, please, not daughters.
So: I’ve introduced a flutter of dread.
Are you happy now? This is only a fear, of course,
and inevitable. Mothers by definition must anticipate
the worst. Hence all those St. Christopher medals,
those admonitions not to talk to strangers. But
you like the fact that I've invoked uneasiness.
You perk up. Ocean, you think, is the obvious
unpredictable element. Even I can=t command it.
Let's hear it for water's ubiquitous egalitarianism,
which it pulls off by subsuming everyone and everything.
Ocean does not discriminate between diamond ring
and rubber band. Pretty thises, precious thats
are the same in its maw.
Say the daughter were to swim out too far. In
the space of one human breath, the sky can shift
a shade darker and the molecules of air above
the water begin to quiver. The daughter might
dawdle in sensual rebuttal, not thinking of anything
at all, feeling her body laved in this clean brine.
Then--suddenly--the water around her is roiling.
It's raining. A smashing wind blows her bobbing
body further out. Though she paddles with everything
she's got, the shore recedes. The mother marshals
the hotel's and then the town's forces--
But it isn't even the rainy season! There are
not going to be storms here, not now. Of course
the daughter could die in a storm sometime in
the future. But it isn't going to happen today,
or tomorrow, or the day after. There could be
sharks--but there aren't, only a few baby barracudas.
The daughter could have a heart attack while floating
in this liquid nest--but no. This young woman's
heart is a Gold Medal muscle.
What we’ve got is sunny and mild, and
now they’re going to stroll toward the restaurant.
O.K., all right. I know. So just for you, because
I like you, here’s one last pan of conflict
quickies. Man depositing small child in wooden
box, closing the lid, hammering the lid shut.
The orphanage in Menoufiya, torched to destroy
evidence of selling children’s body parts
for transplant. Those cremations in which the
widow gets to climb on top of her man and go along.
And in the distance the Indonesian rainforest
crackling, smoky haze drifting over the sea. Or
I can get you seats even further back, add a scrim
of irony. Think London, the bananas flambe served
by Pakistani waiters to the heads of this year’s
ten most successful corporate polluters.
What happens is tortilla soup, a nap. When they
wake, it’s back to the beach, towels and
books, sunscreen and lemonade. Mothers with babies
arrive. The tots who can walk sport water wings.
The smaller ones are placed on the water in inflated
devices resembling small boats or huge ducks.
Lemon yellow and fuchsia bathing suits are big.
There is floating and digging in the sand with
plastic shovels. A boy brings his sister a shell.
A girl carries a handful of sand to her mother.
And two brave three year olds make a pack, fall
backward together into the water.
The mother remembers how the daughter brought
her caterpillars, leaves, how she laid these treasures
at her mother's feet. How the mother leaned over,
admiring each item, examining the daughter=s precious
head, the little hands. So much longing to be
good, so much giving and receiving. Isn't it something,
how this goes on.
"I used to kiss your feet when you were
a baby," the mother says. "You had the
sweetest toes, and your knees were fat."
The daughter laughs. "And the day you sat
down with pencil and paper, wearing a pair of
underpants on your head--was it fifth grade?--and
when I asked about the underpants, you said this
was your thinking cap which you needed to win
the Daughters of the American Revolution's historical
essay prize."
"Oh Mom," the daughter says. She smiles.
She remembers the years of being angry at her
adolescent clumsiness, afraid of not knowing the
things she'd needed to know. Now if one of her
women is afraid, she locks the Safehouse door
and phones the Police Department for her.
Two boys arrive with their father. There is
much maneuvering of buckets and shovels. The father
assists the excavations, the construction of a
moat around a castle. When it's complete, the
smaller boy wants to be buried. While late afternoon
clouds prepare another sunset, his father and
brother oblige him.
"Let's swim out," the mother says.
"The sun will soon be down."
They stroll into surf, strike out for deep water.
Side by side they crawl, breast stroke, side stroke.
