Backcast (17 page)

Quinn didn't reply. Mostly because she didn't know the answer.

Page grabbed a plate off a stainless steel shelf and put a pickle and the two, fat halves of Quinn's sandwich on it.

“Don't get caught up in the hype surrounding this. Don't allow
yourself to believe that winning this contest means anything more than getting lucky and tripping over the biggest fish—which, by the way, gets tossed right back into the water. There are no great, hidden meanings in this. There's just a lot of smoke and mirrors that don't add up to anything but big profits for the corporate sponsors.”

“So you don't think she's real?”

“Who? Phoebe?”

Quinn nodded.

Page opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

“Do
you
think she's real?”

“I don't know. Probably not.” Quinn gave Page a shy smile. “Maybe? I'm not really sure.”

“Quinn? When you can describe what it is that drives you to do this—when you can explain why you're so captivated by the idea of this elusive fish, when you can be honest about your motivations and desires—you'll be close to understanding the difference between real and inauthentic kinds of storytelling.”

“Did Barb ask you to come in here and talk to me?”

Page handed Quinn the plate. “No one asked me to talk to you.”

“I don't get it.”

“I know.”

Quinn deliberated. She glanced back at the reach-in cooler.

“Can I ask you about something else?”

“What is it?” Page was piling up items to take to the dishwashing station.

“That aspic stuff.” Quinn gestured toward the big bowl of the red gelatin. “Nobody really likes it.”

Page nodded. “I know.”

“So why do you always have it on the menu?”

Page sighed. “When Doug and I bought this place thirty years ago, it was little more than a fleabag motel with a pint-sized kitchen and eight tables. But even then, there were a couple of things they were famous for serving.”

“Aspic?”

Page nodded. “That was one of them.”

“What were the others?”

“Boston cream pie—and turkey dinner on Sundays.”

“Those are both good.”

“Some people think the aspic is good, too.”

Quinn doubted that, but she knew better than to argue with Page Archer. Besides—Phoebe seemed to like it.

“As long as Doug and I own this place, we'll always serve tomato aspic—right along with Boston cream pie, and turkey on Sundays.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Page waved a hand over the scattered food items on the prep board. “I'll clean this up. You go on and do whatever it was you were going to do.”

Quinn didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything.

She took her sandwich and headed back outside to find a welcoming spot beneath the dark and endless sky.

Essay 5

It started out like any other summer day. School was out, so there wasn't really any schedule to keep. We could sleep late, but we rarely did. My brothers and I knew that these long, hot summer days were like gifts, and were not to be squandered. Besides, our mother had a propensity for locking us all out of the house after breakfast. I often wondered why she ever had kids: she didn't really seem to like us all that much.

But we made the best of it, and we understood that we generally needed to have plans for how we intended to fill the hours between breakfast and lunchtime. This wasn't hard for my brothers. They pretty much did everything together, leaving me alone to fend for myself. I didn't really mind. I was just about to turn thirteen, and I was starting to fill out in ways that made me feel uncomfortable around boys. And this was especially true around my brothers and their friends, because they were the ones who pointed out how my tiny breasts made the front of my t-shirt poke out. I hated them for that. And right now, I hated being a girl, too. I didn't like all the ways my body was starting to change and take on an unfamiliar life of its own—just like the alien that grew inside Sigourney Weaver. I didn't understand it, and I was too shy and afraid to ask anyone to help me understand it. Even those “films” they made us watch in health class just filled me with fear and despair. After they were over, we'd all walk out of the gym, single file, and nobody
would make eye contact with anybody else. The only thing I was certain of was that I didn't want to have to experience any of the things that were about to befall me.

So most days, I'd ride my bike across town to hang out and play with my best friend, Janis—who lived about half a mile away, off Montgomery Avenue. I wasn't supposed to ride my bike along main roads, so I had to wind my way through a fieldstone maze of neighborhood side streets to get there. It wasn't safe to do otherwise: my mother seemed to have spies on every street corner, and I'd been ratted out more than once for daring to cross any street that had more than two lanes of traffic.

Janis wasn't home on the day that everything fell apart. I rode over there after breakfast, as usual, but when I got to her house, her mother's light blue Oldsmobile wasn't in the driveway—and nobody answered when I knocked on their back door.

