The Paper Palace(64)

Peter pushes up his shirt sleeve and makes a muscle. “See that?” he says to the kids. “See that? No one messes with this man.” He ruffles Maddy’s hair.

“Stop it, Daddy.”

“Grump.” He grabs her in a bear hug and kisses the top of her head, growling.

“I’m serious.” She laughs.

Jack gets up from the table and walks over to the kitchen counter, takes a plum from the fruit bowl.

“Hand me that cup of tea, would you, honey?” Peter says to Jack. “Your senile grandmother forgot to bring it to me.”

“I heard that,” my mother calls out from the pantry.

I make my way down the path, feeling the familiar crunch of pine needles under my bare feet. I can smell the promise of rain in the air. There’s a wet towel dumped on the steps of the kids’ cabin. I pick it up and hang it on a tree branch. They’ve left the light on inside their room. I go in and turn it off before the screen door becomes covered in a sea of moths and rattling june bugs. The cabin is a mess. When Anna and I lived in here, it was the same: a chaos of bikini bottoms and lip gloss and clogs and arguments. I collect their dirty clothes off the floor and throw them in the laundry basket, stuff a sweater back in Maddy’s drawer, hang a damp bathing suit on a hook. I know it’s Bad Mothering 101—they should clean their room themselves—but right now it’s soothing to concentrate on something simple and straightforward. My mother’s cure for all woes: “If you’re feeling depressed, organize your underwear drawer.”

Jack’s scratchy oatmeal-gray blanket has fallen halfway to the floor; his pillows are crumpled between the mattress and the wall. I pull his bed out. Something drops with a thud. With one blind hand, I grope around the spiderwebby floor, pull out a black notebook. His journal. My cryptic son, who barely acknowledges me these days, who sidesteps, shuts down. And I’m holding all the answers in my hand.

The Braun travel clock on the bookshelf ticks out seconds. I close my eyes and put the book to my nose, breathe in the smell of Jack’s fingerprints, his innermost thoughts, his longings. He would never know. But I would. Knowledge can be power, but it can also be poison. I put the book back where I found it, push the bed against the wall, and unmake the covers. I do not want the weight of any more secrets.





1984. October, New York.


In our dark, heavy apartment, something is cooking. If I’m lucky it will be hamburger, frozen corn, and creamed spinach. But I’m not holding my breath. Last night my mother cooked a whole chicken, still wrapped in cellophane. She’s been distracted lately.

“I’m home,” I call out.

I find her in the kitchen stirring chicken livers and onions in a cast-iron pan, an apron over her jean skirt. There’s a bowl of rice and some ketchup already waiting on the table, glazed terra cotta pots hanging on the walls, spices, dried hot peppers in a glass jar that never get used. A stained potholder has fallen to the floor.

“Orchestra went late,” I say, reaching down to pick it up.

“Hand me the oregano, would you?” she says, without looking up.

I open the food cupboard. The panes of glass in the doors have been painted white so we don’t have to see what’s inside: a box of Shredded Wheat, three cans of jellied consommé, cat food, an expired can of Metrecal. I shove aside a tin of Colman’s Mustard and grab the oregano.

“I spoke to Anna earlier,” she says. “She called me from Los Angeles. She sounded well. Though I still cannot understand how communications can be considered a major. It’s like majoring in eating. Or walking. Go wash your hands for supper.”

The apartment is dim. I head down the hallway, flicking on lights. Since Leo left last year, Mum has become obsessed with saving energy. I tell her it uses more energy to turn the lights on and off than to leave them on, but she says that’s an urban legend.

It takes a while for the hot water to come out of the bathroom taps, and when it does, it scalds me. I wipe my hands dry on my jean jacket, dump my backpack in my room. The cat has curled up on my bed. Across the interior courtyard, I can see my mother through the kitchen window, setting the table for the two of us. I watch her place a fork and knife beside each plate, then a wineglass. I’m halfway to the kitchen when I stop and run back to turn off my bedroom light. It’s a small thing, but she cares about it.

It’s odd that I didn’t notice it before, I think. My old journal is lying out open on my desk. I approach it cautiously, as if it might jump up and bite me. I pick it up, afraid of what she has found, heart beating hard in my chest, and riffle through time.

    Today is the last day of school!! Becky and I are going to Gimbels tomorrow to get new bathing suits. I’m using my allowance. Mum says she’ll contribute an extra $15.00. Becky told me they’re teaching Transcendental Meditation every Wednesday night at the Town Hall this summer and she wants us to try it.



I flip forward a few pages.

    Back Woods tomorrow!!! I can’t wait to see Jonas.





Summer to-do list:


Read 12 books

Practice flute every day

Vegetarian?

Learn to sail

Lose 15 pounds



Then, below the list:

    I’m so scared. What if he does it to me again. What if he comes to my room again? I hate him. I want to die . . . Mum can never, ever know. It would ruin her whole life if she knew.