116
Puerto Vallarta
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terms
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notes
117
“When I was eighteen,” her father said, “I bought a motorcycle and rode around Europe for months.”
Ellen had never heard this before. “Was it fun?” she asked.
“I lived like a maniac.”
She paused, unsure whether this was good or bad. “Was it fun?” she asked again.
“Fun. Was it fun.” He stared across the miles of dead grass and shook his head. “It was the best time of my life.”
Ellen felt suddenly shy. She followed her father’s gaze to the horizon, where faded earth nudged a faded sky. It looked like the edge of something hidden, a place he alone had explored.
“When I was eighteen,” her father said, “I bought a motorcycle and rode around Europe for months.”
Ellen had never heard this before. “Was it fun?” she asked.
“I lived like a maniac.”
She paused, unsure whether this was good or bad. “Was it fun?” she asked again.
“Fun. Was it fun.” He stared across the miles of dead grass and shook his head. “It was the best time of my life.”
Ellen felt suddenly shy. She followed her father’s gaze to the horizon, where faded earth nudged a faded sky. It looked like the edge of something hidden, a place he alone had explored.
118
“I was almost killed in Jamaica,” she said at breakfast one day. “Your dad swam away from our boat and a wind came up. I started sailing out to sea.” She spoke with the urgency of a first telling, though Ellen had heard the story many times.
“Jesus, what a nightmare,” her father said, looking up from his paper. “You were going so fast I couldn’t catch up. I was splashing around, screaming how to turn the boat, but you couldn’t hear me.”
“So what happened?” Ellen cried, caught in the story.
“I jumped off,” her mother said. “I swam back to your father. The boat kept going.” She was washing apples in the kitchen sink. Now she stopped, still holding the colander under the running faucet, and turned to Ellen’s father. They looked at each other, and Ellen felt a current of something between them that startled her.
“I was almost killed in Jamaica,” she said at breakfast one day. “Your dad swam away from our boat and a wind came up. I started sailing out to sea.” She spoke with the urgency of a first telling, though Ellen had heard the story many times.
“Jesus, what a nightmare,” her father said, looking up from his paper. “You were going so fast I couldn’t catch up. I was splashing around, screaming how to turn the boat, but you couldn’t hear me.”
“So what happened?” Ellen cried, caught in the story.
“I jumped off,” her mother said. “I swam back to your father. The boat kept going.” She was washing apples in the kitchen sink. Now she stopped, still holding the colander under the running faucet, and turned to Ellen’s father. They looked at each other, and Ellen felt a current of something between them that startled her.
121
Ellen found her mother seated on the living room floor, her hair in a scarf. She had the dreamy look she often wore after spending several hours by herself. “I’m rearranging,” she said. “Dusting.”
Around her lay things she had bought on her various trips: inlaid wood chests, corn-husk dolls, animals carved from ivory. In a glass dish were the colored marble eggs she had bought with Ellen’s father in Florence. Ellen felt a nervous fluttering under her ribs.
“I’ve lost perspective,” her mother said. “Can you see any difference?”
Ellen wished she were back at the age when she would howl shamelessly while her mother used a tweezer to pick bits of gravel from her skinned knees. Her mother looked as delicate now as the blown-glass vase she was holding.
“Mom,” Ellen said.
Her mother looked up. The room was very still. Ellen felt the weight of the old house, its dense curtains and clean, swept kitchen. Her mother’s world was pure, steadfast, decent. But it wasn’t enough for him.
Ellen found her mother seated on the living room floor, her hair in a scarf. She had the dreamy look she often wore after spending several hours by herself. “I’m rearranging,” she said. “Dusting.”
Around her lay things she had bought on her various trips: inlaid wood chests, corn-husk dolls, animals carved from ivory. In a glass dish were the colored marble eggs she had bought with Ellen’s father in Florence. Ellen felt a nervous fluttering under her ribs.
“I’ve lost perspective,” her mother said. “Can you see any difference?”
Ellen wished she were back at the age when she would howl shamelessly while her mother used a tweezer to pick bits of gravel from her skinned knees. Her mother looked as delicate now as the blown-glass vase she was holding.
“Mom,” Ellen said.
Her mother looked up. The room was very still. Ellen felt the weight of the old house, its dense curtains and clean, swept kitchen. Her mother’s world was pure, steadfast, decent. But it wasn’t enough for him.