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 Middlesex (2002)

  In the daytime Zora and I were always straight. She had one hun- dred and eighteen pages of her book written. These were typed on the thinnest onionskin paper I had ever seen. The manuscript was therefore perishable. You had to be careful in handling it. Zora made me sit at the kitchen table while she brought it out like a librarian with a Shakespeare folio. Otherwise, Zora didn't treat me like a kid. 491 She let me keep my own hours. She asked me to help with the rent. We spent most days padding around the house in our kimonos. Z. had a stern expression when she was working. I sat out on the deck and read books from her shelves, Kate Chopin, Jane Bowles, and the poetry of Gary Snyder. Though we looked nothing alike, Zora was always emphatic about our solidarity. We were up against the same prejudices and misunderstandings. I was gladdened by this, but I never felt sisterly around Zora. Not completely. I was always aware of her figure under the robe. I went around averting my eyes and trying not to stare. On the street people took me for a boy. Zora turned heads. Men whistied at her. She didn't like men, however. Only les- bians. She had a dark side. She drank to extremes and sometimes acted ugly. She raged against football, male bonding, babies, breeders, politicians, and men in general. There was a violence in Zora at such times that set me on edge. She had been the high school beauty. She had submitted to caresses that had done nothing for her and to ses- sions of painful lovemaking. Like many beauties, Zora had attracted the worst guys. The varsity stooges. The herpetic section leaders. It was no surprise that she held a low opinion of men. Me she ex- empted. She thought I was okay. Not a real man at all. Which I felt was pretty much right. Hermaphroditus's parents were Hermes and Aphrodite. Ovid doesn't tell us how they felt after their child went missing. As for my own parents, they still kept the telephone nearby at all times, refusing to leave the house together. But now they were scared to answer the phone, fearing bad news. Ignorance seemed preferable to grief Whenever the phone rang, they paused before answering it. They waited until the third or fourth peal. Their agony was harmonious. During the months I was missing, Milton and Tessie experienced the same spikes of panic, the same mad hopes, the same sleeplessness. It had been years since their emo- tional life had been so in sync and this had the result of bringing back the times when they first fell in love. They began to make love with a frequency they hadn't known for years. If Chapter Eleven was out, they didn't wait to go upstairs but used whatever room they happened to be in. They tried the red 492

• From Middlesex (2002)

  few interior walls, divested of the formalities of bourgeois life, a place designed for a new type of human being, who would inhabit a new world. I couldn't help feeling, of course, that that person was me, me and all the others like me. After the funeral service, everyone got back into the cars for the drive to the cemetery. Purple pennants flew from the antennas as the procession drove slowly through the streets of the old East Side where my father had grown up, where he had once serenaded my mother from his bedroom window. The motorcade came down Mack Avenue and when they passed Hurlbut, Tessie looked out the limousine window to see the old house. But she couldn't find it. Bushes had grown up all around, the yards were littered, and the de- crepit houses now all looked the same to her. A little later, the hearse and limousines encountered a line of motorcycles and my mother no- ticed that the drivers were all wearing fezzes. They were Shriners, in town for a convention. Respectfully, they pulled over to let the fu- neral procession pass. On Middlesex, I remained in the front doorway. I took my duty seriously and didn't budge, despite the freezing wind. Milton, the child apostate, would have been confirmed in his skepticism, because his spirit never returned that day, trying to get past me. The mulberry tree had no leaves. The wind swept over the crusted snow into my Byzantine face, which was the face of my grandfather and of the American girl I had once been. I stood in the door for an hour, maybe two. I lost track after a while, happy to be home, weeping for my father, and thinking about what was next. 529 FICTION THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER "Part Tristram Shandy, part Ishmael, part Holden Caulfield, Cal is a ;ing narrator. ... A deeply affecting portrait of one family's tumultuous engagement with the American twentieth century." —The New York Times IDDLESEX TELLS THE BREATHTAKING STORY OF CALLIOPE StEPHANIDES and three generations of the Greek-American Stephanides family, who travel from a tiny village overlooking Mount Olympus in Asia Minor to Prohibition-era Detroit, witnessing its glory days as the Motor City, and the race riots of 1967, before they move II out to the tree-lined streets of suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan. To understand why Calliope is not like other girls, she has to uncover a guilty family secret, and the astonishing genetic history that turns Callie into Cal, one of the most audacious and wondrous narrators in contemporary fiction. Lvrical and thrilling:, Middlesex is an exhilarating; reinvention of the American epic. slv American, A big, cheeky, splendid novel ... lyrical and fine." — The Boston Globe - A towering achievement . . . He has emerged as the great American writer that manv of us suspected him of being." — Los Angeles Times Book Review (cover review) . . This feast of a novel is

