Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She was sure Trisha would welcome the company, and if not, she and Bru could get a cabin. He’d been talking about moving out of his uncle’s house. She’d find an after-school job and help pay their expenses. That way they wouldn’t have to be apart. But she never had to make that decision because three weeks after she’d packed up and left Caitlin, while she was setting up tables for dinner, the manager came over and whispered that someone was here to see her, outside. Her first thought was Bru. But no … it was Caitlin and, a few steps behind her, Lamb and Abby. Vix saw it right away, in the expression on Caitlin’s face, in her eyes. “What?” she asked. Caitlin said, “It’s Nathan.” “No,” Vix said. “Vix … I’m so sorry. He died this morning.” Vix screamed. “No … please God, not Nathan!” Caitlin grabbed her, kept her from keeling over. Then Abby was pushing a glass of something in her face. Vix knocked it out of her hand. “They didn’t even tell me he was sick!” “It happened too fast,” Abby said. “I have to go home.” Vix broke away. “I have to see him.” “We’ve already booked a flight, kiddo.” Lamb had his arm around her shoulders and was holding her tight. Caitlin slid into the back seat of the Volvo next to Vix. “I’m coming with you.” Vix shook her head. “I know how much he meant to you,” Caitlin said, reaching for her hand. “Please, Vix … let me be your friend.” She never had the chance to say goodbye to Nathan, never had the chance to keep her promise. Instead, she slipped the Disney World brochure into his coffin, along with Orlando and a letter telling him she loved him, apologizing for thinking only of herself that summer, for being too much in love. When she asked her family why no one had called to tell her he was sick, Lanie answered, “He wasn’t that sick. It was just a summer cold. Two days later he had pneumonia. We didn’t know he was going to … die.” 23AFTER NATHAN DIED nothing was the same. She felt more like an outsider in her family than she ever had. Tawny sat stony-faced in the living room. “His suffering has ended,” she repeated over and over, like a mantra. “He’s with the Lord now.” Her father lay on Nathan’s bed, shutting her out, leaving her alone with her feelings, alone with her grief. “Come back to the Vineyard with me,” Caitlin said. Vix shook her head. “It’s just for a week, just until Labor Day. It’d be good for you.” As much as Vix wanted to see Bru, have him hold her, comfort her, she felt guilty for making love while Nathan lay dying. And it crossed her mind that this could be her punishment for enjoying sex, for defying her mother. She tried to push those thoughts away.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Just some jerk at the trailer park shooting up everything in sight,” Lanie told her, turning on the ignition. “Nothing personal.” Vix drove to the cemetery with her father. It was the first time she’d visited Nathan’s grave since she’d left for college. She stopped at Kaune’s to buy a poinsettia in a plastic pot and when they got there, she set it in front of the simple marker. Nathan William Leonard 1970–1982 Rest in Peace Then she asked her father for some time alone. He nodded and walked away. She kneeled at the foot of the grave. EdHE CAN SEE HER HANDS moving. She’s talking to Nathan. Does she still feel guilty for those summers away? He hopes not. He should tell her Nathan understood. Nathan always defended her. Took off after Tawny every time she bad mouthed Vix. How that boy loved her! He remembers taking the two of them on a camping trip in the RV. Nathan must have been six or seven. The way they’d laughed together! Vix, pushing him along a trail in his chair, uphill, then down … too fast … too fast … The surprise when he’d fallen. The fear in her eyes. Turned out to be only a bruised elbow. Decided not to tell Tawny. Their secret. Just the three of them. How much does she know about Tawny and him? Did Lanie tell her he’s seeing someone? Not that he wants it this way. He wants Tawny to come home. But she says it’s over. They should both try to make new lives. What does that mean … a new life? A new life with Frankie? Frankie’s okay. Makes him laugh. Long time since a woman made him laugh. What about Vix and the boyfriend? Does she love him? He can’t tell. Hard to believe she’s a junior at Harvard. His daughter. A good kid, Vix. Maybe not a kid anymore. A woman. Yes. She looks like a woman now. He can feel the tears starting. Tawny hates it when he cries. Calls him weak. Maybe he is weak. So what? How come he can’t talk to them … to his daughters? Do they know he loves them? Especially Vix. Does she know? [image file=Image00006.jpg] ON THE WAY HOME her father said, “He’s a nice boy.” At first she thought he was talking about Nathan, until he asked, “Are you happy?” For a minute she considered letting down her guard, telling him how uncertain she was about life and love and everything in between. Then she thought better of it, given what Lanie had told her about Tawny and him. “So that’s where you come from,” Bru said on the morning they left. “Yes, that’s where I come from.” As soon as she said it, she started to cry. She heard Tawny’s voice warning her, Save your tears for something important, Victoria . But this was important, wasn’t it? Besides, she couldn’t stop.