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.

Page 28 of 263 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  age. Loss. Mary was at my side when my father died suddenly, just weeks before my wedding to John Blume, following my junior year of college. She was in pain, too, but we didn’t talk about how his death affected her until recently. Ultimately, it was my marriage—and, just a year or so later, hers— that separated us. Even though we had baby daughters born two months apart, our lives were already very different. She lived in New York and I lived in the suburbs of New Jersey. Her husband, a WASP who came from old money, was an academic; mine was a hustling young lawyer. The men had nothing in common. I felt the loss of that friendship. I was lonely in my marriage and missed the camaraderie of my old friends. I was constantly hoping to find someone with whom I could connect. Each time a moving van brought a new family to our cul-de-sac, I’d be out there, a welcome committee of one, hoping this would be it. It never was. Years Later. Mary and I never stopped being friends, and we never really lost touch. We just didn’t get to spend much time together, and when we tried it as a foursome it never really worked. She became the kindergarten teacher I was trained to be. I started to write, out of loneliness, maybe even desperation. I was the ambitious one, driven and determined, though I didn’t know it at the time. If Mary were writing this it would be entirely different, I’m sure, and even now I know more about us than I’m telling. Our history runs deep. Our genuine feelings for each other, deeper. We are friends for life. We went through puberty together. College. We married, had babies, went to work, lost parents, and are grandmothers. But when we’re together the years fall away. Isn’t that what matters? To have someone who can remember with you? To have someone who remembers how far you’ve come? Caitlin and Vix. Is the relationship between Caitlin and Vix in Summer Sisters based on my friendship with Mary? Before I sat down to write these notes I’d have told you absolutely not. Their story is much darker, more seductive, more competitive, and Caitlin and Vix are totally different personalities. Yet it is about two young women from different backgrounds whose friendship begins at twelve and endures. Vix finds Caitlin irresistable—the danger, the daring, the thrill of becoming a part of her eccentric family. From Vix, Caitlin receives unconditional love. But they are also rivals. After all, one marries the other’s first love. Aside from a ninth-grade crush, Mary and I were never in love with the same man. Not that I know of, anyway.