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “How did I get so naked? ” “I just want you to stay,” I say. “No,” she says, and her weight falls dead on me, crushing my chest, stealing away my breath, and she is cold and wet, like melting ice. Her head is split in half and a pink-gray sludge oozes from the fracture in her skull and drips down onto my face, and she stinks of formaldehyde and rotting meat. I gag and push her off me, terrified. — I woke up falling, and landed with a thud on the floor. Thank God I’m a bottom-bunk man. I had slept for fourteen hours. It was morning. Wednesday, I thought. Her funeral Sunday. I wondered if the Colonel would get back by then, where he was. He had to come back for the funeral, because I could not go alone, and going with anyone other than the Colonel would amount to alone. The cold wind buffeted against the door, and the trees outside the back window shook with such force that I could hear it from our room, and I sat in my bed and thought of the Colonel out there somewhere, his head down, his teeth clenched, walking into the wind. four days after IT WAS FIVE IN THE MORNING and I was reading a biography of the explorer Meriwether Lewis (of & Clark fame) and trying to stay awake when the door opened and the Colonel walked in. His pale hands shook, and the almanac he held looked like a puppet dancing without strings. “Are you cold?” I asked. He nodded, slipped off his sneakers, and climbed into my bed on the bottom bunk, pulling up the covers. His teeth chattered like Morse code. “Jesus. Are you all right?” “Better now. Warmer,” he said. A small, ghost white hand appeared from beneath the comforter. “Hold my hand, will ya?” “All right, but that’s it. No kissing.” The quilt shook with his laughter. “Where have you been?” “I walked to Montevallo.” “Forty miles?!” “Forty-two,” he corrected me. “Well. Forty-two there. Forty-two back. Eighty-two miles. No. Eighty-four. Yes. Eighty-four miles in forty-five hours.” “What the hell’s in Montevallo?” I asked. “Not much. I just walked till I got too cold, and then I turned around.” “You didn’t sleep?” “No! The dreams are terrible. In my dreams, she doesn’t even look like herself anymore. I don’t even remember what she looked like.” I let go of his hand, grabbed last year’s yearbook, and found her picture. In the black-and-white photograph, she’s wearing her orange tank top and cutoff jeans that stretch halfway down her skinny thighs, her mouth open wide in a frozen laugh as her left arm holds Takumi in a headlock. Her hair falls over her face just enough to obscure her cheeks. “Right,” the Colonel said. “Yeah. I was so tired of her getting upset for no reason.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Why, Gary?”“I saw angels walking up and down a ladder in the living room.”Queenie and Rita sucked in their breath.“A vision.”“Uh-huh.”“I will give my angels charge over them.”“That’s right.” On November 22, 1963, our time in the Houston house came to an end. After a long night of interrupted sleep, we woke up late and had just turned on the TV to watch As the World Turns . Soap-opera tragedies never seemed far-fetched to me. Secret lives? Ditto. Preachers who turn into uncles. Okay. Two or three wives? So what. A few years later when TV was no longer a sin and my mother and I watched The Secret Storm together, she made a crack about how there was always a secret storm brewing on those shows.“It’s like real life.”“Whose life, Donna?”If she didn’t know, I wasn’t about to tell her.Queenie and Rita sipped their first cups of coffee that afternoon as Nancy and Grandpa sat down on-screen to have their coffee. Nancy told Grandpa her son Bob had invited Lisa to Thanksgiving dinner. Grandpa lifted his eyebrow and asked if she knew why Bob had invited Lisa. Before Nancy could answer, a slide clicked over the scene and a man’s urgent monotone replaced make-believe family confidences.“Here is a bulletin from CBS news. In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by the shooting.”Rita stood up slowly and stared at the TV. She cupped her face with her hands.“The president. They’ve shot the president.”Queenie groaned. Rita sank to the floor as if someone had let the air out of her. Queenie rolled off the couch, switched off the TV, and dropped to her knees. The television went dark and silent for the first time in months. Scattered like islands across our living room, we prayed without making a sound. Under the tent, people called on God as if he were hard of hearing. I had always thought of prayer as words, lots of words, until that day when a vast sorrow rolled across the country and a prayer of silence was the only possible response. I stayed hunched over until the sound of running water and clinking dishes signaled it was time to get up. Queenie brought two fresh cups of coffee into the living room and handed one to Rita. They took up their positions at either end of the couch and lit cigarettes. I switched on the TV. More reports followed. A would-be assassin in Dallas. In Dallas, Texas. Three bullet shots. The president slumped into the lap of Mrs. Kennedy.“Oh no,” she said, “oh no.”The helplessness of those words split me in two and my own grief came pouring out. Queenie opened her arms and waved me over.“Come on over here, baby. Come on.”She wiped my tears and pulled me against her soft body.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Milton now dedicated himself to that end. He spent much of every day on the phone, calling police departments across the coun- try. He pestered the detective in New York, asking if there was any progress in my case. At the public library he consulted telephone books, writing down the numbers and addresses of police depart- ments and runaway shelters, and then he methodically went down this list, calling every number and asking if anyone had seen someone who fit my description. He sent my photograph to these police sta- tions and he sent a memo to his franchise operators, asking them to post my picture at every Hercules restaurant. Long before my naked body appeared in medical textbooks, my face appeared on bulletin boards and in windows across the nation. The police station in San Francisco received one of the photographs, but there was little chance of my being recognized by it now. Like a real outiaw, I had al- ready changed my appearance. And biology was perfecting my dis- guise day by day. Middlesex began to fill up with friends and relatives again. Aunt Zo and our cousins came over to give my parents moral support. Pe- ter Tatakis closed his chiropractic office early one day and drove in from Birmingham to have dinner with Milt and Tessie. Jimmy and Phyllis Fioretos brought koulouria and ice cream. It was as if the Cyprus invasion had never happened. The women congregated in the kitchen, preparing food, while the men sat in the living room, con- versing in low tones. Milton got the dusty bottles from the liquor cabinet. He removed the bottle of Crown Royal from its purple vel- vet sack and set it out for the guests. Our old backgammon set came out from under a stack of board games, and a few of the older women began to count their worry beads. Everyone knew that I had run away but no one knew why. Privately, they said to each other, "Do you think she's pregnant?" And, "Did Callie have a boyfriend?" And, "She always seemed like a good kid. Never would have thought she'd pull something like this." And, "Always crowing about their kid with the straight As at that hoity-toity school. Well, they're not crow- ing now." Father Mike held Tessie's hand as she lay suffering on the bed up- stairs. Removing his jacket, wearing only his black short-sleeved shirt 467

