When we got inside, I asked Aunt Amy, “Do you want to watch Mister Ed?”
Aunt Amy smiled and said she did. The theme song came on, and without her even having to ask, I did the horse hoofs on the table and the horse noise with my lips, until she started to laugh.
Yours,
Laurel
Dear Judy Garland,
I always thought of you as a kid. The little girl tap-dancing in the air-conditioned movie theater in the desert. The little girl whose daddy clapped for her and then carried her through the summer night heat to the station wagon. The girl who sang to stop them from fighting. The girl who sang herself to sleep. And then the one who got signed by the movie studio, where they put fake teeth on her and told her she wasn’t pretty. The girl who took the pills they gave her and wore pigtails and did one picture after another. The girl whose voice broke into sobs as she sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” over and over again. You were so tired. But they gave you more pills and told you to keep singing. You kept singing. You were the girl who was about to become a star, just when your daddy died. The little girl whose voice was too big for her body.
But I didn’t know that you grew up and hurt your own kids, too. I watched this movie about you on TV yesterday—a replay of something they made years ago. I know that not everything they say on TV is true. I know. But there you were, with your little girls, girls little like you used to be. You taught them to get up and sing with you. You taught them that applause was the closest thing to love. You taught them that people love you for what they want to see in you, not for what you are. That’s a sad thing to learn. You could have made it different for them.
I guess maybe even though you got older, you never stopped being the little girl who needed someone to take care of her. So you wanted your own little girls to take care of you. And when they couldn’t—how could they have?—you left them finally, for good.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s the same with my mom. Like she started her life so young that she never got to finish growing all the way up. And maybe that’s why she needed us—May especially—so much.
She called today, and Aunt Amy tried to hand me the phone. I’ve been avoiding Mom for almost three weeks now. I said that I’d call back later, but Aunt Amy insisted that I really needed to speak with her. So finally I took it.
It started out normal. “How are you, honey?” she asked.
“I’m actually pretty good, I guess.”
“Are you looking forward to summer?”
“Yeah. It’s weird that the year is almost over.”
Then she launched into it. “Laurel, the last time we talked, you mentioned that there was something—something that you’d told your sister … I’m worried about you.”
I wiped my palms on my dress. “I don’t really want to get into it on the phone, Mom.”
“I’ve been thinking about how you said you feel like I’m not there for you. And I know that you aren’t eager to take a trip out here. But it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. So I think that I’ll come back for a few months this summer. If not for good, then at least for a visit. I can stay with Amy.”
“Okay…” I said. I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “But you know I still have to be at Dad’s every other week. I can’t just ditch him ’cause you’re coming back.”
“Yes, I know, sweetie.” Then she said, “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You too, Mom.”
I know Mom coming back is what I’ve wanted this whole time, but now that it’s really happening, I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s like I’ve finally gotten used to just being with Aunt Amy and Dad. But mostly, I am scared that she’s only coming back to try to get some story out of me. So that I can tell her the whole answer about what happened to May and confirm her suspicions that it was my fault. Fine, I keep thinking, if she wants to know, I’ll just tell her this time. And then she can disappear forever. I’ll feel like I am starting to get better, but with Mom, suddenly I turn into a little kid again, who got left behind somewhere.
Judy, you took the pills the studio gave you. The pills the doctors gave you. You started so young that you could never stop, and then you were gone. I can’t help but wonder if nobody ever really grows all the way up. I look at you in The Wizard of Oz, on that yellow brick road that you just hope will lead to home, and I know you always wanted to get there.
Yours,
Laurel
Dear Amelia,
This morning at school, something great happened. I saw Hannah standing with Natalie, getting books out of her locker. Hannah zipped up her bag, and then I watched her lean into Natalie and give her a kiss on the lips. Right there, in front of everyone passing, anyone who wanted to look. She grabbed Natalie’s hand and walked with her down the hall, as they weaved through the soccer boys staring, the science nerds pointing, all of them talking and whispering and saying what they would. Natalie and Hannah were beautiful, both of them, like their own constellation.
You once said that you thought people are too timid about flying their own Atlantics, and I think it’s true that all of our lives are full of oceans. For Hannah, the Atlantic was standing up to her brother. And I think that now that she’s on the other side of it, she’s realizing how brave she can be.
For me, maybe the Atlantic has been learning to talk about stuff, even a little at a time. But I think the thing that takes me the most courage is realizing that as many oceans as I might cross, the stupid simple truth will always be on the other side. May was here and then she was gone. I loved her with all of my soul, and she died. And no guilt or anger or longing changes that. There’s a new sadness now, as I open the fist I’ve been clenching shut and realize that there’s nothing there. I don’t know how to keep her anymore. Sometimes I’ll be doing something normal, like standing in the alley with my friends, or getting ready for bed, and suddenly the pain of missing her will come up and nearly knock me over.
But sometimes, there are things that help. Tonight was a good night. Sky came over and watched baseball with me and Dad. He liked it so much when I had Hannah over, I figured I’d try to do that kind of thing more. And he and Sky seemed to be getting along. I was more or less tuning out while they were talking about players and trades and stuff. It’s still early in the season, but I know that the Cubs are doing pretty well so far. In this particular game, however, they were losing by a lot, and Dad just shut it off all of a sudden and said, “What do you say we go out back and have a little ball game of our own?” It’s funny how he comes alive with other people around. Maybe he feels like it’s a sign that I’m letting him into my life, or that I’m not ashamed of our family. Or maybe it’s just been forever since the house hasn’t felt totally quiet.