• 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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  que haya una emergencia, e incluso entonces tengo que pasar por la Cruz Roja para localizarlo. Mierda. Siento que estoy en Twilight Zone en este momento. Él se fue. Sin forma de contactarlo inmediatamente durante ocho semanas. No hemos pasado mucho tiempo juntos los últimos años, pero todavía estaba a solo una llamada de distancia. No puedo dejar que las cosas se queden así durante dos meses. Busco la estación local de reclutamiento en el área y llamo a la oficina. Podría conseguir su dirección una vez que reciba su asignación. No hay respuesta, así que lo rastrearé mañana y descubriré cómo encontrarlo. Maldita sea. —¡Mierda! Me siento tan impotente. Sabiendo que su teléfono celular probablemente ha sido confiscado por ahora, lo llamo de todos modos y sostengo el teléfono en mi oreja. Va inmediatamente al correo de voz. —Cole —digo, tragando algunas veces para mojarme la garganta—. Yo... yo... Sacudo mi cabeza, cerrando los ojos. —Te amo —le digo—, y siempre estaré aquí para ti. Sé que... sé que no tengo excusa. Yo solo... —Lágrimas brotan de mis ojos y no sé qué más decir, excepto la verdad—. Traté de no enamorarme de ella. Lo intenté. Lo siento. Cuelgo y tiro el teléfono, sintiéndome vacío. No quiero a ninguno de los dos fuera sin que sepan que los amo. Estoy solo otra vez, y solo los quiero de vuelta. Ellos son todo. Jordan tenía razón. Debí habérselo contado, acabar con ello y procurar que lo aceptara. Yo nunca iba a dejarla de buen grado. ¿Cuánto tiempo pensaba mentirle? Incluso si ella y yo no terminamos las cosas, habría tenido que decírselo en algún momento. Enciendo el motor y cambio a reversa, retrocediendo fuera del estacionamiento y saliendo a toda velocidad. Volviendo a la carretera, me dirijo a la ciudad, revisando periódicamente mi teléfono en busca de mensajes. Jordan dejó casi todo en mi casa. Tomó algunas ropas, sus libros y algunas cosas personales, pero sus modelos, su cama, muebles y la pintura todavía están allí.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She’d be eating a burger in some joint on the highway and it would start out of nowhere, tears flooding her eyes, a lump in her throat making it impossible to swallow. Or she’d be brushing her teeth before bed in some motel and catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror, just as her face contorted and the tears began. She wept for Nathan, for Lanie, for her father, and maybe for herself. She no longer knew her family, and they certainly didn’t know her. At first Bru was sympathetic. He held her that first night, until she was able to fall asleep. But the following night, when he began to stroke her thigh and she didn’t respond, he turned away, hurt. He didn’t get it. He thought it had to do with him. The next time the tears began they were in the truck, just crossing into Virginia. “Here we go again …” he said, pulling off at a rest stop. He jammed on the brakes. “You want anything?” She shook her head. He was gone for a long time. When he came back he handed her a cranapple juice and a bag of pretzels. “Whatever it is, get over it, Victoria … just get over it, okay?” By the time they got to Boston and she was still at it he was angry. “I don’t know you anymore.” “Maybe you never did.” “Yeah, right … but either way this is getting …” He turned away from her. “I think we need a break.” If he expected her to argue he was mistaken. She nodded her head calmly and just like that, with no discussion, no questions, no anything, they separated. BruHE’S ALWAYS WAITING and worrying she’s going to end it. Always looking for signs, expecting the worst. So he jumps the gun, says it out loud before she can. She doesn’t even cry. Nothing. That proves it, doesn’t it? Jeez … she cries all the way home, then he tells her he needs a break and she just sits there like she’s made of stone. After he drops her off he’s shaking so bad he has to pull off the road, afraid he’ll plow into somebody if he doesn’t. Back on the Vineyard he has a beer with his uncle. Unloads his problems with Victoria. His uncle keeps nodding. Tell me about it , he says. They say one thing, they mean another. No way to understand them. I know it hurts but there’s other fish in the sea. And they’ll be jumping for you before long . Star comes on to him, suggests they get together. So they do. In the storeroom of her shop, on the floor, between cartons of chewable vitamin C and ginseng. Her breasts are small and lopsided. She makes animal sounds as she comes. There are other fish in the sea , he keeps telling himself. Do me again , Star says, an hour later. So he does her again.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “It’s ... personal.” “I see.” She paused and Vix imagined her chewing on her pencil, the way she did when she was talking to a dissatisfied client. “Well, if you change your mind give me a call. I’ll always have a job for you.” “Thanks.” Vix dragged her duffel halfway out the long dock, to Trisha’s boat, and caught her just before she left for work. When she explained that she’d left Lamb’s, that she had a job waiting tables at the Homeport and needed a cheap place to stay, Trisha said, “You’re looking at it, honey.” Trisha tossed her a key to the hatch lock, told her to take either of the berths in the main cabin, then left for Vineyard Haven. “I should be back around seven, unless I meet Arthur, my new squeeze, for dinner.” The second Vix was alone, she crumpled. She wept, she wailed, she soaked her T-shirt with her tears, sobbing until she gagged. She was not an emotional iceberg! Then she lay down in the tiny berth and fell into a deep sleep. She’d have slept all day if she hadn’t heard banging on the hatch and voices calling her name. She jumped up, disoriented, needing a minute to figure out where she was and why. When she finally opened the hatch and squinted in the bright sunlight, she saw Lamb and Abby. “Vix,” Abby began, “we were so worried!” “Didn’t you get my note?” “Yes ... but you didn’t say where you were going, or why.” “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure where I was going when I wrote it.” How had they found her? Had Trisha called them already? “Look ...” Lamb said, “whatever happened between you and Caitlin I know she regrets it.” “All friends have disagreements from time to time ...” Abby added. “It’s only natural ... it’s like a marriage ...” She looked at Lamb, then back at Vix. “Oh, Vix ... no boy is worth this kind of grief.” How did she know there was a boy involved? How much exactly had Caitlin told them? Abby came toward her, steadying herself as the boat rocked in the breeze. “Come home,” she said, hugging Vix. “We’re family. You belong with us.” “I can’t ... please ...” There was no way for Vix to explain. Finally Lamb said, more to Abby than to her, “If Vix needs some time

• 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 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 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 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)

  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.