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "I can't see my feet," I said. "It's dark in here." He passed me the joint again and I took it. I inhaled and held the smoke in. I let it keep burning my lungs because I wanted to distract myself from the pain in my heart. Rex and the Object were still kiss- ing. I looked away, out the dark, grimy window. "Everything looks really blue," I said. "Did you notice that?" 372 "Oh yeah," said Jerome. "All kinds of strange epiphenomena." The Oracle of Delphi had been a girl about my same age. All day long she sat over a hole in the ground, the omphalos', the navel of the earth, breathing petrochemical fumes escaping from underneath. A teenage virgin, the Oracle told the future, speaking the first metered verse in history. Why do I bring this up? Because Calliope was also a virgin that night (for a little while longer at least). And she, too, had been inhaling hallucinogens. Ethylene was escaping from the cedar swamp outside the shack. Dressed not in a diaphanous robe but a pair of overalls, Calliope began to feel very funny indeed. "Want another beer?" Jerome asked. "Okay." He handed me a golden can of Stroh's. I put the sweating can to my lips and drank. Then I drank some more. Jerome and I both felt the weight of the obligation. We smiled at each other nervously. I looked down and rubbed my knee through my overalls. And when I looked up again Jerome's face was close. His eyes were shut, like the eyes of a boy jumping feet first off the high dive. Before I knew what was happening he was kissing me. Kissing the girl who had never been kissed. (Not since Clementine Stark, anyway.) I didn't stop him. I remained completely still while he did his thing. Despite my light- headedness, I could feel everything. The shocking wetness of his mouth. The whiskery feel of his lips. His barging tongue. Certain fla- vors, too, the beer, the dope, a lingering breath mint, and beneath all that the actual, animal taste of a boy's mouth. I could taste the gamy tang of Jerome's hormones and the metal of his fillings. I opened one eye. Here was the fine hair I'd spent so much time admiring on an- other head. Here were the freckles on the forehead, on the bridge of the nose, along the ears. But it wasn't the right face; they weren't the right freckles, and the hair was dyed black. Behind my impassive face my soul curled up into a ball, waiting until die unpleasantness was over.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  We reached Detroit a little after six in the morning. The smashed- up Eldorado had been towed to a police yard. Waiting in the airport parking lot was our mother's car, the "Florida Special." The lemon- colored Cadillac was all we had left of Milton. It was already begin- ning to take on the attributes of a relic. The driver's seat was sunken from the weight of his body. You could see the impression of Mil- ton's cloven backside in the leather upholstery. Tessie filled this hol- low with throw pillows in order to see over the steering wheel. Chapter Eleven had tossed the pillows into the backseat. In the unseasonal car, with its powerful air-conditioning switched off and sunroof closed, we started for home. We passed the giant Uniroyal tire and the thready woods of Inkster. "What time's the funeral?" I asked. "Eleven." 516 It was just getting light. The sun was rising from wherever it rose, behind the distant factories maybe, or over the blind river. The grow- ing light was like a leakage or flood, seeping into the ground. "Go through downtown," I told my brother. "It'll take too long." "We've got time. I want to see it." Chapter Eleven obliged me. We took 1-94 past River Rouge and Olympia Stadium and then curled in toward the river on the Lodge Freeway and entered the city from the north. Grow up in Detroit and you understand the way of all things. Early on, you are put on close relations with entropy. As we rose out of the highway trough, we could see the condemned houses, many burned, as well as the stark beauty of all the vacant lots, gray and frozen. Once-elegant apartment buildings stood next to scrapyards, and where there had been furriers and movie palaces there were now blood banks and methadone clinics and Mother Waddles Perpetual Mission. Returning to Detroit from bright climes usually depressed me. But now I welcomed it. The blight eased the pain of my father's death, making it seem like a general state of affairs. At least the city didn't mock my grief by being sparkling or winsome.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Silently Tessie inserted the links, tragedy in one sleeve, comedy in the other. As we came out of the hotel that morning they glittered in the early morning sun, and under the influence of those two-sided accessories, what happened next took on contrasting tones. There was tragedy, certainly, in Milton's expression as they left me off at the library. During Milton's time away, his image of me had reverted to 425 the girl Pd been a year earlier. Now he faced the real me again. He saw my ungainly movements as I climbed the library steps, the broadness of my shoulders inside my Papagallo coat. Watching from the cab, Milton came face-to-face with the essence of tragedy, which is something determined before you're born, something you can't es- cape or do anything about, no matter how hard you try. And Tessie, so used to feeling the world through her husband, saw that my prob- lem was getting worse, was accelerating. Their hearts were wrung with anguish, the anguish of having children, a vulnerability as aston- ishing as the capacity for love that parenthood brings, in a cuff link set all its own . . . . . . But now the cab was driving away, Milton was wiping his brow with his handkerchief; and the grinning face in his right sleeve came into view, for there was a comic aspect to events that day, too. There was comedy in the way Milton, while still worrying about me, kept one eye on the rocketing taxi meter. At the Clinic, there was comedy in the way Tessie, idly picking up a waiting-room magazine, found herself reading about the juvenile sexual rehearsal play of rhe- sus monkeys. There was even a brand of harsh satire in my parents' quest itself, because it typified the American belief that everything can be solved by doctors. All this comedy, however, is retrospective. As Milton and Tessie prepared to see Dr. Luce, a hot foam was rising in their stomachs. Milton was thinking back to his early navy days, to his time in the landing craft. This was just like that. Any minute the door was going to drop away and they would have to plunge into the churning night surf . . . In his office Luce got straight to the point. "Let me review the facts of your daughter's case," he said. Tessie noted the change at once. Daughter. He had said "daughter."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  I hadeverwornorpossessed.Theyallseemed tobeheaped atthe footof herbed—theberibbonedsocks,the dolls,thehairclips, the fullset ofMadelinebooks, the party dresses,theredMary Janes, the jumpers,theEasy-BakeOven, thehulahoop.These objectswere thetrailthatledbacktome.Howcouldsuch a traillead toaboy? Andyetnow,apparently,itdid.Tessie wentbackovertheevents ofthelast yearand a half,lookingforsigns shemighthavemissed. It wasn'tsodifferentfromwhatanymother woulddo, confronted with a shockingrevelation abouther teenage daughter.IfIhaddiedof a drugoverdoseorjoinedacult,mymother'sthinkingwouldhave takenessentially thesame form.Thereappraisal wasthesamebutthe questionsweredifferent.WasthatwhyIwassotall?Diditexplain whyI hadn'tgottenmy period? Shethoughtaboutour waxing ap- pointmentsattheGoldenFleeceandmyhuskyalto—everything,re- ally:thewayIneverfilledoutdressesright, theway women'sgloves nolongerfitme.AllthethingsTessiehadacceptedaspartofthe awkward age suddenlyseemedominous toher. How could she not haveknown!Shewasmymother,shehadgivenbirthtome,shewas closer tomethan I wasto myself.My painwas herpain,my joy her joy. But didn'tCallie'sfacehave a strangelooksometimes?Soin- tense, so...masculine. Andno faton her,nowhere at all,allbones, nohips.Butitwasn'tpossible ... andDr.LucehadsaidthatCallie wasa...and whyhadn'thementionedanythingaboutchromo- somes ... andhowcoulditbetrue?Soranmymother's thoughts, as hermind darkenedandthe glinting stopped. Andaftershehad thought allthesethings,Tessiethoughtabout the Object, aboutmy closefriendshipwiththe Object.She rememberedthatday whenthe girlhaddied duringtheplay,recalled rushingbackstagetofindme huggingthe Object,comfortingher,stroking herhair,andthe wild lookonmyface,not really sadness at all ... Fromthislast thoughtTessieturnedback. Milton,onthe otherhand,didn'twastetime reevaluating theevi- dence.On hotel stationeryCalliehadproclaimed, "Iamnota girl." ButCalliewasjust a kid. What didsheknow?Kids saidallkinds of crazythings. My fatherdidn'tunderstandwhathad mademe fleemy surgery.Hecouldn'tfathomwhyIwouldn'twant to be fixed, cured. Andhewascertainthatspeculatingaboutmy reasonsfor running away was besidethepoint.Firsttheyhadtofind me.Theyhad toget 466 me back safeand sound. They could dealwiththemedicalsituation later. Miltonnow dedicatedhimselftothatend.He spentmuch of everyday on thephone,callingpolicedepartmentsacrossthecoun- try. He pestered thedetectiveinNewYork,askingiftherewasany progressin my case.Atthe public library heconsulted telephone books, writing downthenumbers and addressesof police depart- ments and runawayshelters,andthenhemethodicallywentdown thislist, callingeverynumberandaskingifanyonehadseensomeone whofitmy description.Hesentmyphotographtothesepolicesta- tions andhesenta memo tohisfranchiseoperators,askingthemto post mypictureat everyHerculesrestaurant.Longbefore my naked body appeared inmedicaltextbooks, my faceappearedonbulletin boardsandin windowsacrossthenation.ThepolicestationinSan Francisco receivedoneofthephotographs, but therewaslittle chanceofmybeing recognized by itnow.Like a realoutiaw,Ihadal- ready changedmyappearance.Andbiologywasperfectingmydis- guisedaybyday. Middlesexbegantofillup withfriendsandrelatives again. Aunt Zo and our cousins came over togivemy parentsmoralsupport.Pe- terTatakisclosedhischiropracticofficeearlyonedayanddrovein fromBirmingham tohave dinnerwithMiltandTessie. Jimmy and Phyllis Fioretosbroughtkoulouriaandicecream.Itwasasifthe Cyprus invasionhadneverhappened.Thewomen congregated inthe kitchen,preparing food, while themensat inthelivingroom, con- versinginlow tones. Miltongotthedustybottlesfromtheliquor cabinet. HeremovedthebottleofCrownRoyalfromitspurplevel- vetsack and set it out fortheguests.Ouroldbackgammon set came outfrom underastack ofboardgames, andafewofthe older women began to counttheirworrybeads.EveryoneknewthatIhad runaway butnooneknewwhy.Privately,theysaidtoeachother, "Doyou think she's pregnant?"And,"Did Calliehaveaboyfriend?" And, "She alwaysseemedlike a goodkid.Neverwouldhavethought she'd pull somethinglikethis."And,"Alwayscrowingabouttheirkid with thestraight As at thathoity-toityschool.Well,they're notcrow- ing now." Father Mike heldTessie'shandasshelaysuffering onthebedup- stairs. Removing hisjacket,wearing onlyhisblackshort-sleeved shirt 467 and collar,he toldher thathe would prayformy return. Headvised Tessie to gotochurchand light acandlefor me.I askmyselfnow what FatherMike'sfacelookedlikeas heheldmymother's handin diemaster bedroom. Was there any hint of Schadenfreude* Oftaking pleasureinthe unhappiness ofhisformerfiancee? Ofenjoyment at thefact thathisbrother-in-law'smoney couldn'tprotect himfrom thismisfortune?Or ofreliefthatfor once,ontheride home,hiswife, Zoe, wouldn'tbeabletocomparehim unfavorablywithMilton? I can't answerthesequestions.Asformy mother,shewastranquilized, andremembersonlythatthepressureinher eyesmadeFatherMike's faceappearoddlyelongated,likeapriestin a painting byElGreco. AtnightTessiesleptfitfully.Panickeptwaking her up. In the morningshemadethebedbut,afterbreakfast,sometimeswent tolie on it again, leavinghertinywhite Keds neady onthecarpetandclos- ingtheshades.Thesocketsofhereyesdarkenedandthe blue veinsat hertemplesvisiblythrobbed.Whenthetelephone rang,herheadfelt asifitwouldexplode. "Hello?" "Anyword?"ItwasAuntZo.Tessie'sheartsank. "No." "Don'tworry.She'llturnup." TheyspokeforaminutebeforeTessiesaid she hadtogo."I shouldn'ttieuptheline." Every morning a greatwalloffogdescendsuponthecityofSan Francisco. Itbeginsfaroutatsea.Itforms overtheFarallons,cover- ingthe sealionsontheirrocks,andthenit sweeps onto Ocean Beach, filling thelonggreenbowl ofGoldenGatePark.Thefogob- scures the earlymorningjoggersandthe lonepractitionersoftaichi. Itmists upthewindows of theGlassPavilion.Itcreeps overtheen- tirecity,over themonumentsand movietheaters,overthe Panhandle dopedens and theflophousesinthe Tenderloin.Thefog covers the pastel Victorian mansionsinPacific Heightsandshrouds the rainbow-colored housesintheHaight.Itwalksup anddownthe twistingstreets ofChinatown;itboardsthe cablecars,making their clangingbellssound likebuoys;it climbstothe topofCoitTower until you can'tsee itanymore;it moves inonthe Mission,where the mariachiplayersare stillasleep;anditbothers thetourists.Thefog of 468

