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entwined.

I think I was born knowing my mother was different from other mothers: prettier, more fun, more acquisitive—though I didn’t know the word. I certainly knew she was more trouble. Not a day went by when I wasn’t reminded.
    “Your mother always wanted things , Christine. We hoped she’d outgrow it.” Grandmother’s voice was a whisper even though my mother wasn’t around.
    I was perhaps seven years old and as usual Mother was the topic of conversation. What else was there in our shared world? Also, as usual, Grandmother was defending her parenting more than my mother’s behavior.
    “It was hard for her to let go of having something once she got in her head. The day the Sears Catalog arrived was always a big one. It kept her occupied for weeks. I remember the time she insisted on me calling her “Little Princess.” Grandmother laughed nervously. “Luckily Herbert didn’t hear it. He would’ve had a fit. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea, but the boy next door wore a bath towel clipped to his collar for six months around that time, always jumping off of porch rails and trash cans. Superman, I guess. After his behavior, calling Evelyn “Little Princess” was pretty tame.”
    “Maybe she got her ideas from TV.”
    My grandmother was skeptical. “We didn’t have a TV until Evelyn was in high school, and nobody turned it on much. Your grandfather hated the din.” She said the word “din” carefully; as if it was the first time she’d used it aloud. “What do you think, Christine? Why does she want so many things? Why didn’t she outgrow it?”
    By a young age, I had a clear idea of the sort of things Mother wanted and could see the peril in certain objects from across a store.
    Sometimes—and this was far worse—I could see desire creeping across her face from across a room in someone’s house. I dreaded the occasions when Bucks Country matrons, back in the day when we were still with Daddy, left us alone while they went to get us lemonade and cookies. Mother’s eyes would light on various items, and it was easy to imagine her sizing the odds in making off with a glass figurine without getting caught. Would Mrs. Crane remember how many Dresden figurines filled her mahogany cabinet? Maybe the red ceramic fox on the bottom shelf could go missing.
    If Mother rose from her chair, I rose with her, shadowing her like a ghost. She didn’t pull these tricks on the rare occasions Daddy was along, but if he was absent from the festivities, she regarded me as her ally. Winking at me, as her hand grazed a pretty trinket.
    “Maybe it was the movies,” I said to my grandmother, still trying to be helpful. “Maybe Mother wanted to be like Liz Taylor or Grace Kelly. Glamorous.” I’d seen my mother’s old movie magazines on shelves in the basement and those two actresses were often on the covers. In my opinion, Mother’s life with Daddy was not so different than theirs. But there was more to Mother’s difficulties than a need for glamour. I don’t know when this became evident.
    My grandmother nodded, but hesitantly. “My mother—your great-grandmother—worshipped movie stars. Lillian Gish, Clara Bow. Frankly, I never saw any sense in admiring someone for her looks. I tried to impress this on Evelyn, but…” She paused, and we each took a thoughtful sip of our hot chocolate.
    “Now me, I admire Billy Graham’s wife, Ruth,” she said with fervor. “She was called to his side at a young age, you know. Following God’s plan for her.”
    An often told tale, Grandmother had gone on the church bus to a Billy Graham Crusade meeting in downtown Philly several years before, coming home struck by his wife rather than Billy.
    “Ruth saw her calling as clearly as Billy saw his.” Grandmother’s face flushed with the memory. “I’d never thought about being a helpmeet before. There’s nobility in such service.”
    One of Billy’s books sat proudly on her end table, signed by the great man