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a stick figure. But she was in a hurry and just put dots in for eyes, then at the last minutedecided to add some lashes. Poor driver looked naked without them.
     
    By the time she met her aunt at the cashier, she had two pairs of jeans, a skirt, several tops, and the pants with the matching corduroy blazer. She began to unfold them to show Constanza.
    “Oh, child, don’t ask me. What do I know about fashion? I’m over ninety.”
    Jerry heard herself gasp. She knew her aunt was old but not that old. How much over ninety? she wondered.
    Then Constanza, as if reading her mind, said, “Ninety-four and a half.”
    Jerry opened her mouth. “A half?” but the words had been spoken by the sales clerk at the register.
    “Oh, it’s nothing so astonishing. Women in our family live well into their hundreds.”

Chapter 4
    J ERRY HAD WORN the denim skirt to school the next day, but she had not tried on any of the clothes in front of the mirror. Now she put on the blazer with the faded jeans. It was silly, she knew, but she was almost scared to look in the mirror. She didn’t want to see her mother’s reflection. She knew it was stupid. It had only been a momentary thing. It wasn’t even like a ghost thing. It was actually more her mother’s voice in her head than a real image. She had read once that a person’s memory for voice is a lot more vivid than their memory for face, and that when a loved one is lost it is easier to retrieve the sound of that person’s voice than her face. But she had not retrieved the memory of her own voice.
    Now she heard the rasping outside in the cook yard. Her aunt was raking out the ashesfrom the cold hornos in preparation for the next day’s fire. It was a nice sound. One that she listened for at this time in the late afternoon. Cautiously she slid her eyes slowly up before she looked directly in the mirror.
    This was the coolest blazer. Jerry turned and looked at herself from the back. It fit great. The corduroy was the color of tobacco. With the washed jeans it was perfect. And she loved her new running shoes. She had never owned a pair of running shoes, not even those little Keds sneakers that kids always wear. She looked at herself steadily in the mirror and lifted her heavy, dark hair. That was it! She had to wear her hair up. She looked so much better. Taller, less stocky. Now if only she could talk. It was Friday night and Sinta had invited her to go to a party. It was a party with older kids. There would probably be beer, Sinta said, but she didn’t drink…well, sometimes…but it would be fun. She had gotten through the week all right, especially with Sinta at her side. Sinta had come over after school two days in a row and they had cut out their projects for sewing class together. Jerry felt comfortable with Sinta. But she didn’t want to monopolize her. It was tough being monopolized bysomeone who couldn’t speak. No, there was no way that she could go to that party. She didn’t want Sinta to feel responsible for her. Jerry knew what it was like feeling responsible for someone. She had spent a lifetime feeling responsible for her mother. But it wasn’t only that. Jerry didn’t kid herself. No. She was a freak. And freaks didn’t go to parties. She shook her head no.
    Jerry suddenly tried to imagine the sound of her own voice. She tried to imagine herself speaking to Sinta. She closed her eyes as she stood in front of the mirror and attempted to visualize the words. But they didn’t come out as words, not letters, not sounds, just some amorphous shapes, almost transparent like bubbles. They floated off noiselessly, leaving her throat dry. Did her voice really sound like what she thought it must have been? It had to have changed. It had been so long. She felt the funny feeling beginning in her throat. Why wasn’t it comfortable anymore? Now it felt as if the words couldn’t get past her throat. She wasn’t really gagging. No, it was more as if there were a trap down