• From Middlesex (2002)

  HOIDEIHOVIES y eyes,switchedon at last, saw the following:anursereaching out to takemefromthedoctor;mymother'striumphant face, asbigasMount Rushmore,asshewatchedmeheadingformy first bath.(Isaid itwasimpossible,butstillIrememberit.)Also other things,material andimmaterial:therelentiessglareofOR lights; whiteshoessqueakingoverwhitefloors; a houseflycontami- nating gauze; andallaroundme,upanddownthehallsofWomen's Hospital, individualdramasunderway.Icouldsensethehappiness ofcouples holding firstbabiesand thefortitudeofCatholicsaccept- ingtheir ninth. Icouldfeel oneyoungmother'sdisappointmentat the reappearance ofher husband'sweakchinonthefaceofhernew- born daughter, andanew father's terror as hecalculatedthetuition for triplets. Onthefloors aboveDelivery,inflowerlessrooms, women lay recoveringfrom hysterectomiesandmastectomies. Teenage girls withburst ovariancystsnoddedoutonmorphine.It was all around mefrom the beginning, the weight of femalesuffer- ing, with its biblical justificationandvanishingacts. The nurse who cleanedmeupwasnamed Rosalee.She wasa pretty, long-facedwoman fromtheTennessee mountains.After suc- tioning the mucusfrom mynostrils,shegavemea shot ofvitaminK to coagulate myblood. Inbreeding iscommoninAppalachia,as are genetic deformities,but NurseRosalee noticednothing unusual about me. She was concerned aboutapurple splotch on my cheek, 215 thinkingitwasaport-winestain.It turnedouttobeplacenta, and washedoff.NurseRosaleecarried mebacktoDr.Philobosian foran anatomicalexam. Sheplacedmedownonthetable butkeptone handon meforsecurity'ssake.She'dnoticedthedoctor's hand tremorduringthedelivery. In 1960, Dr.NishanPhilobosian wasseventy-four. He had a camel'shead,drooping onitsneck,withalltheactivityinthecheeks. Whitehairsurroundedhisotherwisebald headinanimbusand pluggedhisbigearslike cotton. His surgeon'seyeglasseshadrectan- gular loupesattached. Hebeganwithmyneck,searchingfor cretinous folds.He countedmyfingers andtoes.Heinspectedmypalate;henotedmy Moro reflexwithoutsurprise.Hecheckedmybacksidefor a sacral tail.Then, puttingmeonmybackagain,hetookholdofeachofmy curved legsandpulledthemapart. Whatdidhe see?Theclean, saltwatermussel ofthe femalegeni- talia.Theareainflamed,swollenwithhormones.Thattouchofthe baboonall babieshave.Dr.Philobosianwould havehadtopullthe foldsapartto see any better,but hedidn't.Becauserightatthat in- stantNurse Rosalee(forwhomthemoment wasalsodestiny)acci- dentallytouchedhisarm.Dr.Phillookedup. Presbyopic,Armenian eyes met middle-aged,Appalachianones. Thegazelingered, then broke away.Fiveminutesold,andalreadythe themesofmylife — chance andsex— announced themselves.Nurse Rosaleeblushed. "Beautiful," Dr.Philobosiansaid,meaningme butlookingathisas- sistant. "Abeautiful,healthygirl." OnSeminole, thebirthcelebrationswere temperedby theprospect ofdeath. Desdemona hadfoundLefty onourkitchen floor,lying nextto hisoverturned coffeecup.Shekneltbeside himand pressedanear to hischest.When sheheardnoheartbeat,she cried outhisname. Her wailechoedoff thekitchen'shardsurfaces: the toaster,theoven, the refrigerator.Finally shecollapsed onhischest. Inthe silencethat fol- lowed,however, Desdemonafelt a strange emotion rising insideher. Itspreadinthespace betweenherpanicand grief. Itwas like agas in- flating her.Soonher eyessnappedopenas she recognizedtheemo- tion: itwas happiness. Tears were running downher face,shewas 216 already beratingGod for takingherhusbandfrom her, but onthe otherside ofthese properemotions wasan altogetherimproperre- lief.The worst hadhappened.This was it:theworstthing.Forthe firsttime inher lifemygrandmother hadnothingtoworryabout. Emotions, inmyexperience,aren't coveredbysinglewords. I don'tbelieve in"sadness,""joy,"or"regret."Maybethe best proof thatthe language ispatriarchal isthatitoversimplifiesfeeling.I'dlike tohaveat my disposalcomplicated hybridemotions,Germanictrain- car constructionslike,say,"thehappinessthat attends disaster." Or: "the disappointmentofsleepingwithone'sfantasy." I'd like toshow how "intimationsof mortality broughton by agingfamilymembers" connects with"thehatredofmirrors thatbeginsinmiddleage."I'd liketo have a wordfor"thesadness inspiredbyfailingrestaurants"as wellas for"theexcitementofgetting a room witha minibar." I've neverhadtherightwordstodescribemylife,andnowthatI'veen- teredmystory,Ineedthemmorethanever.Ican't just sitbackand watchfromadistanceanymore.Fromhereonin,everythingI'lltell youis colored bythe subjectiveexperienceofbeingpartof events. Here'swheremy story splits,divides,undergoesmeiosis.Alreadythe worldfeelsheavier,nowI'm a partofit.I'mtalkingaboutbandages and soppedcotton,thesmellofmildewinmovietheaters,andofall thelousy catsandtheirstinking litterboxes,of rainoncitystreets whenthe dustcomesupand theoldItalianmen take theirfolding chairsinside. Upuntilnow ithasn'tbeenmyworld.NotmyAmer- ica. Butherewe are,atlast. The happinessthatattends disasterdidn'tpossessDesdemonafor long. Afew secondslatershe returnedherheadtoherhusband's chest— andheard hisheart beating!Lefty was rushed tothehospital. Two days laterheregained consciousness.Hismindwasclear,his memory intact. Butwhen hetried to ask whether thebabywasa boy or agirl, hefound hewas unabletospeak. According to Julie Kikuchi, beautyisalwaysfreakish. Yesterday, over strudel and coffeeat Cafe Einstein,shetriedtoprovethisto me. "Look atthis model,"she said, holding upa fashionmagazine."Look ather ears. Theybelong onaMartian."Shestarted flipping pages. "Orlook atthe mouthonthisone. Youcouldputyourwholehead init." 217