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  through the School Volunteer Program, vowed not to waste her introductory membership at Crunch. She met Jocelyn for lunch a couple of times and confessed she’d never experienced the creative high of Five Minutes in Heaven in the real workplace. They talked about doing a documentary together, forming their own production company. “You have to keep chasing your dreams,” Jocelyn said. A postcard from Caitlin, dated December 20, 1989, Zacatecas, Mexico. I’ve seen death and it’s ugly. Ugly and frightening. No mention of James or Donny. Vix called the Seattle number, was told it was disconnected at the customer’s request. She called Abby, trying not to show her concern, and told her she’d misplaced Caitlin’s number. Abby said, “She’s in Mexico, Vix. At a monastery. You can’t call. None of us can.” New Year’s Eve. They decided to stay at home—Maia, Paisley, and Vix— to celebrate together. They ordered in, rented Annie Hall, and Vix laughed, then cried, remembering the night Lamb had taken Caitlin and her to see it. And after, how they’d begged to ride the Flying Horses but instead had found Von in the alley with some girl’s hand wrapped around his Package. By ten, friends began to drop in—Jocelyn, Earl, Debra. Each of them brought a few of their friends. They sent out for more food. Abby and Lamb called from Mexico City to wish Vix a happy New Year. They were on their way to the monastery, hoping to see Caitlin. “Send her my love,” Vix said. “Wish her a happy New Year for me.” Daniel and Gus phoned from Chicago, where Gus was visiting his family. They sounded smashed. So what? It was New Year’s Eve. They’d thought of her, just as she’d thought of them. Old friends. Coming of age together. The end of one decade, the beginning of another.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Bueno, no creo que sea correcto por mi parte tener que prescindir de esto todos los días —bromea con una sonrisa engreída mientras me acerca a él y me rodea con sus brazos. Suelto la lámpara y sonrío, complaciendo su alegría a pesar que me siento mal. Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde que me sentí a gusto el tiempo suficiente para olvidarme del estrés que nos golpeaba en todo momento. No hemos sonreído juntos desde hace tiempo, y está empezando a no ser algo natural. Pero en este momento, tiene ese brillo infantil en sus ojos como si fuera el tornado más adorable y dijera “¿no me amas?”. Planta su frente en la mía, entrelazo mis dedos a través de su cabello rubio y miro sus ojos azul oscuro que siempre dan la impresión de que acaba de recordar que tiene un pastel entero esperando en el refrigerador. Tomando mi mano derecha en la suya, levanta ambas entre nosotros, y estrecho la suya en la mía, sabiendo lo que está haciendo. Nuestros dedos se envuelven alrededor de la mano del otro, nuestros pulgares uno al lado del otro, y sostiene mi mirada, mientras los mismos recuerdos pasan entre nosotros. Para cualquier otra persona, parece un agarre de lucha libre, pero cuando miramos hacia abajo, vemos nuestros pulgares uno al lado del otro y la pequeña cicatriz del tamaño de un guisante que ambos tenemos y compartimos solo con una persona más. Es tonto cuando le contamos a la gente la historia: El arma de balines del hermano pequeño de un amigo, que era demasiado pequeña para nuestras manos, y nos lastimamos la piel cuando tratábamos de usarla, los tres nos reímos cuando nos dimos cuenta que teníamos la misma cicatriz en el dorso de nuestros metacarpianos. Ahora solo somos Cole y yo. Apenas los dos. Dos cicatrices, ya no somos tres. —Quédate conmigo, ¿de acuerdo? —susurra—. Te necesito. Y por un extraño momento, veo vulnerabilidad. También lo necesité una vez, y él estuvo allí. Hemos pasado por muchas cosas, y probablemente sea mi mejor amigo. Por eso soy demasiado indulgente con él. No quiero que sufra. Y es por esa razón que permito que me convenza de esto. Realmente no quiero mudarme con mi papá y mi madrastra, y es solo hasta el final del verano. Una vez que reciba mis préstamos estudiantiles para el otoño y haya ahorrado dinero por trabajar este verano, puedo pagar mi propio apartamento nuevamente. Creo. Cole me abraza y se queda callado. Sabe que todavía estoy enojada con él por haber sido arrestado y por el daño al apartamento, pero sabe que me preocupo. Estoy comenzando a preguntarme si es una de mis fallas. Definitivamente mi debilidad. Se inclina y ahueca mi trasero, se zambulle en mi cuello y me besa. Jadeo cuando se presiona contra mí, y me río, retorciéndome en sus brazos.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I picked it up with trembling fingers, and studied it. It was creased, and stained with make-up, but I knew it at once. On the front was a picture of an oyster-smack; two girls smiled from its deck through a patina of powder and grease, and on the sail someone had inked, ‘To London’. There was more writing on the back - Kitty’s address at the Canterbury Palace, and a message: ‘I can come!!! You must do without your dresser for a few nights, though, while I make all ready ...’ It was signed: ‘Fondly, Your Nan’. It was the card that I had sent her, so long ago, before we had even moved to Brixton; and she had kept it, secretly, as if she treasured it. I held the card between my fingers for a moment; then I returned it to its box and placed the paper sheet above it, as before. Then I laid my head upon the table, and wept, again, until I could weep no more. I opened the tin box at last, and took, without counting it, all the money that lay inside - about twenty pounds, as it would turn out, and only a fraction, of course, of my total earnings of the past twelve months; but I felt so dazed and ill at that moment I could hardly imagine what I would ever need money for, again. I put the cash into an envelope, tucked the envelope into my belt, and turned to go. I hadn’t glanced about me, yet, at all; now, however, I took a last look round. One thing only caught my eye, and made me hesitate: our rail of costumes. They were all here, the suits that I had worn upon the stage at Kitty’s side - the velvet breeches, the shirts, the serge jackets, the fancy waistcoats. I took a step towards them, and ran my hand along the line of sleeves. I would never take them up again ... The thought was too much; I couldn’t leave them. There were a couple of old sailors’ bags nearby - giant great things that we had used once or twice to rehearse with, in the afternoons, when the Britannia stage was quiet and clear. They were filled with rags: very quickly I took one of them and loosened the cord at its neck, and pulled all its stuffing out upon the floor until it was quite empty. Then I stepped to the rail, and began to tear my costumes from it - not all of them, but the ones I could not bear to part with, the blue serge suit, the Oxford bags, the scarlet guardsman’s uniform - and stuffed them into the bag.