When they're sated, they float on their backs.
The mother looks up at clouds, their shapes shifting,
in drift. She remembers a night when she and two
other women were on their way to a concert. They’d
had to park far from the hall, cross a soccer
field--or was it three soccer fields? The space
they’d had to traverse seemed vast, and
they were wearing long coats and high heels.
"Let's run," the mother had suggested.
Side by side in their flapping coats, their ridiculous
shoes, they ran, laughing and panting, and as
they ran they filled with an energy that resembled
elixir. Though this was probably just the by-product
of exertion, it came as an unexpected charge.
For the most part, she thinks, her life has
been like that exhilarating running across a field.
It's about energy, she thinks. Or more precisely,
the coming and going of energy, the lapping back
and forth of those waves. Now you see it, now
you don’t. Now you see it again. Which energies
will sweep to the fore, take us beyond our smallness?
She does an inventory. She has made large gestures,
yes, but has she become a larger person? What
exactly would a larger person be?
But why this self interrogation? They came here
to bask, to bathe, to sleep. She doesn’t
have to think about improving her character. She
doesn’t even have to take stock. No one=s
counting. She looks up at cirrus drifting above
her. Feels the lave of water.
The daughter giggles. “I feel like some
fisherman’s bobber,” she says.
The sun is low, just a little above the horizon.
“I wonder if you could fall asleep here,
being rocked like this,” the mother says.
“And if you did, would you keep floating?”
“Fish sleep, don=t they?”
The daughter giggles again. “Do we know
that for a fact?”
*
They're pretty far out, aren't they.
You anticipate the swell coming out of nowhere,
suddenly engulfing the daughter--and also the
mother! Both, in their softness, in their hurtable
bodies, into the teeth of this devourer! Maybe
one of them makes it, maybe neither, you think.
It's got to be one of those two.
But I'm telling you, notwithstanding the towering
past, it doesn't always happen that way. The sea
stays calm. Their hearts don't miss a beat. The
air keeps pumping these two with just the right
amount of glorious oxygen. The water at its amniotic
best, rocking their bodies, lapping them with
its lustrum. Believe me, the honor killings and
the drafting of children into military service
will continue without your anxious anticipation.
But now we’re here, and here it's Take Your
Daughter To The Beach Day. It's the Week of Painted
Toenails. Girls' Month. The Year of the Yoni.
Nipples are in, and so are midriffs, navels. Slit
skirts and skirts mid thigh are going strong,
and the stock of mother/daughter liaisons is up.
Joyful teasing and dainty carousing are in.
So it's not your reality? But it could be!
Or think of it this way. I'm serving Pistachio
Cream, and you want Cherry Garcia. But has it
occurred to you that a time will come, sooner
or later, when there won't be either? O.K., you
still want Cherry Garcia. What can I say? Either
way, it’s carpe diem. Carpe diem, friends,
is all we’ve got--until we don’t.
They walk out of the surf, panting, buoyant.
Behind them the sun floats in that rosy zone just
above the horizon. The daughter shakes water from
her hair. How good a thick towel feels, the pleasant
roughness just after you've exerted yourself.
The Japanese father and son stroll past in their
customary tandem. They remind her of a small Japanese
girl she saw once in an airport lounge. The little
girl was maybe three, not more. She'd turned to
her brother, taken his hand and tugged him forward
until they were running. On her face an expression
of utter happiness. She was leading them both
toward some lit, shining adventure. Perhaps this
was simply the adventure of running across a very
large room, but they threw themselves into its
ecstasy. It's the kind of joy the daughter feels
now with her mother. As though they run hand in
hand toward some dazzling.
"We're living happily ever after, you and
I," she says, smiling at her mother, as though
this state of affairs is their doing, a joint
project.
But the mother frowns. "You know how I
detest even coming down with a cold. It's going
to be hell when my body really starts to fail."
The daughter stops combing out her hair. "That’s
not going to happen for years, Mom. Anyway, when
it does, I'll take care of you."