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  You’ll recall that you were asked what the most important question facing people is, and how the three traditions we’re studying this year address that question. This was Alaska’s question.” With a sigh, he grabbed hold of his chair and lifted himself out of it, then wrote on the blackboard: How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? —A. Y. “I’m going to leave that up for the rest of the semester,” he said. “Because everybody who has ever lost their way in life has felt the nagging insistence of that question. At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze, and I don’t want us to forget Alaska, and I don’t want to forget that even when the material we study seems boring, we’re trying to understand how people have answered that question and the questions each of you posed in your papers—how different traditions have come to terms with what Chip, in his final, called ‘people’s rotten lots in life.’” Hyde sat down. “So, how are you guys doing?” The Colonel and I said nothing, while a bunch of people who didn’t know Alaska extolled her virtues and professed to be devastated, and at first, it bothered me. I didn’t want the people she didn’t know—and the people she didn’t like—to be sad. They’d never cared about her, and now they were carrying on as if she were a sister. But I guess I didn’t know her completely, either. If I had, I’d have known what she’d meant by “To be continued?” And if I had cared about her as I should have, as I thought I did, how could I have let her go? So they didn’t bother me, really. But next to me, the Colonel breathed slowly and deeply through his nose like a bull about to charge. He actually rolled his eyes when Weekday Warrior Brooke Blakely, whose parents had received a progress report courtesy of Alaska, said, “I’m just sad I never told her I loved her. I just don’t understand why .” — “That’s such bullshit,” the Colonel said as we walked to lunch. “As if Brooke Blakely gives two shits about Alaska.” “If Brooke Blakely died, wouldn’t you be sad?” I asked. “I guess, but I wouldn’t bemoan the fact I never told her I loved her. I don’t love her. She’s an idiot.” I thought everyone else had a better excuse to grieve than we did—after all, they hadn’t killed her—but I knew better than to try to talk to the Colonel when he was mad. nine days after “I’VE GOT A THEORY,” the Colonel said as I walked in the door after a miserable day of classes.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  The audience lined up to shake his hand as they had years earlier. As they filed by, they gripped his arm, pulled him close, and offered their condolences.“So sorry for your loss.”“We’re praying for you every day.”“Don’t give up. God’s gonna see you through.”After everything they knew about Brother Terrell, after all the affairs and lies and moneygrubbing, these people had only soft words for him. I brought my hand to my face. It was wet. Only then did I realize I had cried silently and steadily throughout the funeral. Not over Randall or the loss, so much loss; not the visions of family or redemption laid to waste. It was something else, something alien and familiar as my prodigal heart. I watched an elderly couple make their way through the line. I saw the concern in their faces as they approached Brother Terrell and grabbed his hands, eager to convey all they carried in their hearts for him. He inclined his head as he listened and nodded.“Okay. Okay. We ’preciate that. Bless you, now.” A flash of a smile that moved from shy to showtime in an instant, his eyes sliding off to the next in line. The couple walked past me, hands clasped, each leaning on the other, faces shining. They looked . . . blessed. Yes, that was the word. By a con man? A prophet? A performer?I had spent a lifetime deciding, and each time I thought I knew, the answer proved too small to encompass my experience. Or was it the question? Maybe it wasn’t about Brother Terrell, but two worlds: one under the tent and the other outside. Each time I turned toward one, I turned away from some part of myself. I watched the people move through the line. Women with their arms folded across their chests, hugging their elbows. The men with their straight-ahead stares. Kids tugging at their parents. I recognized no one and yet, I knew them. I had always known them. There was no separation, no division, no choice to be made. They had been with me all along, and without knowing it, I had been with them. After all this time. It wasn’t belief or unbelief. It was love. It could not have been otherwise.I walked to the front of the church and took my place in line. When it was my turn, I took his hand and told him I loved him. His expression, practiced and perfect, showed no recognition. “Thank you. ’Preciate that.”I looked into his face. “Brother Terrell, it’s me, Donna.”He stammered and I fell toward him. He pulled me close. After a few seconds we pushed away from each other, shy and embarrassed. He patted my arm. There was nothing to do but move on.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  home. For over a weekmournersarrivedintothedarkenedsala^ wherethe window shadeshad beendrawnandthescentofflowers hung heavyinthe air.Zizmo'sshadowy businessassociatesmadevis- its,as wellas peoplefromthe speakeasieshesuppliedandafewof Lina's friends.Aftergivingthewidow theircondolences,they crossedthe living room tostandbeforetheopen coffin.Inside,rest- ingona pillow,wasa framed photographof Jimmy Zizmo. Thepic- ture showed Zizmointhree-quarters profile,gazing uptowardthe celestial glowofstudiolighting. Sourmelinahadcuttheribbon be- tweentheir weddingcrowns andplacedherhusband'sinside thecof- fin,too. Sourmelina'sanguishatherhusband'sdeathfar exceededheraf- fectionforhiminlife.Fortenhoursover twodaysshekeenedover Jimmy Zizmo'semptycoffin,reciting themirologhia.Inthe best histrionicvillagestyle,Sourmelinaunleashedsoaringarias inwhich shelamentedthedeathofherhusbandandcastigatedhimfor dying. WhenshewasfinishedwithZizmosherailed atGod for takinghim sosoon,andbemoanedthefateofhernewborndaughter."You are to blame! Itisallyourfault!"shecried."Whatreasonwasthere for you todie?Youhaveleftmeawidow!Youhaveleftyourchildonthe streets!"Shenursed thebabyas shekeenedand everysooftenheld herupsothatZizmo andGod could seewhat they haddone.The older immigrants,hearingLina'srage,foundthemselvesreturning to their childhoodinGreece, to memoriesoftheirowngrandparents' or parents'funerals,andeveryoneagreedthatsuchadisplayofgrief would guarantee Jimmy Zizmo'ssouleternal peace. In accordance withChurch law,thefuneralwasheldon aweek- day.Father Stylianopoulos, wearingatall kalimafkion onhishead and alarge pectoral cross, cameto the houseatteninthe morning. After aprayer wassaid, Sourmelinabroughtthepriest a candleburn- ing on aplate. Sheblew it out, thesmokeroseand dispersed, andFa- ther Stylianopoulos brokethe candlein two. Afterthat,everyone filed outside tobeginthe processiontothe church. Lefty hadrented a limousine for theday, and openedthedoorforhiswifeandcousin. When he gotinhimself,hegaveasmall wavetothemanwho had been chosen to stay behind, blockingthe doorway to keepZizmo's spirit from reenteringthehouse. ThismanwasPeterTatakis,the fu- ture chiropractor.Followingtradition, UnclePeteguardedthe door- 127 way for morethan twohours, untilthe service atthechurch was over. The ceremony contained thefullfuneral liturgy, omitting only the final portion wherethe congregationis asked togivethe deceased a finalkiss.Instead, Sourmelinapassed by thecasketand kissed the weddingcrown, followed byDesdemona andLefty. Assumption Church,which atthat timeoperated outof asmallstorefront on HartStreet, wasstilllessthan a quarter full. Jimmy andLina hadnot beenregular churchgoers. Mostofthe mourners wereoldwidows forwhomfunerals wereaformof entertainment. Atlastthepallbear- ersbrought thecasketoutside forthefuneral photograph. The par- ticipantsclustered aroundit,thesimple HartStreet churchin the background. FatherStylianopoulos tookhis position at the headof thecasket.The casketitselfwasreopened to showthephoto of Jimmy Zizmo restingagainst thepleatedsatin. Flagswereheld over thecoffin,the Greekflagononeside, theAmericanflag ontheother. Noonesmiledfor the flash. Afterward,thefuneral procession con- tinued to Forest LawnCemeteryon VanDyke,wherethe casketwas put in storageuntilspring. Therewasstill a possibility thatthe body mightmaterialize withthespring thaw. Despitetheperformance ofallthenecessaryrites, thefamilyre- mained awarethat Jimmy Zizmo's soulwasn'tatrest.After death, thesouls oftheOrthodox donotwingtheirwaydirectly toheaven. They prefer tolingeronearthandannoy theliving.Forthenextforty days, whenevermygrandmother misplacedherdreambook orher worry beads,she blamedZizmo'sspirit.Hehauntedthehouse, mak- ingfresh milk curdleandstealing thebathroomsoap. As themourn- ingperiod drew toanend,DesdemonaandSourmelinapreparedthe kolyvo.It was likeaweddingcake,madeinthreeblindinglywhite tiers.Afence surrounded thetoplayer,from whichgrew firtrees madeofgreen gelatin.Therewasapondofblue jelly,and Zizmo's name wasspelled outinsilver-coateddragees.On thefortieth dayaf- terthe funeral, anotherchurchceremonywasheld, afterwhich every- onereturnedto HurlbutStreet.Theygathered around thekolyvo, whichwassprinkled withthepowderedsugar oftheafterlife and mixedwiththeimmortal seeds ofpomegranates.As soon as they ate the cake,theycould allfeelit: Jimmy Zizmo's soulwasleavingthe earth andenteringheaven, whereitcouldn't botherthemanymore. 128