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

  At the beginning of the narrative, s/he offers two one-sentence paragraphs “parallel” to one another which suggest a melancholic incorporation of the lost father, a postponement of the anger of abandonment through the structural instatement of that negativity into h/er identity and desire. Before s/he tells us that s/he h/erself was abandoned by h/er mother quickly and without advance notice, s/he tells us that for reasons unstated s/he spent a few years in a house for abandoned and orphaned children. S/he refers to the “poor creatures, deprived from their cradle of a mother’s love.” In the next sentence s/he refers to this institution as a “refuge [asile] of suffering and affliction,” and in the following sentence refers to h/er father “whom a sudden death tore away … from the tender affection of my mother” (4). Although h/er own abandonment is twice deflected here through the pity for others who are suddenly rendered motherless, s/he establishes an identification through that deflection, one that later reappears as the joint plight of father and daughter cut off from the maternal caress. The deflections of desire are semantically compounded, as it were, as Herculine proceeds to fall in love with “mother” after “mother” and then falls in love with various mothers’ “daughters,” which scandalizes all manner of mother. Indeed, s/he vacillates between being the object of everyone’s adoration and excitement and an object of scorn and abandonment, the split consequence of a melancholic structure left to feed on itself without intervention. If melancholy involves self-recrimination, as Freud argues, and if that recrimination is a kind of negative narcissism (attending to the self, even if only in the mode of berating that self), then Herculine can be understood to be constantly falling into the opposition between negative and positive narcissism, at once avowing h/erself as the most abandoned and neglected creature on earth but also as the one who casts a spell of enchantment on everyone who comes near h/er, indeed, one who is better for all women than any “man” (107).

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  There was a fox, tipped with black from head to toe, who was a very model of slyness and iniquity. He had dwelled in a forest, near the old woman’s cottage, for three years. The previous night, as high fortune had dictated, the fox burst through the hedge that protected the yard where Chanticleer and his wives were accustomed to take the air. He lay concealed in a bed of cabbages until the following morning, ready to seize the proud cock at the first opportunity. That is what assassins do, when they are waiting for their prey. They hide, and they plot. Oh false murderer, lying among the cabbages! You are no better than Judas Iscariot. You are worse than Genylon, who betrayed brave Roland. You false traitor. You are another Synon, who caused the wooden horse to be brought into Troy. Oh Chanticleer you will curse the morning when you flew down from your perch. You were forewarned in your dreams that this day would be hurtful to you, but you spread your wings none the less. Well, as some wise clerks say, what will be will be. God has made it so. There is much debate and argument on the point, among the schoolmen. Thousands of them have disputed on the claims of free will and necessity. I really don’t have the wit to solve the conundrum. Augustine has tried. Boethius has tried. Thomas Bradwardyn has tried. Remember him? There are those who believe that all is predestined and prejudged in the fathomless mind of God. But there are others who distinguish between providence and destiny. It is not necessary that things happen because they have been ordained but, rather, things that do happen have indeed been ordained. It is too much for me. I am telling a tale of a cock and a fox. That is all. I am relating the sad story of a bird that was persuaded by his wife to ignore his dream and to strut around the farmyard. The advice of women is often fatal. It was a woman’s advice that led to all our woe. I am talking about Eve, who advised Adam out of Paradise. He had been happy there. If I have offended anyone among you, dear pilgrims, take it in good spirit. I am only joking. Consult the authors who know about such things. Read what they have written about women. In any case these are the words of the cock. They are not mine. I mean no harm to any female.

