Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

Of what? she asked, and I was caught. I couldn’t say, afraid of dying .

I don’t know. School beginning?

She looked at me blankly. School was three days away, an eternity in child time.

Why would I be afraid of that?

What about nightmares? You know what my mother told me to do if I had nightmares?

You have a mother?

Of course I have a mother — what did you think?

Andi shrugged. When she shrugged, her whole torso got involved, one shoulder higher than the other, head cocked, the very picture of puzzlement. I had to laugh.

If you have a mother why don’t we see her?

I stopped laughing.

Because she’s not a nice person, Andi.

Then I don’t want to know what she said about nightmares, she replied reasonably.

I don’t know why I persisted, acting the part of Cora, a character from one of my short stories, who invents tales about a grandmother her daughter never knew.

My mother said you had to tell yourself you were in a nightmare. Then you could either make the dream better or you could wake yourself up.

I tried that, Andi said. It doesn’t work.

I stared at my daughter, that miraculous mix of spirit and flesh.

Maybe you need practice, I said, still wanting to give her something, something she could use. Were you afraid when you fell from the tree?

If I fell again I wouldn’t be afraid!

Oh?

I’d pretend I was flying, she said, and spread out her arms.

I sat down on her bed, trying to take that in.

You’re supposed to tuck me in now.

I pulled the guilt quilt up to her chin, making sure her cast was outside the blankets.

Ahmad tucks me in tighter.

I want to talk to you about Connecticut, I said.

She looked at me solemnly.

I know you had a good time there.

She didn’t reply, expecting to have to wait out a lecture.

You did, didn’t you?

She nodded.

Just because you have fun there doesn’t mean it’s a good place to live. Think of the things you’d miss in New York. Your playgroup, friends at school, musicals …

Ahmad says we can go to matinees on weekends.

What about Pammy and Martina? You’d miss them, wouldn’t you?

Pammy’s stuck up, and Martina doesn’t like me anymore.

Really? Why?

I don’t know, Andi said, shrugging.

You had a fight with your friends? I asked, stunned. They’d been inseparable since Chinese-Spanish-French quadrilingual preschool.

Andi nodded.

Ahmad says these things happen.

Why didn’t you tell me?

I don’t know, Andi said, shrugging again. You were busy.

I always have time for you.

You said I mustn’t disturb you when you’re working.

I couldn’t argue with that — I had.

There’s always time. I always have time for you.

Oh, Andi said.

Really!

Okay, I heard you.

There are lots of things about New York you’d miss if you left. You don’t realize it now because Connecticut is so new.

I’d miss Ahmad more.

What makes you think Ahmad would be there without us?

It’s obvious. Besides, he told me.

That’s not certain, I said, as if that made a difference.

Plus, Andi said, the house is near a mall. There are no malls in New York City. Just stupid stores one after the other. No malls, no indoor waterfalls.

We’ll talk about this more later, I said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, having no arguments to offer now except that of my own need.

I’d have a bike, she added, and a pool. Does your mother live in Connecticut, is that why you don’t want to live there?

My mother has nothing to do with this.

It’s two against one, Andi said.

Moms have veto power, even in a democracy. Ask anyone.

You never want me to have any fun!

That’s silly. Of course I want you to have fun!

I’m staying up all night.

Fine. As long as you turn out the light.

You don’t think I can do it.

Good night, Andi.

You don’t think I can do it! she shouted as I shut her door. You don’t think I can do it!

She continued shouting these absurd words, challenging me to — what? agree with her? believe in her? I bumped into, and ignored, Ahmad in the hall. He stopped in front of Andi’s room. I heard him open her door, then I heard the shouting stop.

Not the stunning victory I’d hoped for.

Andi had a nightmare. Angry men with baseball bats came through the window; they wanted to hurt the children. She tried to make them stop, really she did. Or rather, she hid while Ovidio shot them with his gun. I ran to her room when I heard her cry and grabbed her to me. She crumpled against my chest, a reluctant, shuddering ball; she would not be consoled. Ahmad, wearing only his pajama bottoms, came to the door. I told him about the dream.

Damn your daughter’s Oedipal fantasies, he muttered. Andi pulled away from me, reached for him with both arms, her face smeared with tears. He took her from me and swayed with her, his arms strong against her back, his face nuzzling her neck, murmuring things till she fell asleep, still in his arms. Behind them, floating in the corners of the wall, lit by glow-in-the-dark stars, portraits of Ahmad and me, looking younger, more optimistic. I left Ahmad to put her back to bed and felt cold inside. When had I become superfluous?

From my bed I stared at the Corot poster on my wall, made strange by flashing avenue light. I’d made a vow when Andi was born: she’d be the center and the circumference of my life, its organizing principle and its limit. I would never abandon her, not in thought, word, or deed. I’d be everything my mother wasn’t. Nothing would ever ground my girl: I’d make sure she flew to her big heart’s content. Was I a bad role model? Was Connecticut better for my baby?

I’ve never been good at second-guessing myself. When that still small voice tells me to look at my life, I turn up the stereo, find anything to do but. The psychologists haven’t come up with a cure for what ails me: there is no Ritalin for the heart.

I kicked my blankets to the floor. Time to do something. Organize under the kitchen sink, flush the coffeemaker with baking soda. As I left my room, something crunched underfoot: a Popsicle-stick throne Ahmad had made for Tink — a throne, flattened now by my big foot.

What do you think, Tink? I asked, the hall nightlight illuminating the shape of things. Should I move to Connecticut? Will I lose my daughter if I don’t?

Tink kept his counsel, proving his wisdom, yet again.

•

The next morning, the spices were in alphabetical order and Andi was none the worse for wear. She was playing with the Lewinsky paper dolls and singing “Home, Home on the Grange,” which is how Pammy insisted the song went. She’d already eaten — I saw the remnants of grape jelly omelet in the sink. As I made eggs for myself, I imagined the New York things we might do: pizza picnic on the Staten Island Ferry? Counting seagulls on the Circle Line? Inventing Mongolian ancestors at Ellis Island? But Andi had a better idea. She ran into the kitchen wearing a frilly dress Aunt Emma had sent her. Pammy had invited her overnight; she wanted to go now . She’d already filled her backpack with essential toys and, I hoped, some underwear.

Whoever heard of going to a sleepover at ten in the morning? I asked. And why did she want to go so far from her mama?

She’s only upstairs! Andi said, giving me the look seven-year-olds cultivate that says, Where did I find this mother, is there any chance I can take her back?