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Zebra Room had burned down long ago. He was mystified at not being able to find it. All that was left of the old neighborhood was empty land. It seemed that most of the city was gone, as .he gazed down. Empty lot followed empty lot. But Milton was wrong about this, too. Corn was sprouting up in some places, and grass was com- ing back. It looked like farmland down there. "Might as well give it back to the Indians," Milton thought. "Maybe the Potowatomies would want it. They could put up a casino." The sky had turned to cotton candy and the city had become a plain again. But another red light was blinking now. Not on the Penobscot Building; inside the car. It was one of the gauges Milton had never seen before. He knew what it indicated. At that moment, Milton began to cry. All of a sudden his face was wet and he touched it, sniffling and weeping. He slumped back, and because no one was there to see, he opened his mouth to give outlet to his overpowering grief. He hadn't cried since he was a boy. The sound of his deep voice crying surprised him. It was the sound of a bear, wounded or dying. Milton bellowed in the Cadillac as the car began, once again, to descend. He was crying not because he was about to die but because I, Calliope, was still gone, because he had failed to save me, because he had done everything he could to get me back and still I was missing. As the car tipped its nose down, the river appeared again. Milton Stephanides, an old navy man, prepared to meet it. Right at the end he was no longer thinking about me. I have to be honest and record Milton's thoughts as they occurred to him. At the very end he wasn't thinking about me or Tessie or any of us. There was no time. As the car plunged, Milton only had time to be astonished by the way things had turned out. All his life he had lectured everybody about the right way to do things and now he had done this, the stupidest thing ever. He could hardly believe he had loused things up quite so badly. His last word, therefore, was spoken softly, without anger or fear, only with bewilderment and a measure of bravery. "Birdbrain," Milton said, to himself, in his last Cadillac. And then the water claimed him. A real Greek might end on this tragic note. But an American is in- clined to stay upbeat. These days, whenever we talk about Milton, my mother and I come to the conclusion that he got out just in time. 511 He got out before Chapter Eleven, taking over the family business, ran it into the ground in less than five years. Before Chapter Eleven,

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Zebra Roomhad burneddownlong ago.Hewas mystified atnot being abletofindit. Allthatwasleft oftheold neighborhood was empty land.It seemedthatmostofthecitywas gone,as.hegazed down.Empty lot followed empty lot. But Milton was wrongabout this,too. Cornwas sprouting upin someplaces,andgrass was com- ingback. Itlooked likefarmlanddownthere."Mightaswellgiveit backto the Indians,"Milton thought. "MaybethePotowatomies would wantit.Theycouldputup a casino." The skyhad turned to cotton candyand thecityhad becomea plainagain. But anotherred lightwas blinkingnow.NotonthePenobscotBuilding;inside the car.Itwas oneofthegaugesMiltonhadneverseenbefore.Heknew what it indicated. At thatmoment,Miltonbeganto cry. Allof a suddenhisfacewas wetand hetouchedit,snifflingandweeping.Heslumpedback,and because noonewasthere tosee, heopenedhismouth to giveoutlet to hisoverpoweringgrief. He hadn'tcried sincehewasaboy. The soundof hisdeepvoicecryingsurprisedhim.Itwasthesoundofa bear,wounded ordying.MiltonbellowedintheCadillacasthecar began, onceagain,todescend.Hewascryingnotbecausehewas about to die butbecauseI,Calliope, was stillgone, becausehe had failedtosave me,becausehehaddoneeverythinghecouldto get me backandstill Iwasmissing. Asthecar tippeditsnose down, theriverappearedagain.Milton Stephanides, anoldnavy man,prepared tomeetit.Right attheend hewasnolonger thinking aboutme.Ihavetobe honest andrecord Milton's thoughts asthey occurredto him.Atthevery endhewasn't thinking about meorTessie orany of us. There was no time.Asthe carplunged, Miltononly had timeto be astonished bythe way things had turned out.Allhislifehehadlecturedeverybody about theright way todo thingsandnowhehaddone this,thestupidest thingever. He couldhardly believehehadlousedthings upquite so badly. His last word,therefore, wasspokensoftly,without anger or fear, only with bewilderment and a measure ofbravery. "Birdbrain," Milton said, tohimself, inhislastCadillac. Andthen the water claimed him. A real Greek might endonthis tragic note.But anAmerican isin- clined tostay upbeat. These days,whenever wetalk aboutMilton, mymother andI come tothe conclusion thathe gotout justintime. 511 He gotout before ChapterEleven,taking over the family business, ranitinto the groundinlessthanfiveyears.BeforeChapterEleven, ina reprise of Desdemona'sgenderprognostications,beganwearing a tiny silver spoonaroundhisneck.He gotout beforethedrainingof bank accountsandthe jacking up ofcredit cards. BeforeTessie was forcedto sellMiddlesex and movedown to Florida with AuntZo. And hegot outthreemonthsbeforeCadillac,inApril 1975, intro- ducedthe Seville,a fuel-efficientmodel thatlookedas though ithad lostitspants, after whichCadillacs wereneverthesame. Milton got outbeforemany ofthethingsthatIwill notinclude inthisstory, be- cause theyarethecommon tragedies ofAmericanlife,andassuchdo notfit intothissingularanduncommonrecord.Hegotoutbefore theColdWarended, beforemissileshields and globalwarming and September11andasecondPresidentwithonlyonevowelinhis name. Most important,Milton gotoutwithouteverseeingmeagain. Thatwouldnothavebeen easy.I like tothink that my father'slove for mewasstrongenoughthathecouldhaveacceptedme.Butin somewaysit'sbetterthat we never hadto workthatout,heandI. Withrespectto myfatherIwillalwaysremaina girl. There'sakindof purity inthat,thepurityofchildhood. 512 THELAST STOP tsortofstillapplies," said Julie Kikuchi. "Itdoesnot," Isaid. "It'sin the sameballpark." "What Itold you aboutmyselfhasnothingwhatsoevertodowith beinggayorcloseted. I'vealwaysliked girls.I likedgirlswhenIwasa girl." "Iwouldn't be somekindoflast stopforyou?" "Morelike a firststop." Julie laughed.Shestillhadnotmade a decision.Iwaited.Thenat last she said, "Allright." "Allright?" Iasked. Shenodded. "Allr&ht?I said. Soweleft themuseumand went back tomy apartment. We had another drink; weslow-danced inthelivingroom.And thenIled Julie into thebedroom, whereI hadn'tledanyone inquite a long time. She switched offthelights. "Wait a minute,"Isaid. "Are youturningoffthe lights becauseof youorbecause ofme?" "Because ofme." "Why?" "Because I'm ashy,modest Orientallady. Just don'texpect me to bathe you." 513