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

  The conflation of desire with the real—that is, the belief that it is parts of the body, the “literal” penis, the “literal” vagina, which cause pleasure and desire—is precisely the kind of literalizing fantasy characteristic of the syndrome of melancholic heterosexuality. The disavowed homosexuality at the base of melancholic heterosexuality reemerges as the self-evident anatomical facticity of sex, where “sex” designates the blurred unity of anatomy, “natural identity,” and “natural desire.” The loss is denied and incorporated, and the genealogy of that transmutation fully forgotten and repressed. The sexed surface of the body thus emerges as the necessary sign of a natural(ized) identity and desire. The loss of homosexuality is refused and the love sustained or encrypted in the parts of the body itself, literalized in the ostensible anatomical facticity of sex. Here we see the general strategy of literalization as a form of forgetfulness, which, in the case of a literalized sexual anatomy, “forgets” the imaginary and, with it, an imaginable homosexuality. In the case of the melancholic heterosexual male, he never loved another man, he is a man, and he can seek recourse to the empirical facts that will prove it. But the literalization of anatomy not only proves nothing, but is a literalizing restriction of pleasure in the very organ that is championed as the sign of masculine identity. The love for the father is stored in the penis, safeguarded through an impervious denial, and the desire which now centers on that penis has that continual denial as its structure and its task. Indeed, the woman-as-object must be the sign that he not only never felt homosexual desire, but never felt the grief over its loss. Indeed, the woman-as-sign must effectively displace and conceal that preheterosexual history in favor of one that consecrates a seamless heterosexuality.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pike no dice nada, pero puedo verlo mirándome. Soy una presa fácil. Me alejé de mi ex y mis padres, pero nunca les di su merecido. Nunca luché. Solo corrí. Además de mi hermana, Cole es todo lo que tengo, y permito esta mierda porque era más que solo un novio para mí. ―¿Puedo hacerte una pregunta? ―dice Pike. Lo miro, y mi corazón se salta un latido al ver que sus ojos se ciernen sobre mí. El reflejo del agua los hace parecer azul. ―¿Cómo se conocieron Cole y tú? ―pregunta. Y a pesar de mi irritación, sonrío un poco. Mis ojos van a la cicatriz en mi pulgar. ―Cuando tenía dieciséis, trabajaba en un auto lavado ―le digo―. No había otras chicas trabajando allí, pero fue todo lo que pude encontrar, así que lo hice con un equipo lleno de chicos. Siento el calor de su cuerpo junto a mí, mido el subir y bajar de su pecho, y me encuentro emparejándolo. —Tuve mucha mierda ―continúo, recordando los comentarios sarcásticos cada vez que me inclinaba o me recargaba en un auto―. Los adolescentes pueden ser... ―Sí ―termina Pike por mí concordando, sin humor en su voz. Intercambiamos una sonrisa. Él también solía ser un adolescente, después de todo, supongo. ―Había un chico llamado Nick que siempre alejaba a la gente de mí ―continúo, recordando―. Era amable conmigo y me hablaba. No me miraba, ni actuaba inmaduro. Froto mi dedo sobre la cicatriz ausentemente. ―Un día me invitó a salir, y trajo a Cole. ―Miro a Pike, la rabia de antes de repente se ha ido―. Nos volvimos amigos, nos divertíamos mucho, y creo que me volví más cercana a ellos de lo que había sido con alguien. Excepto mi hermana, claro. Asiente, luciendo como si estuviera pensando. Y entonces pregunta: ―¿Y tú y Cole comenzaron a salir? ¿Cómo tomó eso Nick? Vuelvo a mirar a la piscina, respirando profundo. ―Nunca lo supo ―digo en voz baja. Pike permanece en silencio, la tensión en el aire ahora es espesa. Dije que él nunca lo supo. No que no lo sabe. Aclaro mi garganta. ―Una noche, hace un par de años, antes que Cole y yo estuviéramos juntos ―le digo―. Él y Nick salieron. Cole bebió demasiado y se desmayó. Nick consiguió un aventón con alguien más. Me arden los ojos por las lágrimas que intento contener, y mi boca está tan seca. —El conductor perdió el control de su camioneta, dio vueltas, y todos los chicos en la parte de atrás se cayeron. ―Oh, Dios mío ―dice en voz baja, dejando caer su cabeza. Termino: ―Nick quedó atrapado debajo de la camioneta. Murió un par de días después. Aprieto mis puños para intentar no llorar. Él era la única persona que conocí que murió. No fue como el abandono de mi madre. Nick no quería irse. Él vivía por los videos juegos, y su cabello siempre estaba colgando fuera de sus gafas, y extraño todas sus peculiaridades.