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  holds their baby, Nate, who tries to shove the turquoise beads Vix wears around her neck into his mouth. Maizie, who is five, skips up and down in a floral pinafore, scattering rose petals into the wind. She says she remembers Caitlin but Vix doesn’t think that’s possible. What she remembers are the stories Vix has told her, the stories Maizie calls Caitlin Summers, and the albums of photos she and Vix pore over whenever she visits. Caitlin is just a fantasy figure to Maizie, someone to dream about, someone from another time and place. She doesn’t really understand what they’re doing here, except that it’s some kind of party, a party for Caitlin, her birth mother. Vix doesn’t understand either. She’s tried to make sense of it but she can’t. No one can explain what happened that day. There was no storm in the area. Winds were moderate. They found her boat two days later, drifting, but there was no sign of trouble. There isn’t any evidence she was lost at sea, except for the little boat and her plan to go sailing. There’s no way Vix or anyone else will ever know the truth. The truth is with Caitlin, wherever she is. Sometimes Vix hears Caitlin reminding her, No matter how many guys come and go we’ll always be together. She hears her infectious laugh or that seductive voice, whispering, I’ll always love you. Promise you’ll always love me? Two days later Vix rides her bike out to the wildflower meadow by herself. She kneels at the stone, which they have all been careful to call commemorative rather than memorial. She runs her fingers over the engraved letters. In Celebration of Caitlin Somers August 1996 Alone on the bluff, with the sound of waves crashing below, Vix unleashes her anger. “Damn you for leaving! For not caring enough about us!” She shouts and screams at Caitlin, going on and on about friendship and love, refusing to believe either that Caitlin is gone forever or that she, who was so terrified of disappearing, has orchestrated her own disappearance. Could she possibly be so cruel? Vix blames herself, too. How could she have missed Caitlin’s

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  noche con unos cuantos pares de ojos más sobre mí de lo que estaba acostumbrada, sonrío para mí, pensando en el montón de propinas en mi bolsillo ahora mismo. No es de cerca lo que Cam consigue o lo que podría conseguir trabajando en la barra en The Hook, pero es más de lo que normalmente consigo en una semana, así que... Y no puedo mentir. En parte me gustó la atención. Supe el momento en que sus ojos estuvieron sobre mí esta noche cuando entró y yo estaba junto a la rocola. También pude verlo por el rabillo mi ojo cuando caminé hacia la barra y conozco esa mirada. Posesiva. Bloqueo la puerta de la camioneta, el corazón me late con fuerza de nuevo mientras me dirijo hacia la casa. Necesito hablar con Cole. Necesito mirarlo a los ojos y tomar su mano en la mía, bajar la mirada a nuestras pequeñas cicatrices a juego y ver si todavía siento que esto va a alguna parte. Hace unos meses, siempre tenía su brazo a mi alrededor. Ahora, no puedo recordar la última vez que me tocó. Entrando a la casa, cierro la puerta, dejo caer mi bolso y me quito los zapatos. Curvo los dedos de los pies, el dolor en mis pies se eleva hasta mis pantorrillas. La sala de estar está a oscuras y camino hasta la oscura escalera y me detengo, escuchando. Ningún ruido proviene de la parte de arriba, así que Pike y Cole probablemente estén dormidos. Intentando ser lo más silenciosa posible, camino de puntillas hasta la cocina y tomo un vaso de la alacena, colocándolo bajo el dispensador de agua del refrigerador. Pero cuando levanto la mirada, veo a Cole en el patio trasero y me quedo inmóvil. Aparto la mano del dispensador, el vaso volcándose y el agua en él salpicando todo el suelo de madera. El calor sube por mi cuello, mis pulmones se quedan sin aire y no puedo apartar la mirada. Todo me golpea a la vez y siento como si estuviera fuera de mí, observándome mirándolo. Cole. Trago dos veces, apenas capaz de humedecer mi garganta. Elena Barros está en la piscina con él, sus codos apoyados detrás de ella sobre el borde, mientras él se inclina sobre ella, su frente apoyada sobre la de ella como hace conmigo. El cuerpo desnudo de ella brilla con el agua y se mueve en una ola, igualando el ritmo de él mientras la toma del trasero y la folla, sus pechos rozan el pecho de él una y otra vez.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  When she put a finger to her mouth to chew at a nail I lifted my hand to stop her; but she pushed my arm away, and made to rise. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Upstairs. I want to sit a little while and think.’ ‘No!’ I cried; and as I cried it, Cyril, in his crib upstairs, woke up, and began to call out for his mother. I reached for Florence and seized her wrist and, all heedless of the baby’s cries, pulled her back and pressed her to the bed. ‘I know what you mean to do,’ I said. ‘You mean to go and think of Lilian!’ ‘I cannot help but think of Lilian!’ she answered, stricken. ‘I cannot help it. And you - you’re just the same, only I never knew it. Don’t say - don’t say you weren’t thinking of her, of Kitty, last night, as you kissed me!’ I took a breath - but then I hesitated. For it was true, I couldn’t say it. It was Kitty I had kissed first and hardest; and it was as if I had had the shape or the colour or the taste of her kisses upon my lips, ever after. Not the spendings and the tears of all the weeping sods of Soho, nor the wine and the damp caresses of Felicity Place, had quite washed those kisses away. I had always known it - but it had never mattered with Diana, nor with Zena. Why should it matter with Florence? What should it matter who she thought of, as she kissed me? ‘All I know is,’ I said at last, ‘if we had not lain together last night, we would have died of it. And if you tell me now we shall never lie together again, after that, that was so marvellous -!’ I still held her to the bed, and Cyril still cried; but now, by some miracle, his cries began to die - and Florence, in her turn, grew slack in my arms, and turned her head against me. ‘I liked to think of you,’ she said quietly, ‘as Venus in a sea-shell. I never thought of the sweethearts you had, before you came here...’ ‘Why must you think of them now?’ ‘Because you do! Suppose Kitty were to show up again, and ask you back to her?’ ‘She won’t. Kitty’s gone, Flo. Like Lilian. Believe me, there’s more chance of her coming back!’ I began to smile. ‘And if she does, you can go to her, and I won’t say a word. And if Kitty comes for me, you can do similar. And then, I suppose, we shall have our paradises - and will be able to wave to one another from our separate clouds.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  And what of those left in life? Emily shrieked. Palamon howled. Theseus led his sister-in-law, swooning, from the deathbed. There is no point spending more time recounting how her night and morning were spent in tears. In such cases women feel more sorrow than I can relate; when their husbands are taken from them they are consumed in grief, or become so sick that they must surely die. The people of Athens, too, were distraught. Infinite were the tears of old and young, lamenting the fate of Arcite. The death of Hector himself, when his fresh corpse was carried back into Troy, could not have caused more sorrow. There was nothing but pity and grief. The women scratched their cheeks, and rent their hair, in mourning. ‘Why did you die?’ one of them cried out. ‘You had gold enough. And you had Emily.’ There was only one man who could comfort Theseus himself. His old father, Aegaeus, had seen the vicissitudes of the world and had witnessed the sudden changes from joy to woe, from woe to happiness. ‘There is no man who has died on earth without having first lived. And so there is no one alive who will not at some point die. This world is nothing but a thoroughfare of woe, down which we all pass as pilgrims -’ ‘So are we all here.’ The Franklin had interrupted the Knight’s tale. ‘The whole world is an inn,’ our Host said. ‘And the end of the journey is always the same.’ ‘God give us grace and a good death.’ This was the Reeve, crossing himself. ‘Amen to that,’ the Knight replied. And then he continued with his story. As Aegaeus told Theseus, death is an end to every worldly disappointment. He said much more in a similar vein, and in the same way he encouraged the people of Athens to take heart. So Theseus was comforted by his words, and busied himself in finding the best place for the tomb of Arcite to be raised in honour of the fallen knight. He finally came to the conclusion that the most appropriate site would be the wooded grove in which Palamon and Arcite had fought their duel for the hand of Emily. In this place, ever green and ever fresh, Arcite had professed his love and uttered his heart’s complaints. So in this grove, where all the fires of love had been kindled, Theseus would light the fire of Arcite’s funeral pyre. Fire would put out fire. So he commanded that his men cut down the ancient oaks and lay them in a row; then he ordered that the trees should be piled up so that they might burn more easily. His officers swiftly obeyed his commands.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  It drove Mom crazy, and it was the reason she never set rules for us. But I loved Grandma Smith. She was a tall, leathery, broad-shouldered woman with green eyes and a strong jaw. She told me I was her favorite grandchild and that I was going to grow up to be something special. I even liked all of her rules. I liked how she woke us up every morning at dawn, shouting, “Rise and shine, everybody!” and insisted we wash our hands and comb our hair before eating breakfast. She made us hot Cream of Wheat with real butter, then oversaw us while we cleared the table and washed the dishes. Afterward, she took us all to buy new clothes, and we’d go to a movie like Mary Poppins . Now, on the way to Phoenix, I stood up in the back of the car and leaned over the front seat between Mom and Dad. “Are we going to go stay with Grandma?” I asked. “No,” Mom said. She looked out the window, but not at anything in particular. Then she said, “Grandma’s dead.” “What?” I asked. I’d heard her, but I was so thrown I felt like I hadn’t. Mom repeated herself, still looking out the window. I glanced back at Lori and Brian, but they were sleeping. Dad was smoking, his eyes on the road. I couldn’t believe I’d been sitting there thinking of Grandma Smith, looking forward to eating Cream of Wheat and having her comb my hair and cuss, and all along she’d been dead. I started hitting Mom on the shoulder, hard, and asking why she hadn’t told us. Finally, Dad held down my fists with his free hand, the other holding both his cigarette and the steering wheel, and said, “That’s enough, Mountain Goat.” Mom seemed surprised that I was so upset. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked. “There didn’t seem any point,” she said. “What happened?” Grandma had been only in her sixties, and most people in her family lived until they were about a hundred. The doctors said she’d died from leukemia, but Mom thought it was radioactive poisoning. The government was always testing nuclear bombs in the desert near the ranch, Mom said. She and Jim used to go out with a Geiger counter and find rocks that ticked. They stored them in the basement and used some to make jewelry for Grandma. “There’s no reason to grieve,” Mom said. “We’ve all got to go someday, and Grandma had a life that was longer and fuller than most.” She paused. “And now we have a place to live.” Mom explained that Grandma Smith had owned two houses, the one she lived in with the green shutters and French doors, and an older house, made of adobe, in downtown Phoenix. Since Mom was the older of the two children, Grandma Smith had asked her which house she wanted to inherit.