That was a colossal drag.

I had more than three hours to kill until lunchtime, and I wasn't feeling very well. My stomach was cramping like I'd eaten something spoiled. I didn't have any choice but to climb back on my bike and head for home. Pedaling seemed a lot harder than usual, even though I was backtracking along the same route I took every day. After a block or two, I noticed that something was different. My shorts felt wet. When I slowed down to check it out, I was shocked to see that the insides of my thighs were stained dark red. My heart sank. Standing there, straddling my bike beneath a canopy of maple trees, I understood that my life had just changed forever. Somehow, I knew everything without knowing anything. Words whispered behind hands in the lunchroom came back to me.

“She
started
. That means she can get pregnant.”

Pregnant? I touched my fingertips to the red fabric of my shorts. Is that what this meant? Was I going to get pregnant, too? I started to panic. My hand was now red
and sticky. I looked around for someplace to wipe it off. But that meant I'd have to get off my bike, and I didn't want anyone to see me—especially not that cranky old man who lived in the big house on the corner, and who always seemed to be out on his front steps, watching to be sure I didn't ride my bike across his grass. So, instead, I wiped my hand on the inside of my thigh, beneath the hem of my shorts. I had no choice, now, but to ride on home and wait for my mother to let me back inside the house.

I didn't want her to know about this, but I didn't know how I could hide it from her, either.

Like I said, she really didn't seem to like us all that much, and I was pretty sure she would be angry with me for causing problems.

Then I got an idea.

My grandmother lived about a mile away, and she always liked it when I stopped by for a visit. She'd make iced tea in those tall, skinny glasses, and we'd sit on her porch and watch the bright purple grackles pick at the ground beneath the chokeberry bushes that lined the perimeter of her backyard. She was kind, and she never asked me a lot of questions. Sometimes we would sit together for long periods of time without speaking at all.

It was mid-morning, so I knew that Bubbe would be back from Shacarite. Morning prayer services were held every weekday at her synagogue, Lower Merion. Bubbe usually walked there with her neighbor, Mrs. Klein. After services, the two of them would sometimes stop off at the kosher bakery for fresh loaves of raisin challah.

I turned my bike around and headed back up Melrose Avenue. If I hurried, the challah might still be warm.

I was in luck. When I got there, Bubbe was at home, and Mrs. Klein had already gone. When Bubbe opened her big front door and saw me standing there, I burst into tears. I couldn't hold it back. She pushed the door open wider and ushered me inside. Bubbe was still
wearing her wig, so I knew that she hadn't been home for very long.

“What's the matter, Almah?” she asked.

I looked at her lined face with its kind, blue eyes. “I started,” I blurted out.

She looked confused, so I pointed down at my stained shorts.

She stared at me for a moment, then I saw recognition flicker across her features. “You are Niddah?” she asked.

I had no idea what that meant, but I was pretty sure she was asking the right question, so I nodded.

Then she smiled. I couldn't believe it. My world was coming to an end, but Bubbe was smiling at me like I'd just told her that I made the “A” honor roll at school.

She reached out a bony finger and lifted my chin. “No tears. You are now
Ishah
—a woman. There is much to celebrate.”

“I don't want to be a woman, Bubbe,” I wailed. I couldn't tell her that I wasn't even sure I wanted to be a girl.

“Nonsense. You are a beautiful young woman. Your life is just beginning.”

“But it hurts,” I complained.

“I know it does, Almah. But it won't always.” She steered me back toward the kitchen. “Take off your pants and I'll wash them for you.”

I walked along the long, dark hallway ahead of her. “What will I wear?”

She patted me on the shoulder. “You go into the bathroom and wash.” She opened a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a clean, blue washcloth and towel. “I'll bring you the things you need.”

A few minutes later, Bubbe tapped at the bathroom door and handed me a blousy pair of women's underwear and some cotton pajama bottoms that must have belonged to my grandfather. They were tightly folded
with sharp-edged creases, and they smelled like cedar. She had something else, too—a thick-looking white pad wrapped in some kind of gauze.

“Wear this inside the panties,” she said.