• 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 The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I will now turn from Arveragus to Dorigen. She loved her husband with her whole heart and, of course, she wept and sighed during his long absence. That is the way of noble ladies. She mourned; she stayed awake all night; she cried; she wailed out loud; she could not eat. She missed him so much that nothing else in the world mattered to her. Her friends tried to comfort her, knowing how greatly she suffered. They tried to reassure her and to reason with her. They told her, night and day, that she was tormenting herself unnecessarily. They tried every means of consoling her and of cheering her. You all know well enough that, in time, water will wear down the hardest stone. If you scrape into flint, you will eventually create an image. So by degrees Dorigen was comforted. Little by little, she was persuaded to calm down. She could not remain in despair for ever, after all. Arveragus himself was writing her letters all the time, telling her he was well and that he was eager to return. Without these messages of love she would never have regained her composure. She would have died of sorrow, I am sure of it. As soon as they saw that she was beginning to recover, her friends got on their knees and begged her to go out and enjoy herself. She should spend time in their company, and in that way try to forget her cares. Perpetual woe is a dark burden. Eventually she agreed with them that this was for the best. The castle of Dorigen was close to the sea, as I said, and there were many times when she would walk with her friends along the shore. From that vantage she could see all the ships and barges making their way over the waves, sailing to one port or another. But the sight of them of course renewed her suffering. Often she murmured to herself, ‘Alas! If only one of these ships were bringing home my husband! Then all this pain would go away. Then would my heart be light again.’ There were other times when she would stand by the side of the cliff, and look down upon the waves dashing against the black rocks. She would be filled with anxiety, so nervous and fearful that she could hardly stay upon her feet. She would sit down upon the short grass, and gaze out at the ocean. Then she would pray to God, her words mingled with sorrowful sighs.

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

  I should put it away and get to work on another book from scratch. The thing is, I had already spent most of the advance. I went into a very deep state of grief and fear at the post office, and this stuck with me for the next week or so. I was wild with humiliation and deeply afraid for my future. But I called someone who loved my writing, who had encouraged me all along, and she told me to give the book a little space, a little sunshine and fresh air. She said not to pick it up again for a month. She said that everything was going to be Okay, although she did not know exactly what Okay might look like. So I went off to the elephants’ graveyard, renting a room in a huge old house on the Petaluma River. It was very quiet and pastoral. No one knew who I was. Hardly anyone knew where I was. The meadows outside my windows were filled with cows and grass and hay. I licked my wounds for a couple of weeks and waited for my confidence to return. I tried not to make any big decisions about how to salvage the book or my writing life, because the one thing I knew for sure was that if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans. Finally, I found myself ready to look at the book again. I read it through in one sitting and loved it. I thought it was wonderful. A huge mess, granted, but a wonderful mess. I called my editor and told him I knew what I was doing now and that I would prove this to him. He was genuinely happy. There was a huge dilapidated living room in the house where I lived, and one morning I took my three-hundred-page manuscript and began to lay it down on the floor, section by section. I put a two-page scene here, a ten-page passage there. I put these pages down in a path, from beginning to end, like a horizontal line of dominoes, or like a garden path made of tiles. There were sections up front that clearly belonged in the middle, there were scenes in the last fifty pages that would be wonderful near the beginning, there were scenes and moments scattered throughout that could be collected and rewritten to make a great introduction to the two main characters.