One Summer

My sister is never going to marry Rick Springfield. Actually I would be amazed if anyone ever marries her. I mean who would want to watch her dancing around to Jesse's Girl and kissing a poster, but lucky me since we moved again I get to share a room with her. I am sure when I was elelven I was never this ridiculous.

My mother says she is adjusting to the move and losing all of her friends back in New Jersey. I think if she hasn't adjusted by now, maybe she needs some serious therapy. I mean after all, this is our fifth move in 7 years. You would think my dad had some exciting job as a fighter pilot or something, but no he is just in computers. He talks crazy about moving like we are on the edge of something great and we have to be where the action is. I have to admit I admire his passion he thinks someday everyone will have a computer in their house. I always say sure Dad. You probably know how crazy old people are. I mean we have one; I got to say I don't get it. I mean a black screen with a blinking white light. My brother sits in front of it typing directions North, South, East, West trying to find some invisible treasure. If you ask me the whole thing is stupid. I mean he could use that time to read a book. Trust me a little more knowledge wouldn't hurt him. Let's face it there is not that much call for professional baseball card collectors and computer game players.

As far as me, the move is no big deal. Like I said it has been 5 moves in the last 7 years. You learn pretty quick not to get attached, to friends. When you leave they are always like "I will write everyday. I am just gonna die if I can't see you." Then you write for like two weeks and soon they figure out going to the mall with a real live best friend is so much cooler than a letter. I don't mind I have my cat, and lots of books. Thirteen year old girls are overated anyway. I'll let you in on a secret. We are mean! If you don't have the right clothes, right friends, aren't smart enough, are too smart; you are out. Who needs that pressure? I decided a while ago it wasn't worth it.

My sister on the other hand gets up at 5 in the morning because that is how long it takes to feather her hair with her new curling iron. Right now she is begging my mother for a pair of Jordache jeans, because Jennifer down the street just got a pair. We have been in New Hampshire for 2 months and Jennifer is my sister's new best friend. She has a really obnoxious dog and a pool. Now who needs a pool in New Hampshire? I am not sure. I mean it is only really hot here for like 2 months. But this is the type of friend my sister would find. She is all about looks and surface stuff, I haven't really bothered to find a best friend. I mean Spade, my cat, always listens, never asks 'if that is what I am going to wear?" My mother always says I should go with Anna, my sister, and find some cute clothes and get my hair done. I prefer t-shirts and jeans and I just put my hair in a pony tail. I can be ready for school in less than 10 minutes.

Actually, I usually time myself getting ready. I am trying to beat 7 minutes that is my best time. One of my hobbies is timing myself. I want to be fast at everything. I don't tell my family because they wouldn't understand. Well I tell my Dad. He always understands. When I told him he patted my head and said, "That's great Grace, you can never underestimate the importance of efficiency." My dad really understands what is important. Sometimes he takes me with him to work. I love how everyone looks up to him and asks him so many questions. He tells me that will be me someday. He is always telling me I can do anything. He said I am tough and smart. He does not want me to waste it.

Dad is the only one who thinks I am pretty. I know he is blind, I mean I can see myself in the mirror. I have frizzy brown hair, freckles, and glasses. But he always says "you have the map of Ireland on your face and eyes like the Lake of Kilarney". I told you old people are crazy. But still there is some comfort in knowing at least one person feels that way about you. Even if it is your Dad.

My Dad is so charming he is an Irish Casanova, that is what my Mom says. He likes to sing "I am the Great Pretender" and dance around the kitchen. As much as he can dance. He has a brace on his leg. When he was a kid he snapped his spinal cord. Nana calls him a medical miracle. They fused it back together and now he can walk with a limp and a brace. Dad says it is the Luck of the Irish. I don't know who is right but he sure seems invincible to me.

Maybe I can see why Jennifer has a pool, July in New Hampshire is kind of unbearable. I go to sleep at night with my shorts and t-shirt on, but by the time it is morning all I have left on is my panties and the sheets that started all crisp and cool are limp and wet like noodles in the soup pot. Those are good nights. Some nights I just can't sleep. I lay in bed and I count my sister's poster of Rick Springfield, Eric Estrada, and the Bee Gees, like she is ever going to meet any of these people. She should have a poster of William Faulkner or Harper Lee, someone you could aspire to be. I mean she has like no chance of being a rock star and if anyone made her a cop, I would definitely move out of the Country.

Sometimes at night I try to feel what it would be like to be my heroine, Helen Keller, it is really dark and you can't see. I plug my ears and try to experience how scary it must have been to not understand anything. To be in your own sensory deprivation chamber. Then I think how brave to find your way out and become a voice for so many people without one. That is someone who deserves to be on a poster. I was doing that when I heard the door slam like it did at least 4 or 5 nights a week. I heard the familiar laughter from my Dad coupled with the sound of stumbling. It was familiar; that was part of his Wild Irish charm, coming home late in various degrees of intoxication. Tonight the heat hung in the suspended air and the familiar had a newness that was so unsteady in the summer stillness. The lack of laughter from my mother shattered the sound of my father's laughter. I sometimes crept out of bed and watched from the railing as dad collapsed into my mother and she laughed as she took his weight into her own. Her face would soften with understanding, the way it did when one of us kids ran up ahead in church and embarrassed her. Then there would be sad chuckle and she would stroke his handsome face and laugh about loving a hard drinking Irish man.

Fear held me like a kidnapper in my bed, I did not want to see her face hardened to my father. He was the Irish Casanova, I wanted to yell and remind her. She knew what she was getting, she got a lot didn't she? I mean maybe he isn't perfect, I wanted to explain, but something in me, even at 13, knew no matter how fast I felt the anger burning at her for not forgiving him that maybe he had run out of apologies, and maybe "I forgive you" runs out like your breath when you are hit too hard. The silence was rushing like blood in my ears when I pretended to be deaf like Helen Keller. I wished I was Helen Keller, I wished so hard that night. Instead I heard every familiar noise the house makes like I would never hear it again. The house was saying good-bye to him in a symphony of creaks, bends, and moans. Never again would his weight upon the floor boards in the bedroom make that noise. His unique space in the house was going to be light as air. Suddenly I felt my pillow case wet with knowledge I could not yet say. I wanted to wake up Anna, crawl in bed with her, mark this moment, but I kept it to myself, alone in the suspened New Hampshire heat. It would be our last secret held in this house, that now seemed new and scary as he got closer and closer to being a ghost I would have to remember.

I don't know how long it was before I saw the light crack through my door. I wanted to hold onto him, tell him I knew it was all my Mom's fault, beg him to stay. Say I understood he was a Wild Irish Rose and you could not tame him. Instead before he walked in I turned to the wall and made my breathing even, matching Anna's. I pretended that I was unconcious to the one who saw beauty in me walking away. He leaned in I felt the stubble on my cheek, but I was resolved. What you won't acknowledge, can't happen. I could not give him permission. He said it many times, I was tough. I was determined to show him just how tough. He could not walk away without telling me I had the map of Ireland. But quickly the light disapeared, the smell of Old Spice faded and he walked away changing from Dad to some man, flawed, imperfect, a ghost.