It did occur to me to wonder why she had such an item. Bubbe had to be nearly ninety—or so I thought. I looked from the stack of items up to her face. Her expression gave nothing away.

“They belong to your mother,” she said, seeming to sense my unasked question.

I took the items from her and she closed the door. “Come out when you're ready and I'll make you some hot tea.”

I did as I was told, and soon I was stretched out on her stiff horsehair sofa, with a rubber hot water bottle pressed up against my tummy, and a steaming mug of hot black currant tea in my hand. I could smell the thick slices of fresh challah toasting under her broiler.

“How long will this last?” I asked her.

Bubbe shrugged. “A week. Maybe less. It will pass before you know it.”

A week?
I wanted to die. I'd never last a week. I sipped the hot, sweet tea. Something awful poked at the edge of my consciousness. Something I remembered from that movie at school. I looked at her.

“Will it happen again?”

She smiled at me. “Of course it will, Almah. Many, many times—until you are old, like me.”

I set the mug of tea down on a low table next to the sofa. I could feel my eyes starting to fill up with tears. My life was over. I would never be the same again. I shifted on the scratchy surface. The pad between my legs felt thick and foreign. I felt raw and exposed. I was sure that all my friends would know without my saying anything—and then I would be the one they whispered about behind their small, white hands.

Another thought occurred to me. It was even worse.

“What will I tell Mama?”

Bubbe patted my hand. “I will tell her. You rest now.” She got to her feet. “We will eat some bread and jam, and soon you will feel better.”

I closed my eyes and let the warmth from the hot water bottle begin to relax my sore muscles. I could feel myself starting to fade.

In the kitchen, Bubbe was still softly talking.

“When enough time has passed, we will take you to mikveh.”

I didn't remember much after that. I think I slept for an hour or two, and by then, Bubbe had washed and dried my clothes. At her front door, she kissed me on the forehead and handed me a paper bag. I was pretty sure about what it contained. “For later,” she said.

I rode my bike home, and when I got there, I was shocked to find that the back door was unlocked. When I walked inside, my mother met me halfway across the laundry room. She had an odd expression on her face. I couldn't tell if she was angry or sad, but she did not look happy. I started to hand her the paper bag when she reached out and slapped me across the face. It wasn't a hard slap—more of a tap, really. But it made a loud noise that seemed to echo off the walls of the tiny room.

I was stunned. What had I done? She had to know it wasn't my fault.

“It's tradition,” she said without emotion. “It means you're a woman now.”

I raised a hand to my face and stared at her.

“Don't be so dramatic. Bubbe did the same thing to me.” Her voice sounded strange. It was almost apologetic. “Go up to your room now, and change.”

I didn't know what else to do so I hurried past her, holding one hand against my cheek and grasping the rolled-up paper bag with the other.

When I got to my room, I was barely holding back the tears. She hit me because of some tradition? None of it made sense. My mother had never really been warm and fuzzy—but she'd never been cruel, either. And I couldn't imagine Bubbe ever slapping
anyone.
Not even that old Mr. Fishel at the deli, who always tried to overcharge her by piling butcher paper on the scale before he weighed the brisket.

I noticed something on my bed. It was a big, square box with pink writing all over it.

Kotex.
Judging by the size of the box, it must've contained enough of the darn things to last until I was as old as Bubbe.

I sank down on my bed and looked around the small room. The photos of Mia Hamm and Ellen DeGeneres that I had cut out of magazines and tacked up on the walls stared back at me. The images I woke up to every day now seemed unfamiliar. Like they belonged to somebody else.

My mother's words still sounded in my ears. “You're a woman now.”

Was I?
The pain in my groin seemed to suggest I was.

I dropped back onto the bed and shoved the big, pink box off onto the floor. It landed with a thud. I had no idea what any of this was going to end up meaning—but I was pretty sure about one thing: because I had started to bleed, my life, as I knew it, would never again belong to me in quite the same way. Somehow, I had stopped being me, and had morphed into some kind of vessel. And all my innocence and childlike aspirations were now seeping out between my legs, and evaporating like gasoline on a hot, summer sidewalk.

And who was there to save me from such a fate?

No one.

Yes.
They were right
. I was a woman now.