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  This is not verbatim. I was a little edgy for the next six weeks, as you can imagine. I had lots and lots of drinks every night, and told lots of strangers at the bar about how my dad had died and I’d written this book about it, and how the early reviewers had criticized it, and then I’d start to cry and need a few more drinks, and then I’d end up telling them about this great dog we’d had named Llewelyn who had to be put to sleep when I was twelve, which still made me so sad even to think about, I’d tell my audience, that it was all I could do not to go into the rest room and blow my brains out. Then the book came out. I got some terrific reviews in important places, and a few bad ones. There were a few book-signing parties, a few interviews, and a number of important people claimed to love it. But overall it seemed that I was not in fact going to be taking early retirement. I had secretly believed that trumpets would blare, major reviewers would proclaim that not since Moby Dick had an American novel so captured life in all of its dizzying complexity. And this is what I thought when my second book came out, and my third, and my fourth, and my fifth. And each time I was wrong. But I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part. It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward. I’ve managed to get some work done nearly every day of my adult life, without impressive financial success. Yet I would do it all over again in a hot second, mistakes and doldrums and breakdowns and all. Sometimes I could not tell you exactly why, especially when it feels pointless and pitiful, like Sisyphus with cash-flow problems.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She and Gus have been talking about moving to the island full time if only they can figure out a way to support themselves doing what they want. Daniel is still single, still waiting for the perfect woman to show up. Abby has asked him to please turn off his cellular phone during the dedication. Phoebe sent regrets. She’d be out of the country. Dorset can’t make it either, but promises to think of them from her home in Mendocino, where she moved following Grandmother’s death, just shy of her ninety-ninth birthday. Abby starts off by reading from Shelley. Wren, who is so shy she makes Sharkey seem gregarious, surprises all of them by singing the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” in a clear, beautiful soprano. Sharkey loses it halfway through the song. Lamb embraces him, his own face streaked with tears, the two men comforting one another. Didn’t she know how much she was loved? Didn’t she care? Vix wonders if somewhere in Tuscany a handsome man who also loved her is grieving. Or was he another of Caitlin’s fantasies? Vix planned on reading the essay she’d written for her college application—Caitlin Somers, the Most Influential Person in My Life —but realizes at the last minute she can’t, so Gus reads it for her while Vix holds their baby, Nate, who tries to shove the turquoise beads Vix wears around her neck into his mouth. Maizie, who is five, skips up and down in a floral pinafore, scattering rose petals into the wind. She says she remembers Caitlin but Vix doesn’t think that’s possible. What she remembers are the stories Vix has told her, the stories Maizie calls Caitlin Summers , and the albums of photos she and Vix pore over whenever she visits. Caitlin is just a fantasy figure to Maizie, someone to dream about, someone from another time and place. She doesn’t really understand what they’re doing here, except that it’s some kind of party, a party for Caitlin, her birth mother. Vix doesn’t understand either. She’s tried to make sense of it but she can’t. No one can explain what happened that day. There was no storm in the area. Winds were moderate. They found her boat two days later, drifting, but there was no sign of trouble. There isn’t any evidence she was lost at sea, except for the little boat and her plan to go sailing. There’s no way Vix or anyone else will ever know the truth. The truth is with Caitlin, wherever she is. Sometimes Vix hears Caitlin reminding her, No matter how many guys come and go we’ll always be together . She hears her infectious laugh or that seductive voice, whispering, I’ll always love you. Promise you’ll always love me? Two days later Vix rides her bike out to the wildflower meadow by herself. She kneels at the stone, which they have all been careful to call commemorative rather than memorial . She runs her fingers over the engraved letters.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  According to Kristeva, the act of giving birth does not successfully reestablish that continuous relation prior to individuation because the infant invariably suffers the prohibition on incest and is separated off as a discrete identity. In the case of the mother’s separation from the girl-child, the result is melancholy for both, for the separation is never fully completed. As opposed to grief or mourning, in which separation is recognized and the libido attached to the original object is successfully displaced onto a new substitute object, melancholy designates a failure to grieve in which the loss is simply internalized and, in that sense, refused. Instead of a negative attachment to the body, the maternal body is internalized as a negation, so that the girl’s identity becomes itself a kind of loss, a characteristic privation or lack. The alleged psychosis of homosexuality, then, consists in its thorough break with the paternal law and with the grounding of the female “ego,” tenuous though it may be, in the melancholic response to separation from the maternal body. Hence, according to Kristeva, female homosexuality is the emergence of psychosis into culture: The homosexual-maternal facet is a whirl of words, a complete absence of meaning and seeing; it is feeling, displacement, rhythm, sound, flashes, and fantasied clinging to the maternal body as a screen against the plunge … for woman, a paradise lost but seemingly close at hand.10 For women, however, this homosexuality is manifest in poetic language which becomes, in fact, the only form of the semiotic, besides childbirth, which can be sustained within the terms of the Symbolic. For Kristeva, then, overt homosexuality cannot be a culturally sustainable activity, for it would constitute a breaking of the incest taboo in an unmediated way. And yet why is this the case? Kristeva accepts the assumption that culture is equivalent to the Symbolic, that the Symbolic is fully subsumed under the “Law of the Father,” and that the only modes of nonpsychotic activity are those which participate in the Symbolic to some extent. Her strategic task, then, is neither to replace the Symbolic with the semiotic nor to establish the semiotic as a rival cultural possibility, but rather to validate those experiences within the Symbolic that permit a manifestation of the borders which divide the Symbolic from the semiotic. Just as birth is understood to be a cathexis of instinctual drives for the purposes of a social teleology, so poetic production is conceived as the site in which the split between instinct and representation exists in culturally communicable form: The speaker reaches this limit, this requisite of sociality, only by virtue of a particular, discursive practice called “art.” A woman also attains it (and in our society, especially) through the strange form of split symbolization (threshold of language and instinctual drive, of the “symbolic” and the “semiotic”) of which the act of giving birth consists.11