• From Middlesex (2002)

  lip. There was a criminalaspecttomyappearance,in Tessie's eyes. She couldn't help herself thinkingthat myarrival waspart ofsome settling of accounts, thatMiltonhadbeenpunishedandthather punishment wasjust beginning. For allthesereasons she stoodstill, red-eyed, inthe doorway. "Hi, Mom,"Isaid. "I'mhome." Iwent forwardtomeet her.I setdownmy suitcase,andwhen I looked up again,Tessie'sface hadaltered. Shehadbeen preparing for this moment formonths.Nowherfainteyebrowslifted,thecorners ofher mouthrose, crinklingthewancheeks. Her expressionwasthat ofamother watchinga doctorremove bandagesfromaseverely burnedchild. Anoptimistic, dishonest, bedsideface.Still,it told me allIneededtoknow. Tessiewasgoingtotry toaccept things.Shefelt crushedby whathadhappenedtomebutshewasgoingto endure it formy sake. We embraced.TallasI was, Ilaidmyheadonmymother'sshoul- der,andshestrokedmyhairwhileIsobbed. "Why?"she kept cryingsoftly,shakingherhead."Why?"I thoughtshewastalkingaboutMilton.But thensheclarified: "Why didyourun away, honey?" "Ihadto." "Don't youthinkitwouldhavebeen easierjusttostaythe way you were?" Ilifted myface andlooked into my mother'seyes.AndItoldher: "Thisis the wayIwas." You will want toknow: How didwegetusedto things? Whathap- pened toour memories? Did Calliopehavetodieinordertomake room for Cal? To allthese questionsIofferthesametruism:it's amazing what you cangetusedto. AfterIreturnedfromSanFran- cisco and started living as a male,myfamily foundthat,contrary to popular opinion, gender wasnotallthat important.Mychangefrom girlto boy was farlessdramatic than thedistanceanybodytravels frominfancy to adulthood. InmostwaysI remainedthe personI'd alwaysbeen. Even now,thoughIlive asa man,Iremaininessential ways Tessie's daughter. I'mstilltheonewhorememberstocallher every Sunday. I'm the onesherecountshergrowinglistofailments to. Like any good daughter,I'll betheoneto nurse herinherold 520 age. We still discuss what'swrong withmen; we still,on visits back home, have our hairdone together.Bowingtothechanging times, the Golden Fleece nowcuts men'shairaswellaswomen's.(And I've finally let dearold Sophiegive methatshort haircutshealways wanted.) But allthat came later.Rightthen,wewereinahurry.It wasal- most ten. The limousinefromthe funeralparlorwould bearrivingin thirty-fiveminutes. "Youbetterget cleaned up," Tessie saidtome. The funeral didwhat funeralsare supposed todo:it gaveusnotime to dwell onourfeelings. Hookingherarminmine,Tessie ledme intothe house.Middlesex,too,wasin mourning.Themirror inthe den wascoveredbya blackcloth.Therewereblackstreamerson theslidingdoors. Alltheoldimmigranttouches.Asidefromthat,the house seemedunnaturallystillanddim.Asalways,theenormous windowsbroughttheoutdoorsin,sothatitwaswinter intheliving room;snowlayallaroundus. "Iguessyoucanwearthatsuit,"ChapterElevensaidtome."It lookspretty appropriate." "I doubtyou evenhave asuit." "Idon't.Ididn't gotoastuck-upprivateschool.Where-did you getthatthing,anyway?Itsmells." "Atleastifsasuit." Whilemybrother andI teased eachother, Tessiewatchedclosely. Shewaspicking upthecuefrommybrother thatthisthingthathad happened tomemight behandledlighdy. Shewasn'tsureshecould dothisherself, butshe was watching howthe youngergeneration pulleditoff. Suddenlythere was a strangenoise, likean eagle'scry.Theinter- comonthe livingroom wallcrackled. Avoiceshrieked,"Yoo-hoo! Tessie honey!" The immigrant touches,ofcourse, weren't aroundthehousebe- causeof Tessie. Theperson shrieking over theintercomwas none other than Desdemona. Patient reader, you mayhave been wonderingwhathappened to my grandmother. Youmay have noticedthat,shortlyaftershe climbed into bedforever, Desdemona beganto fadeaway.Butthat was intentional. Iallowed Desdemona to slip out ofmynarrative be- cause, to be honest, inthe dramatic yearsofmytransformation,she 521

• From Middlesex (2002)

  slipped out ofmy attention mostof thetime.Forthe last five years shehad remained bedriddenin the guesthouse.Duringmy timeat Baker & Inglis, whileIwasfallinginlovewiththeObject,I hadre- mained aware ofmy grandmother onlyinthevaguestofways. Isaw Tessie preparinghermealsandcarryingtrays out tothe guesthouse. Every eveningI sawmyfathermake adutifulvisitto her perpetual sickroomwithits hot- water bottles andpharmaceuticalsupplies. At thosetimes MiltonspoketohismotherinGreek,withincreasing dif- ficulty. DuringthewarDesdemonahadfailed toteach her son to writeGreek.Nowinher old age she recognizedwithhorrorthat he wasforgetting how tospeakitaswell.Occasionally,Ibrought Des- demona'sfoodtrays outandforafewminutes would reacquaint my- selfwithhertime-capsule life.The framedphotographofherburial plotstillstoodonherbedsidetableforreassurance. Tessiewenttotheintercom."Yes, yiayia''shesaid."Didyouneed something?" "Myfeettheyareterribletoday.Did yougettheEpsomsalts?" "Yes.I'llbring themtoyou." "WhyGodnoletyiayiadie,Tessie?Everybody's dead!Everybody butyiayialYiayia sheistoooldtolivenow.AndwhatdoesGoddo? Nothing." "Are youfinishedwithyourbreakfast?" "Yes, thank you,honey.Buttheprunes theywere notgoodones today." "Thoseare thesameprunes you alwayshave." "Something maybe ithappentothem. Get a new box,please, Tessie. The Sunkist." "I will." "Okay, honey mou.Thank you, honey." My mother silenced theintercomand turnedback tome."Yia yia'snot doing sogood anymore.Her mind'sgoing. Sinceyou've beenaway she's really gone downhill. We toldherabout Milt."Tessie faltered,near tears. "Aboutwhathappened.Yiayiacouldn't stopcry- ing.Ithought she wasgoing to die right thenandthere. Andthena fewhourslater she asked mewhereMiltwas.Sheforgot theentire thing.Maybeit's better thatway." "Isshe going to the funeral?" "Shecan barely walk. Mrs.Papanikolas iscomingtowatchher. 522 She doesn't know where sheis halfthetime."Tessiesmiled sadly, shaking her head. "Who wouldhave thought shewould outlive Milt?" She tearedup againand forced thetears back. "Can Igo and see her?" "You wantto?" "Yes." Tessie looked apprehensive. "What willyoutellher?" "What should Itellher?" Foranother few secondsmy motherwassilent,thinking.Then she shrugged. "It doesn'tmatter. Whateveryousayshewon'tre- member. Takethisout toher.She wantstosoak her feet." Carryingthe Epsomsaltsanda pieceofthe baklava wrappedin cellophane,I cameoutofthehouse andwalked alongtheportico past the courtyardandbathhouse tothe guesthousebehind.The doorwas unlocked.I openeditandsteppedin. Theonlylightin the roomcamefrom thetelevision,whichwas turned up extremely loud. Facingmewhen Ienteredwastheold portrait of Patriarch Athenagorasthat Desdemonahad savedfrom the yardsaleyears ago. Ina birdcage by thewindow,agreen parakeet, the lastsurviving member ofmy grandparents'former aviary, wasmovingback and forthonitsbalsawood perch.Otherfamiliar objectsand furnishings werestillinevidence,Lefty's rebetikarecords, thebrasscoffeetable, and,ofcourse,thesilkwormbox,sittingin themiddleoftheen- gravedcircular top. Theboxwasnow so stuffed withmementosit wouldn'tshut.Insideweresnapshots,oldletters, preciousbuttons, worry beads.Somewhere below allthat,Iknew,were two long braidsofhair, tiedwith crumbling blackribbons, anda wedding crown madeofship'srope.Iwanted tolookatthesethings, but asI steppedfarther intotheroommyattention wasdiverted by the grand spectacle on thebed. Desdemona was proppedup, regally, againstabeige corduroy cushion known asahusband.Thearms ofthiscushionencircled her. Protruding from the elasticpocket onthe outsideofone armwasan aspirator, along withtwoorthree pillbottles.Desdemonawas in a pale white nightgown, thebedcoverspulled upto herwaist,andin herlap satone ofherTurkishatrocity fans.Noneof thiswassurpris- ing. It waswhat Desdemona haddonewithherhairthat shocked me. Onhearing aboutMilton's death,she had removedherhairnet, 523