It's a sentence like one of those leaves or
pebbles the daughter, at two, brought her. Now
the mother tries to imagine herself crippled,
in a diaper, catheter and other tubes out the
wazoo, unable to sit up by herself, needing someone
to feed her, unable to hear much, seeing dimly.
"You'll haul my bag of bones out of bed--is
that it, Sweetheart?" She is trying for jauntiness.
"Pop me into my wheelchair?"
"Exactly. I’ll push you to the top
of the hill behind your house, tool you around
in the sunshine. All you’ll have to do is
absorb the Vitamin D." They laugh. I'll this,
I'll that. It's the kind of thing the daughter
used to say when she played doctor and came to
bandage the mother's arm. The daughter’s
hair smells of sea brine. Her skin is smooth as
the inside of an abalone shell. "There you’ll
be,” the daughter says, Ame beside you while
you tell the politicians to go to hell.”
The daughter flexes her elbow and pulls up her
biceps the way the body builders do it. "We
can't be stopped!" the daughter says.
Me, the mother thinks, teetering on the edge,
and she’ll be waving the flag of Forever!
Not that the daughter is in denial. She simply
wants to reassure the mother, to foreground their
love. And to invoke the flex of their power. We
can’t be stopped. The mother herself has
indulged this attitude on numerous occasions.
It’s an illusion, of course, but tres familier.
You feel in these irrational moments not only
that you can handle whatever comes up, but also
that you’re probably immortal. At least
you’re going to feel immortal for most of
the rest of your great swatch of time. So hey,
take more! Don’t stint! There’s an
endless supply!
Suddenly the mother gets it: the other earring
won’t be nearly enough. Had she really imagined
the maw would be sated with a couple of clinking
trinkets? Let me be the first to go: a common
enough wish, invoked in the attempt to protect
one’s child from harm. But that was really
a way of creating the illusion that you have a
say in this matter of mortality. Let me at least
decide the sequence here! Then--a little touch
of Hollywood--you imagine yourself brave, stepping
forward, into the watery mouth.
The sun quivers on the surface of the horizon,
and where it begins to touch the water, sends
out lengths of shimmer. The mother remembers a
day when she was forty, the daughter sixteen.
All afternoon leaves had been falling, lazily,
one by one. Her life felt peachy keen. There were
no holes in it. Though now the daughter was occasionally
difficult, this was due to the confusing, contradictory
cocktail of adolescence spiking her juices. This
stage would pass. The daughter would learn to
fly, and their rapport become a place of birdy
soaring.
The daughter had come home from school then.
She’d walked in the door, walked past her
mother in the dining room and not looked at her,
not said one word. She'd gone to her room and
slammed the door.
A bad day, the mother had thought. Some incident
in the locker door slamming halls of the high
school. She knew she shouldn’t take it personally.
But it had felt like one of those deaths where
they don't find the body. In that moment she understood
she loved her daughter more than she loved her
husband, her parents. Not differently. More. She'd
kept this to herself, because she hadn't wanted
anyone to feel slighted. She hadn't even told
the daughter--what if such love seemed ungenerously
narrow? A person ought to love broadly, profligately.
She didn't want the daughter to think she was
a clinging, niggardly person.
She'd taken her love out then and looked at
it. She loved her daughter with a shameless, greedy,
exclusive love. This one and no other. No one
should love that way. It wasn't balanced. It wasn't
moderate. It had been the reason she hadn't wanted
another child.
No one should love that way, but she had.
Does.
Half the sun has sunk. Afternoon, giving itself
to dusk. The daughter combs her hair, humming,
working on a tangle. Over the daughter’s
shoulder the mother sees the Japanese son walking
down to the water alone. Where's the father? Reading
The Tokyo Times? Taking his blood pressure? She
watches the son dive in. There he goes, kicking
away from the coast, going after the light as
though he thinks he’s got a shot at it.
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