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It revealed horrors. The letter stated that Constance had been delivered of a fiend, an unnatural monster bred out of the devil. No one in the castle could endure the sight or sound or smell of it. It was agreed by all that its mother was a witch, sent to the castle by means of spells and sorcery. No one would go near her. The king’s grief, on reading this letter, was overwhelming. But he said nothing. He kept his sorrow secret, and wrote to the governor of the castle. ‘Let the providence of Christ be my guide. I am now converted to His cause, and must abide His will. Oh Lord, I will obey your commands in everything. Do with me as you wish.’ Then he added, to the governor, ‘Keep this child safe, whether it be foul or fair. And safeguard my wife, too, until I return. Christ will grant me another child, fair and wholesome, when He deems it right.’ Weeping, he sealed and dispatched this letter to the messenger. There was nothing else to be done. Yet how false a messenger! You are a drunken sot. Your breath is foul, and your limbs are weak. You falter on your legs. You betray every secret entrusted to you. You have lost your mind. You chatter like a parrot. Your face is distorted and awry. Wherever there is a drunk, there is also a loud mouth. You can be sure of it. Oh Donegild, evil queen mother, I have no words to describe the malice of your wickedness. I give you over to your companion, the foul fiend. Let him record your treachery. I defy you, unnatural creature - no, you are yourself a fiend. Wherever your body wanders, your spirit dwells in hell. So the messenger left the presence of the king and returned to the court of Donegild. She was delighted to see him again, and offered him all the hospitality she could possibly provide. He drank himself close to bursting. Then he passed out, and spent the night snorting and farting like a swine in its sty. In the meantime, of course, Donegild had stolen the letter from the king and forged one in its place. ‘The king,’ she wrote, ‘commands the governor, on pain of death, to make sure that Constance is banished from the realm of Northumberland. She may remain only for three days. After that time, she must be gone. ‘Place her in the same ship in which she arrived here. She must take her infant son and all her possessions. Then push the ship out to sea. And forbid her ever to return.’ Oh Constance, well may your spirit tremble. Well may your dreams be sorrowful. Donegild intends to strike at you.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  antimetaphorical precisely because it maintains the loss as radically unnameable; in other words, incorporation is not only a failure to name or avow the loss, but erodes the conditions of metaphorical signification itself. As in the Lacanian perspective, for Abraham and Torok the repudiation of the maternal body is the condition of signification within the Symbolic. They argue further that this primary repression founds the possibility of individuation and of significant speech, where speech is necessarily metaphorical, in the sense that the referent, the object of desire, is a perpetual displacement. In effect, the loss of the maternal body as an object of love is understood to establish the empty space out of which words originate. But the refusal of this loss—melancholy—results in the failure to displace into words; indeed, the place of the maternal body is established in the body, “encrypted,” to use their term, and given permanent residence there as a dead and deadening part of the body or one inhabited or possessed by phantasms of various kinds. When we consider gender identity as a melancholic structure, it makes sense to choose “incorporation” as the manner by which that identification is accomplished. Indeed, according to the scheme above, gender identity would be established through a refusal of loss that encrypts itself in the body and that determines, in effect, the living versus the dead body. As an antimetaphorical activity, incorporation literalizes the loss on or in the body and so appears as the facticity of the body, the means by which the body comes to bear “sex” as its literal truth. The localization and/or prohibition of pleasures and desires in given “erotogenic” zones is precisely the kind of gender-differentiating melancholy that suffuses the body’s surface. The loss of the pleasurable object is resolved through the incorporation of that very pleasure with the result that pleasure is both determined and prohibited through the compulsory effects of the gender-differentiating law. The incest taboo is, of course, more inclusive than the taboo against homosexuality, but in the case of the heterosexual incest taboo through which heterosexual identity is established, the loss is borne as grief. In the case of the prohibition against homosexual incest through which heterosexual identity is established, however, the loss is sustained through a melancholic structure. The loss of the heterosexual object, argues Freud, results in the displacement of that object, but not the heterosexual aim; on the other hand, the loss of the homosexual object requires the loss of the aim and the object. In other words, the object is not only lost, but the desire fully denied, such that “I never lost that person and I never loved that person, indeed never felt that kind of love at all.” The melancholic preservation of that love is all the more securely safeguarded through the totalizing trajectory of the denial.