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  The best day of my life is the day I buy my mom a huge fucking house. And not just like out in the woods, but in the middle of Mountain Brook, with all the Weekday Warriors’ parents. With all y’all’s parents. And I’m not buying it with a mortgage either. I’m buying it with cash money, and I am driving my mom there, and I’m going to open her side of the car door and she’ll get out and look at this house—this house is like picket fence and two stories and everything, you know—and I’m going to hand her the keys to her house and I’ll say, ‘Thanks.’ Man, she helped fill out my application to this place. And she let me come here, and that’s no easy thing when you come from where we do, to let your son go away to school. So that’s the best day of my life.” Takumi tilted the bottle up and swallowed a few times, then handed it to me. I drank, and so did Lara, and then Alaska put her head back and turned the bottle upside down, quickly downing the last quarter of the bottle. As she unscrewed the next bottle, Alaska smiled at the Colonel. “You won that round. Now what’s your worst day?” “Worst day was when my dad left. He’s old—he’s like seventy now—and he was old when he married my mom, and he still cheated on her. And she caught him, and she got pissed, so he hit her. And then she kicked him out, and he left. I was here, and my mom called, and she didn’t tell me the whole story with the cheating and everything and the hitting until later. She just said that he was gone and not coming back. And I haven’t seen him since. All that day, I kept waiting for him to call me and explain it, but he never did. He never called at all. I at least thought he would say good-bye or something. That was the worst day.” “Shit, you got me beat again,” I said. “My worst day was in seventh grade, when Tommy Hewitt pissed on my gym clothes and then the gym teacher said I had to wear my uniform or I’d fail the class. Seventh-grade gym, right? There are worse things to fail. But it was a big deal then, and I was crying, and trying to explain to the teacher what happened, but it was so embarrassing, and he just yelled and yelled and yelled until I put on these piss-soaked shorts and T-shirt. That was the day I stopped caring what people did. I just never cared anymore, about being a loser or not having friends or any of that. So I guess it was good for me in a way, but that moment was awful. I mean, imagine me playing volleyball or whatever in pee-soaked gym clothes while Tommy Hewitt tells everyone what he did.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  It is fear like if someone lost his glasses and went to the glasses store and they told him that the world had run out of glasses and he would just have to do without. — Just before eight in the morning, the Colonel announced to no one in particular, “I think there are bufriedos at lunch today.” “Yeah,” I said. “Are you hungry?” “God no. But she named them, you know. They were called fried burritos when we got here, and Alaska started calling them bufriedos, and then everyone did, and then finally Maureen officially changed the name.” He paused. “I don’t know what to do, Miles.” “Yeah. I know.” “I finished memorizing the capitals,” he said. “Of the states?” “No. That was fifth grade. Of the countries. Name a country.” “Canada,” I said. “Something hard.” “Um. Uzbekistan?” “Tashkent.” He didn’t even take a moment to think. It was just there, at the tip of his tongue, as if he’d been waiting for me to say “Uzbekistan” all along. “Let’s smoke.” We walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, and the Colonel pulled a pack of matches from his jeans and struck a match against the matchbook. It didn’t light. Again, he tried and failed, and again, smacking at the matchbook with a crescendoing fury until he finally threw the matches to the ground and screamed, “GODDAMN IT!” “It’s okay,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a lighter. “No, Pudge, it’s not,” he said, throwing down his cigarette and standing up, suddenly pissed. “Goddamn it! God, how did this happen? How could she be so stupid! She just never thought anything through. So goddamned impulsive. Christ. It is not okay. I can’t believe she was so stupid! ” “We should have stopped her,” I said. He reached into the stall to turn off the dribbling shower and then pounded an open palm against the tile wall. “Yeah, I know we should have stopped her, damn it. I am shit sure keenly aware that we should have stopped her. But we shouldn’t have had to. You had to watch her like a three-year-old . You do one thing wrong, and then she just dies. Christ! I’m losing it. I’m going on a walk.” “Okay,” I answered, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel so screwed up. I feel like I might die.” “You might,” I said. “Yeah. Yeah. I might. You never know. It’s just. It’s like. POOF. And you’re gone.” I followed him into the room. He grabbed the almanac from his bunk, zipped his jacket, closed the door, and POOF . He was gone. — With morning came visitors. An hour after the Colonel left, resident stoner Hank Walsten dropped by to offer me some weed, which I graciously turned down. Hank hugged me and said, “At least it was instant. At least there wasn’t any pain.” I knew he was only trying to help, but he didn’t get it.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Katrina sighs. “So, let me tell you, Reese, if you think I don’t understand how it is to have a body that isn’t a home to babies, I do.” Katrina sketches the details of her life during her previous pregnancy—in what Reese gathers is an attempt at clinical brevity and detachment—but Katrina cannot quite manage the distance required for detachment. Reese finds something deeply brave, nakedly vulnerable about saying these words in a Hilton lobby. Reese isn’t sure that she could do it. “When I miscarried,” Katrina says quietly enough that both Ames and Reese lean in, “I, like...well, I pulled it out of the toilet.” “Oh my god.” Ames can’t help himself. “T mean, I barely even know what I held, but even just touching something gave me a physical moment that made it real, to connect my emotions to,” Katrina says. “Later on, when the guilt and grief hit, it helped me have closure or whatever. There was a while where I avoided supermarket checkout counters. All those tabloids with celebrities and their baby bumps on the covers.” “What did you do after you held it?” Reese asks. “T flushed it,” Katrina replies. “Fuck,” says Reese. She feels ashamed that this conversation has veered into territory too intimate for a first meeting, almost violating. Katrina draws herself upright. “I was in the bathroom. I was shocked! There was a lot of blood and stuff. Then I cried.” Katrina puts her hand on her face, covering up some sudden emotion, then gathers herself when Ames squeezes her arm. Tourists pass by with luggage, loud and laughing. For an awful moment, Reese fears that Katrina might have taken that “fuck” as judgment. She can’t think of what to say to make it right. Ames must have felt the same, and in a reversion to the kind of awkwardness of which Amy was capable when Reese first met her, Ames asks, “I heard in Texas they passed a law that you have to give fetal remains a burial?” He pauses. “Or maybe it was just clinics? I can’t remember.” “How is that helpful to tell me?” Katrina asks, pulling back from Ames, her voice going high. “I know that I failed the mother test. Everything about being a mother feels like a secret test, and I always come out unfit. What kind of burial do you suggest? Come on! They don’t give you a guide for this shit! I can’t imagine how bad it is when you have the actual baby to fuck up.” Reese again reddens with shame that Katrina has felt a need to justify anything, especially this thing that can never be Reese’s own experience. “Tm sorry,” Ames says. “That was a thoughtless thing to blurt out. I was upset and not thinking.”