The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus Read Online Free PDF Page B

MICHAEL WAS GRATEFUL, TOO
    In fact,
    you might even say
    he was a little
    obsessed…
    After my first trimester,
    he bought a video camera
    so that he could record the weekly progress
    of my mushrooming midsection.
    I’d stand sideways,
    pulling my nightgown
    tight across my stomach,
    while he filmed my burgeoning bump.
    When I was further along,
    I’d lay back on the bed
    with my belly exposed
    so that he could videotape the baby kicking.
    He marveled
    at each undulation
    as it quivered across the surface
    of the Jell-O mold that I had become.
    He interviewed me on camera,
    asking how I felt about
    my imminent motherhood.
    â€œThrilled…excited…terrified,” I told him.
    And when
    I turned the camera on Michael
    and asked how he felt
    about becoming a father,
    he reached forward
    to pat the bun in my off-screen oven,
    and said, “I just hope the baby’s healthy.
    And that she appreciates fine art.”

ONE DAY
    One day
    your daughter’s
    cooing, gurgling, wordless.
    The next, you’re asking her how old she is
    and she’s holding up two pudgy fingers,
    crying out, “Awmos twoooo!”
    Not long after that,
    she’s blowing your mind
    with her ability to count to ten.
    And soon she can count
    all the way up to a hundred.
    And then to a thousand.
    Then one day,
    when you sit down to help her
    with her math homework
    you realize that you have no idea
    whatequals.
    You must have forgotten.
    Or maybe
    you never knew.
    But your daughter does.
    â€œThat’s easy,” she says. “It’s x. ”
    â€œOf course it is!” you bluff.
    â€œOf course…”

I’M CLEANING OUT SAMANTHA’S CLOSET
    Anything to avoid writing.
    I clear away
    the forest of forgotten T-shirts
    sighing on the floor.
    I wrestle
    with the maddening mess
    of fallen hangers.
    I toss out
    the moldy pairs
    of lonely outgrown sneakers.
    Then,
    way in the back,
    I find a box.
    Here’s Samantha’s mobile—
    the one that hung above her crib
    when she was a baby.
    I run my fingers over it,
    then wind it up and listen to its melody
    one more time…
    Sam used to love this mobile.
    She’d lie on her back gazing up at it,
    mesmerized by its spinning pastel birds,
    listening so intently to its song,
    her plump lips parted as if she wanted
    to drink in its sugared notes,
    her hands
    clasping Monkey
    to her chest,
    her legs moving
    through a memory of water
    as though she was still womb-swimming…

I CLOSE THE LID ON THE BOX
    Then,
    I shove it back into
    the dusty depths of the closet,
    wipe the tears from my eyes,
    and hoist up
    the overflowing wastebasket
    to carry it outside
    and empty it into the trash bin.
    But on my way there
    I hear Pinkie yapping.
    I glance into the neighbor’s yard
    and see Madison playing hide-and-seek.
    She’s scrunched down on her haunches,
    hiding from her mother
    behind the thin stem
    of their mailbox,
    her face tucked into the crook
    of her chubby little elbow,
    apparently convinced
    that this makes her invisible.
    Jane taps her foot,
    checks her watch, shades her eyes.
    She sees her daughter (obviously)
    but feels obliged to pretend she doesn’t.
    In a voice tighter than the jeans she’s wearing,
    she calls her daughter’s name—
    â€œMadison…Madison…
    Where are you Madison?”
    Jane stares at the sky, heaves a leaden sigh,
    as if she longs for the company of adults;
    for life as it was before the invasion
    of this tangle-haired energy-zapper…
    Poor woman.
    She doesn’t know
    that someday she’ll long
    for this late August afternoon
    when she could have held
    each instant
    like a jewel
    in the palm of her still smooth hand.

A NO-BRAINER
    Yesterday, Roxie called to tell me
    that if I don’t finish my book by October,
    I’ll lose my spot on next fall’s list.
    So, today, I was planning
    on spending the whole day
    writing dozens of brilliant poems.
    I was going to pop in some