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  No, she thought, shaking her head. That would be too personal. That would have to wait until they were together again. Vix helped her father dispose of Nathan’s clothes, his toys, the contraption for his bath, his wheelchair. When she said she would like to keep Nathan’s books for herself—Green Eggs and Ham, Stuart Little, The Great Brain —her father broke down and sobbed, the only time she’d ever seen him cry. She tried to console him but he bolted, unable to share his feelings. If Lewis or Lanie were sad about Nathan’s death they didn’t say. They went on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Vix sometimes thought they were relieved. What kind of family were they? she wondered. What kind of family isn’t able to comfort one another? When Caitlin returned from the Vineyard she hand-delivered a sympathy card from Bru, stiff, formal, with some bullshit message that began In your time of need ... It was signed, I’m sorry. Bru. She sent an equally formal card, thanking him for his expression of sympathy and signed it Victoria. At Christmas he sent a card showing a snowy Vineyard scene. Hoping to see you next summer. Bru. She sent him a card showing a Santa Fe scene. Hoping to see you, too. Victoria. The Countess asked Tawny to accompany her on a trip to Europe. Tawny went and stayed away almost three months. When she returned she had very little interest in anything or anyone. Lanie was running wild and Lewis was sullen at home, when he was home, which wasn’t often. Caitlin decided men were too much trouble. “I’m applying to Wellesley,” she told Vix at school. “I think I’ll do better without men around to distract me. Besides, I’m thinking of becoming a lesbian ... to make a statement. Are you interested?” “This is a joke, right?” “It’s whatever you want it to be.” Vix laughed uneasily.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  But after listening to the prosecutor’s version of events, the judge shook her head grimly: “Bail is denied.” In the hallway, Lori and Dad got into a loud argument over who was responsible for pushing Maureen over the edge. Lori blamed Dad for creating a sick environment, while Dad maintained that Maureen had faulty wiring. Mom chimed in that all the junk food Maureen ate had led to a chemical imbalance, and Brian started yelling at them all to shut the hell up or he’d arrest them. I just stood there looking from one distorted face to another, listening to this babble of enraged squabbling as the members of the Walls family gave vent to all their years of hurt and anger, each unloading his or her own accumulated grievances and blaming the others for allowing the most fragile one of us to break into pieces. The judge sent Maureen to an upstate hospital. She was released after a year and immediately bought a one-way bus ticket to California. I told Brian that we had to stop her. She didn’t know a single person in California. How would she survive? But Brian thought it was the smartest thing she could do for herself. He said she needed to get as far away from Mom and Dad, and probably the rest of us, as possible. I decided Brian was right. But I also hoped that Maureen had chosen California because she thought that was her true home, the place where she really belonged, where it was always warm and you could dance in the rain, pick grapes right off the vines, and sleep outside at night under the stars. Maureen did not want any of us to see her off. I rose just after first light the morning she was scheduled to leave. It was an early departure, and I wanted to be awake and thinking about her at the moment her bus pulled out, so I could say farewell in my mind. I went to the window and looked out at the cold, wet sky. I wondered if she was thinking of us and if she was going to miss us. I’d always had mixed feelings about bringing her to New York, but I’d agreed to let her come. Once she arrived, I’d been too busy taking care of myself to look after her. “I’m sorry, Maureen,” I said when the time came, “sorry for everything.” AFTER THAT, I HARDLY ever saw Mom or Dad. Neither did Brian. He had gotten married and bought a run-down Victorian house on Long Island that he restored, and he and his wife had a child, a little girl. They were his family now. Lori, who was still living in her apartment near the Port Authority, was more in touch with Mom and Dad, but she, too, had gone her own way. We hadn’t gotten together since Maureen’s arraignment.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  desperation? She was the last one to see her. Surely she could have done something. She dissolves into tears. She cries the way she did when she left Caitlin the morning after her seventeenth birthday. She cries the way she did driving back from Santa Fe with Bru, great gut-wrenching sobs, until there’s nothing left. Finally, she lies beside the stone and sleeps. When she awakens she’s thirsty. Her breasts are full, her nipples are beginning to leak. She has to get back for Nate’s feeding. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pure white beach stone. She places it atop Caitlin’s stone. “The next time I see you I get to ask the questions,” she tells her. Then she laughs. She laughs thinking of Caitlin listening to her, blathering about friendship and love. Sometimes Vix thinks when the Big Four-O comes along she’ll get an envelope from some exotic place and inside will be an airline ticket and a note—Come celebrate with me. Gus will say, “Go ... don’t worry about the kids.” So she’ll go. Caitlin will meet her at the airport, her hair flying in the wind. After they hug Vix will hold Caitlin at arm’s length for a minute. God, Caitlin, she’ll say, You look so ... grownup. And Caitlin will laugh and answer, It’s about time, don’t you think? To Mary Weaver my “summer sister” WITH MANY THANKS to Randy Blume, Larry Blume, Amanda Cooper, and their friends for talking with me about music and memories during long, leisurely Vineyard dinners on the porch. Special thanks to Kate Schaum, dedicated early reader, and to Gloria DeAngelis, Kaethe Fine, and Robin Standefer. Also, to my Harvard connections, Nicky