“Maybe not.” She was. We were both pretending that things weren’t as bad as they were. That Violet’s behavior could be easily explained. It was what people in your family preferred to do. I pushed around the last bit of food. “She’s in a Daddy phase right now, I guess.”

“Well, we can’t blame her.” She winked and cleared our plates. “You’re both very lucky to have him.”

And what about him? Isn’t he lucky to have me, too? In the kitchen she poured me another glass. I was quiet.

“Things will get easier,” she whispered.

I nodded. The tears came back and I felt my face redden. She didn’t speak for a moment, but when she did, she had softened, like she suddenly accepted that things were worse than she wanted to believe. She covered my hand with hers and we both watched her grip me tightly.

“Look. Nobody said motherhood was easy. Especially if it’s not what you thought it would be, or it’s not what—” Her thin, pink lips pressed together between thoughts. She wouldn’t dared have mentioned my mother. “But you figure out a way to get through. For everyone. That’s what you have to do.”

* * *

? ? ?

    When you walked in the door, the first thing you asked was how Violet had been. How was my girl tonight? You were beaming. You loved when your mother spent time with our daughter.

“She was very good, for the most part.” Your mother kissed both of your cheeks and turned to get her purse. You gave me a long hug and felt tipsy in my arms. You smelled of beer and spicy processed meat and the cold. When I pulled away, you asked what was wrong with my face—you touched the red mark from Violet’s teeth and I flinched.

“Nothing. Just a mark from Violet.” I lifted my eyes toward your mother.

“Yes, she put up a challenge before bed,” she said, speaking to you. “She does have a bit of a temper, that one.”

You frowned and then moved on. Hung up your coat. Your mother smiled at you tightly with raised brows, as though she expected you to say more. I looked away from her, grateful for her solidarity, and ashamed that I needed it so desperately.

“Hang in there, honey.” She said this to me quietly and then left to meet your father in the cab.

24

The vivid memories of my childhood start when I was eight years old. I wish I didn’t have to rely on these memories alone, but I do. Some people frame their perspectives of the past with worn photographs or the same stories told a thousand times by someone who loves them. I didn’t have these things. My mother didn’t either, and maybe that was part of the problem. We had only one version of the truth.

* * *

? ? ?

There is one thing that comes to me: the white lining of my stroller, the dark blue florets and an eyelet ribbon trim, and the middle of the chrome handle wrapped with cane. My mother’s canary-gloved knuckles loom over me. I can’t see her face looking down, just her shadow floating over me every once in a while, when she turns a corner to put the sun behind her. I can’t possibly remember anything this early, I know. But I can smell sour formula and talcum powder and cigarette smoke, and I can hear the sound of the slow city buses bringing people home for dinner.

I play this game in my head sometimes about Sam.

What might he remember? The sharpness of the grass on the hill at the park, or the orange quilt we laid him on, three faces bobbing above him like umbrellas? Maybe the smell of the pumpkin muffins Violet liked to bake. The big spoon with the red handle that she always gave to him, slopping with batter. The bath toy with the spinning light you wanted to throw out. Maybe the painting in the nursery—the cherub child always seemed to catch his eye in the morning.

But here’s what I think it would be: the tiles on the wall in the change room at the community swimming pool. I don’t know why, but I think these would have become a part of him. Every week I put him on the wooden bench in the corner stall and held him still with one hand while I reached over to lock the swinging door with the other. He always looked up at the wall with searching eyes and touched the small colored squares placed in a random pattern as if they were alive. Mustard, emerald green, and a beautiful dark blue. A sailor’s blue. The tiles calmed him. He made soft noises and widened his eyes as I put on his swim diaper and wrapped a towel around my still-puffy waist. I looked forward to Sam seeing those tiles every time we went. They were the thing in his little world that sang to him.

I go back to that change room often. Looking for him in those tiles.

25

Her hair came in thick and beautiful and people often stopped to tell us what a gorgeous little girl she was. She would smile coyly and say thank you, and for a split second I could see this tiny, remarkable, civilized person who couldn’t possibly have the capacity to drag me by the ears to the edge of insanity. Those dark moments had become fewer and other parts of her personality were emerging. She was obsessed with her baby doll and brought it everywhere she went. She knew her colors by the time she was sixteen months old. She insisted on wearing tights with Christmas trees under her pants for most months of the year. She ate scrambled eggs for nearly every meal and called them yellow clouds. Chipmunks scared her and squirrels thrilled her. She loved the woman from the flower shop on the corner where we went for a stem every Saturday morning. She kept the flower beside her potty to hold while she peed. She made no sense at all, and yet all the sense in the world.