her big black leather purse in both her hands. Then she hit me again with the purse, this time striking my face. I didn’t dare react. I knew by now that whatever she was doing would only escalate if I cried or tried to protect myself.
“You little shit,” she finally said. I remained silent, afraid to ask why she was angry.
“How dare you wear your good white sweater outside to play? You’ll get it filthy, you’ll ruin it, and how am I supposed to replace it? Do you think I’m made of money?”
“Sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Of course you didn’t think. You never think. You certainly never think about me, working so hard with no thanks coming from you.”
I stood there, head down, in part to hide the flowing tears, in part to avoid her eyes. If I looked at her, she might start up again. Now I can see that my reaction was real animal behavior, victim pacifying the aggressor. If a menacing dog threatens you, stand still and avoid looking it in the eye because it reads movement as aggression. My stand-still-head-down stance was to avoid the wild dog’s bite.
I didn’t understand the level of her anger. I didn’t see why wearing a sweater outside to play bought me a beating. There was no dirt on the sweater. But I was only six years old and didn’t discriminate well among clean, smudged, and filthy. So maybe she saw something I didn’t.
As an adult, I rarely wear white. I tell people it’s because I dribble tea or coffee on most things I own, and light colors won’t forgive my sloppiness. Or I say that my skin is too pale—I’d look like a monochrome painting. But in reality I avoid wearing it because it reminds me of getting bashed in the head with a heavy black purse. This became a problem for me in medical school. While most of the students were excited to don their white jackets that marked them as doctors-in-training, I was ambivalent and wore it only when required. The saving grace was that it was okay to get it dirty.
My mother disappeared that summer for two weeks. At first, I didn’t know where she was and thought I must have made her really mad to leave for good. Mrs. Reilly took care of me during the day and in the evening when Margie said she had to go to the hospital. I didn’t know what a hospital was.
“Your mother had an operation,” she explained.
“What’s an operation?”
She paused. “It’s when some doctors open you up to fix things inside you.”
“What did the doctors fix?”
“They took out one of her kidneys.”
“What’s a kidney?”
“It’s what helps you go pee-pee.”
“Why did they take it out?”
“It was sick.”
I wondered how the doctor opened my mother up. Was it like unbuttoning a jacket? And would she still be able to pee? Did something I do cause her to have this problem?
Mrs. Reilly took me with her kids to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital one night after dinner. However, children were not allowed in the hospital. While she went inside, I caught fireflies on the hospital’s grassy tiers with her kids, which diminished some of my disappointment at not being able to see my mother.
When my mother finally came home, Margie and Mrs. Reilly helped her up the stairs to our apartment. My mother sat in the pink Queen Anne chair, frowned, and closed her eyes.
“Anne, you’ll need to be quiet so your mother can rest,” Margie said.
My mother looked very weak sitting there, but I wasn’t sure whether she could still hit me in her condition. Just to be sure, I resolved to do whatever Margie told me so I could stay out of trouble.
“Okay,” I whispered. I really wanted to know what the doctors had seen when they opened my mother up but didn’t dare ask. I don’t think this was an early sign of interest in human physiology. Rather, it was as if I wondered what my mother was made of, what was her essence. And would she be less angry with me after having this sick kidney removed? I hoped she would get better soon.
My mother groaned. “Oh, Dear God, I’m in pain.”
“What can I do for you, Mary?” Margie asked. “The doctors said you were weak but you’ll get stronger every day.”
“They were just saying that. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be on God’s green earth. I’ll be dead soon, I’m sure.”
This shook me. If my mother died, what would happen to me? My mother told me that Margie wouldn’t stay home to take care of me. Would I have to go back to Rosary? I started to cry. My mother turned her eyes to me without moving her head.
“For Christ’s sake get her out of here, Margaret. I need my rest.”
“C’mon, Anne,” Margie said. “Help me make your mother some tea.”
She hustled me off to the kitchen, where she gave me milk and Toll House cookies while she made tea for my mother and herself. Tea was prescribed whenever someone was sick in our house. The Irish imbue tea with almost mystical powers of rejuvenation, and Irish-Americans continued the tradition. My mother and aunt drank it strong and black, unless they needed a special treat, in which case they’d add a dollop of milk. They preferred the modern teabag over tea leaves, happy to adopt time-saving methods.
My mother stayed out of work for almost a month. She lay on the couch most of the time in her nightgown and bathrobe. When Margie was at work, it was my job to get things for my mother—her cigarettes, the lunch Margie left in the refrigerator for her, the newspaper. I even learned to make her tea. I had to stand on a chair to reach the stove. My hand would shake from the weight of the kettle after I’d filled it, and it would shake even more as I poured the boiling water into the teacup. The steam would burn my arm as it traveled up from the kettle spout. My mother wanted the teacup nice and full, so I’d have to walk very slowly to avoid spilling. A few drops would usually fall, but they hit the top of my Keds, so they didn’t sting for very long.
I prayed for my mother. I prayed that she’d get well soon. I prayed that she wouldn’t die. And I prayed that she’d see how helpful I was and let me keep living with her and Margie.
I’d later learn that my mother suffered from recurrent kidney stones and infections. At the time, there were few treatment options, and her case was compounded by poverty and lack of access to specialists. After her surgery, her kidney specialist instructed her to limit intake of calcium to prevent formation of new stones. Every time we had ice cream, she’d say, “I’m not supposed to have this. It could kill me.” It kind of spoiled the pleasure of my hot fudge sundae.
Later that summer, my mother had returned to work but was so weak that Margie had to do all the cooking, cleaning, and shopping. But on one particularly hot day, Margie, home on vacation, said she and I should go to Revere Beach. She packed us a lunch of bologna sandwiches, potato chips, and a thermos of cold orangeade. We stood in the back hallway, packed beach bags leaning against our legs. Margie stretched out her right hand, key poised a hair’s breadth in front of the lock.
“Did I turn off the stove?” she asked.
I didn’t say anything. I knew she wasn’t asking me. A kid would never know the answer to such an important question, even a mature six-year-old like me.
“I have to go back in and check.”
Her mouth was set as tight as it could be given her lower teeth overlapping her top teeth. She looked at me. The iris, normally brown, was practically all black, which meant she was having one of her “nervous” feelings. She opened the kitchen door and walked over to the stove. I trailed behind her. The big black line on each of the burner and oven dials pointed straight up in the off position. One by one, Margie grasped