Weinstock, Ted Rose, and Seng Dao Yang (my unofficial guide to Weld South). JUDY BLUME’S BOOKS FOR ADULT READERS Wifey Smart Women Summer Sisters FOR YOUNG ADULTS Tiger Eyes Forever ... Letters to Judy: What Kids Wish They Could Tell You Places I Never Meant to Be (editor) FOR YOUNGER READERS, THE “FUDGE” BOOKS Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great Superfudge Fudge-a-mania Double Fudge FOR MIDDLE GRADE READERS Iggie’s House Blubber Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Then Again, Maybe I Won’t It’s Not the End of the World Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself Deenie Just as Long as We’re Together Here’s to You, Rachel Robinson PICTURE BOOKS The One in the Middle Is the Green Kangaroo The Pain and the Great One Freckle Juice THE “PAIN & THE GREAT ONE” SERIES Soupy Saturdays with the Pain & the Great One Cool Zone with the Pain & the Great One Going, Going, Gone! with the Pain & the Great One Friend or Fiend? with the Pain & the Great One

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Something in all of us broke that day, and afterward, we no longer had the spirit for family gatherings. About a year after Maureen took off for California, I got a call at work from Dad. He said he needed to get together to discuss something important. “Can’t we do it over the phone?” “I need to see you in person, honey.” Dad asked me to come down to the Lower East Side that evening. “And if it’s not too much trouble,” he added, “could you stop on your way and pick up a bottle of vodka?” “Oh, so that’s what this is about.” “No, no, honey. I do need to talk to you. But I would appreciate some vodka. Nothing fancy, just the cheapest rotgut they have. A pint would be fine. A fifth would be great.” I was annoyed by Dad’s sly request for vodka—tossing it out at the end of the conversation as if it were an afterthought, when I figured it was probably the purpose of the call. That afternoon I called Mom, who still never drank anything stronger than tea, and asked if I should indulge Dad. “Your father is who he is,” Mom said. “It’s a little late in the game to try to reform him now. Humor the man.” • • • That night I stopped in a liquor store and bought a half gallon of the cheapest rotgut on the shelf, just as Dad had requested, then took a taxi down to the Lower East Side. I climbed the dark staircase and pushed open the unlocked door. Mom and Dad were lying in their bed under a pile of thin blankets. I got the impression they’d been there all day. Mom squealed when she saw me, and Dad started apologizing for the mess, saying if Mom would let him clear out some of her crap, they might at least be able to swing a cat in here, which got Mom accusing Dad of being a bum. “Good to see you,” I said as I kissed them. “It’s been a while.” Mom and Dad struggled up into sitting positions. I saw Dad eyeing the brown paper bag, and I passed it to him. “A magnum,” Dad said, his voice choked with gratitude as he eased the big bottle from the bag. He unscrewed the cap and took a long, deep pull. “Thank you, my darling,” he said. “You are so good to your old man.” Mom wore a heavy cable-knit sweater. The skin of her hands was deeply cracked, and her hair was tangled, but her face had a healthy pink glow, and her eyes were clear and bright. Beside her, Dad looked gaunt. His hair, still coal black except for touches of gray at his temples, was combed back, but his cheeks were sunken, and he had a thin beard. He’d always been clean-shaven, even during those days on the streets. “Why are you growing a beard, Dad?” I asked.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  She had picked out all the hymns and prayers, chosen her favorite funeral home, ordered a lavender lace nightgown from JCPenney that she wanted to be buried in, and selected a two-toned lavender casket with shiny chrome handles from the mortician’s catalog. Erma’s death brought out Mom’s pious side. While we were waiting for the preacher, she took out her rosary and prayed for Erma’s soul, which she feared was in jeopardy since, as she saw it, Erma had committed suicide. She also tried to make us kiss Erma’s corpse. We flat out refused, but Mom went up in front of the mourners, genuflected with a grand sweep, and then kissed Erma’s cheek so vigorously that you could hear the puckering sound throughout the chapel. I was sitting next to Dad. It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen him wearing a necktie, which he always called a noose. His face was tight and closed, but I could tell he was distraught. More distraught than I’d ever seen him, which surprised me, because Erma had seemed to have some sort of an evil hold over Dad, and I thought he’d be relieved to be free of it. As we walked home, Mom asked us kids if we had anything nice to say about Erma now that she had passed. We took a couple of steps in silence, then Lori said, “Ding-dong, the witch is dead.” Brian and I started snickering. Dad wheeled around and gave Lori such a cold, angry look that I thought he might wallop her. “She was my mother, for God’s sake,” he said. He glared at us. “You kids. You make me ashamed. Do you hear me? Ashamed!” He turned down the street to Junior’s bar. We all watched him go. “You’re ashamed of us ?” Lori called after him. Dad just kept walking. • • • Four days later, when Dad still hadn’t come home, Mom sent me to go find him. “Why do I always have to get Dad?” I asked. “Because he likes you the best,” she said. “And he’ll come home if you tell him to.” The first step in tracking down Dad was going next door to the Freemans, who let us use their phone if we paid a dime, and calling Grandpa to ask if Dad was there. Grandpa said he had no idea where Dad was. “When y’all gonna get your own telephone?” Mr. Freeman asked after I hung up. “Mom disapproves of telephones,” I said as I placed the dime on his coffee table. “She thinks they’re an impersonal means of communication.” My first stop, as always, was Junior’s. It was the fanciest bar in Welch, with a picture window, a grill that served hamburgers and french fries, and a pinball machine. “Hey!” one of the regulars called out when I walked in. “It’s Rex’s little girl. How ya doin’, sweetheart?” “I’m fine, thank you.