That Nice Girl with the Dogs
Now, in the basement rhythms of the washing machine, I relive a sudden memory of when I was thirteen and forgot my music at a violin recital. I remember standing on the lit stage, looping through the same three notes, over and over, hot-faced, my fingers becoming slippery with sweat until my music teacher jumped up from the front row and led the audience of parents and students in a thin applause. I managed a short bow and trotted off-stage straight to the darkened practice room, where I backed into the corner farthest from the door and wrapped my arms around my violin. Only then did I let the tears come and sobbed, like a quiet, clenched coughing.
My mother had followed me and stood just outside the door, looking worried, but she didn’t approach me. She didn’t try to comfort me. I wiped my face hard with the back of my hand and put the violin in its case.
With a thunk from the water pipes, the washer shudders, shakes me into the present, and clicks into the next cycle. Realizing I’ve been gone more than the allotted five minutes, I look up at the ceiling in the direction of her room, listening, and hear several loud bumps, sounds a collapsing body might make.
“Mom,” I call. Jabbed by fear, I bolt up the steep basement stairs. “Mom!” There’s no answer. Frantic, I’m upstairs, breathing hard and sprinting down the hall. “Mama,” I yell, grabbing the door frame and pulling myself, panting, into her room.
She hadn’t answered me because she’s got her blouse, all buttoned, half pulled over her head and she’s tugging on it, muttering. A few books, knocked off the dresser in her struggle, litter the floor. She says, her voice muffled in the material, “I’m stuck.”
I take two steps into the room and roughly unfasten a few buttons, annoyed in my relief.
“Mom, you’ve got to unbutton your blouse to get it on.” I yank it off her head and push it into her hands.
“I know, but I can’t do those buttons.” She gives me the blouse. “Here, honey. You do it.”
