Lorrie Moore - 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

She remembers another doctor asking her, fifty years ago, minutes after the first girl was born and then died, if she wanted to donate the baby’s body to science. He said she had a very unusual heart . She remembers being in labor for thirty-two hours. She remembers being too tired to think. So I told him yes . She remembers driving home from the hospital in the sky-blue Chevy with your father and neither one of them saying a word. She remembers knowing she’d made a big mistake. She does not remember what happened to the baby’s body and worries that it might be stuck in a jar. She does not remember why they didn’t just bury her. I wish she was under a tree . She remembers wanting to bring her flowers every day.

She remembers that even as a young girl you said you did not want to have children. She remembers that you hated wearing dresses. She remembers that you never played with dolls. She remembers that the first time you bled, you were thirteen years old and wearing bright yellow pants. She remembers that your childhood dog was named Shiro. She remembers that you once had a cat named Gasoline. She remembers that you had two turtles named Turtle. She remembers that the first time she and your father took you to Japan to meet his family, you were eighteen months old and just beginning to speak. She remembers leaving you with his mother in the tiny silkworm village in the mountains while she and your father traveled across the island for ten days. I worried about you the whole time . She remembers that when they came back, you did not know who she was and that for many days afterward you would not speak to her; you would only whisper in her ear.

She remembers that the year you turned five you refused to leave the house without tapping the door frame three times. She remembers that you had a habit of clicking your teeth repeatedly, which drove her up the wall. She remembers that you could not stand it when different-colored foods were touching on the plate. Everything had to be just so . She remembers trying to teach you to read before you were ready. She remembers taking you to Newberry’s to pick out patterns and fabric and teaching you how to sew. She remembers that every night, after dinner, you would sit down next to her at the kitchen table and hand her the bobby pins one by one as she set the curlers in her hair. She remembers that this was her favorite part of the day. I wanted to be with you all the time .

She remembers that you were conceived on the first try. She remembers that your brother was conceived on the first try. She remembers that your other brother was conceived on the second try. We must not have been paying attention . She remembers that a palm reader once told her that she would never be able to bear children because her uterus was tipped the wrong way. She remembers that a blind fortuneteller once told her that she had been a man in her past life and that Frank had been her sister. She remembers that everything she remembers is not necessarily true. She remembers the horse-drawn garbage carts on Ashby, her first pair of crepe-soled shoes, scattered flowers by the side of the road. She remembers that the sound of Frank’s voice always made her feel calmer. She remembers that every time they parted, he turned around and watched her walk away. She remembers that the first time he asked her to marry him, she told him she wasn’t ready. She remembers that the second time she said she wanted to wait until she was finished with school. She remembers walking along the water with him one warm summer evening on the boardwalk and being so happy, she could not remember her own name. She remembers not knowing that it wouldn’t be like this with any of the others. She remembers thinking she had all the time in the world.

She does not remember the names of the flowers in the yard whose names she has known for years. Roses? Daffodils? Immortelles? She does not remember that today is Sunday, and she has already gone for her ride. She does not remember to call you, even though she always says that she will. She remembers how to play “Clair de Lune” on the piano. She remembers how to play “Chopsticks” and scales. She remembers not to talk to telemarketers when they call on the telephone. We’re not interested . She remembers her grammar. Just between you and me . She remembers her manners. She remembers to say thank you and please. She remembers to wipe herself every time she uses the toilet. She remembers to flush. She remembers to turn her wedding ring around whenever she pulls on her silk stockings. She remembers to reapply her lipstick every time she leaves the house. She remembers to put on her anti-wrinkle cream every night before climbing into bed. It works while you sleep . In the morning, when she wakes, she remembers her dreams. I was walking through a forest. I was swimming in a river. I was looking for Frank in a city I did not know and no one would tell me where he was .

On Halloween day, she remembers to ask you if you are going out trick-or-treating. She remembers that your father hates pumpkin. It’s all he ate in Japan during the war . She remembers listening to him pray, every night, when they first got married, that he would be the one to die first. She remembers playing marbles on a dirt floor in the desert with her brother and listening to the couple at night on the other side of the wall. They were at it all the time . She remembers the box of chocolates you brought back to her after your honeymoon in Paris. “But will it last?” you asked her. She remembers her own mother telling her, “The moment you fall in love with someone, you are lost.”

She remembers that when her father came back after the war, he and her mother fought even more than they had before. She remembers that he would spend entire days shopping for shoes in San Francisco while her mother scrubbed other people’s floors. She remembers that some nights he would walk around the block three times before coming into the house. She remembers that one night he did not come in at all. She remembers that when your own husband left you, five years ago, you broke out in hives all over your body for weeks. She remembers thinking he was trouble the moment she met him. A mother knows . She remembers keeping that thought to herself. I had to let you make your own mistakes .

She remembers that, of her three children, you were the most delightful to be with. She remembers that your younger brother was so quiet, she sometimes forgot he was there. He was like a dream . She remembers that her own brother refused to carry anything with him onto the train except for his rubber toy truck. He wouldn’t let me touch it . She remembers her mother killing all the chickens in the yard the day before they left. She remembers her fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Martello, asking her to stand up in front of the class so everyone could tell her goodbye. She remembers being given a silver heart pendant by her next-door neighbor, Elaine Crowley, who promised to write but never did. She remembers losing that pendant on the train and being so angry she wanted to cry. It was my first piece of jewelry .

She remembers that one month after Frank joined the Air Force he suddenly stopped writing her letters. She remembers worrying that he’d been shot down over Korea or taken hostage by guerrillas in the jungle. She remembers thinking about him every minute of the day. I thought I was losing my mind . She remembers learning from a friend one night that he had fallen in love with somebody else. She remembers asking your father the next day to marry her. “Shall we go get the ring?” I said to him . She remembers telling him, It’s time .