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Losing
- University of Wisconsin Press
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Losing In the rearview mirror I see you carefully sucking your strawberry milkshake through a straw. You appearcontent, havingcharmed the waitress and the retired couple who sat at the booth behind us. But you also know that this trip is serious, and you are quiet and obedientfor the occasion . You are happy, too. I imagine you share my exhilaration at having just escaped. For the time being, the safety ofthe cushioned arm ofyour car seat convinces you, and the simple pink ofyour lips puckered on the sweet straw convinces me that all is well. I can relax my vigilance. I can let you out ofmy sight long enough to look ahead at the easy black highway that will take us home. Home. My home which I want to call yours, too. Sometimes you say home and mean our house in Massachusetts. But only when you have been therefor many days. Usually you mean the apartment where Norma lay bleeding in her best pink nightgown that evening while you were sleeping at yourfriend's house. I want to tell you that home can be a relative term. It can be any place where you are loved; you will be at home in my house. The one home we shared-you, Norma, and I-was so many houses ago. One day you were in the backseat ofthe car, just asyou are now, andI drove past the house where you were conceived. It sits on a sloping side street. In the yard, a tree that blossoms white gave us an awning against summersun. "That's where Mommy and I lived when you started to grow in her belly, " I told you. "Stop, stop, "you cried. I kept driving slowly up the hill. At the stop sign on the corner I asked what was wrong. "I want to touch it, "you said. "Touch what?" "The house. " "You want to touch the house?"I circled the block andparked. This was where we lived when we got Chance, the first bit of living glue that 192 Losing 193 joined us. Then we made you, laughing and daring the fates to give us what we asked for. I unbuckled you from your seat and you marched, pulling me behind, across the street, up the driveway, to the white clapboard house. We lived in the second-floor apartment, but I didn't mention this, for fear you'd demand a ladder. The rooms werefull ofsun and Norma made things cozy with pillows and throw rugs everywhere. She liked to rearrange the few pieces offurniture we had, and I liked things to stay the way they were. "Where was I?" you asked, your hand plastered to the house's cold outer skin. "You were inside Mommy's belly. " "Was I sleeping?" "Yes, I think you were. " Satisfied, you traipsed back to the car. Now I drive you home, leaving Mommy farther and farther behind. I Since I had moved into Whit's house, Amelia had visited only a few times. But already we had a routine. Before each visit I would adapt the backroom into Amelia's bedroom. Then, when she went back to New Hampshire, I would put her toys away in the wooden chest that Whit picked up at a tag sale, and I'd put her clothes in the closet. Her larger dolls and stuffed animals were stowed beneath the single bed which I covered with large cushions and used as a sofa. Then, in her absence, Amelia's room was once again my study, our laundry room, a storage area, and a guest room when we needed it. Downstairs, the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and Amelia's room huddle together, wall to wall, with no hallways between them. A steep set of stairs leads to our bedroom, which is nestled beneath the eaves of the house. The house itselfperches on stilts; the three feet or so between the living room floor and the rocky New England soil is as close as we get to a basement. Whit stores scrap lumber and leftover rolls of insulation in that little space where the dog and cat take turns hiding. "We're here," I announced, as I pulled into the driveway and shifted into park. I opened the backdoor and unbuckled the straps ofAmelia's car seat. I loved watching her eyes open slowly, [3.226.254.255] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 19:02 GMT) 194 Losing first looking half annoyed to have her sleep disturbed, then...