The Memory Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

reliable source. That’s not as easy as it sounds. First of all, my parents aren’t alive—they died before Andy and I were married. In fact, Andy and the girls are all the family I have. But even if the pool of relatives were more plentiful, it’s not as if I could call any of them and ask if JD died. How exactly would I phrase that? I’m afraid to ask anyone. Inasmuch as I’d stake my life on JD being alive, what if she isn’t?
    My mother would’ve been the perfect person to talk to. I could always get information from her without revealing my lack of it. Which was particularly handy when I was a teenager and wanted her opinion as to whether my father might ground me for one thing or another. Often you got a lot more from her than you were seeking. Some people like that trait in others—takes the pressure off of them to talk. That might explain why most of her friends were the quiet type. Including my dad. He seldom spoke. Perhaps he felt he didn’t have ample opportunity, but I think he was relieved not to express himself. He definitely indulged my mother—not with fancy jewelry or a big house; those were beyond his reach. Instead, he was tolerant of her quirky ways. A perfect example of this was when my mother made a decidedly sudden and permanent change in the way she spoke, and my father never so much as flinched.
    It happened when my sister and I were about six. My parents took a trip to London as a second honeymoon. It was their first trip abroad. While there, my mother “became” British. She fell in love with “those charming, classy Brits.” She was so transformed by the sound of their accent that she began speaking with one herself and never reverted back. Even in her final days.
    She completely crossed over to the other side of the pond—linguistically, that is. The funny thing is that she never showed a bit of self-consciousness at the sheer craziness of it at all. I don’t believe she ever thought, How does a thirty-one-year-old woman, who’s lived in the States all her American life, instantly become British after a seven-day “holiday” to London? Believe me, everyone else did. Sometimes, now that time has distanced me from it, I think, Bravo to her . She didn’t want to slip invisibly into a group of suburban housewives like a queen of diamonds into a stacked deck. It was harder for me to understand that back then, when my schoolmates (and their mothers) would impersonate her. Behind my back and to my face. JD and I were desperate for our mother to stop. But she didn’t. She grabbed onto that accent like it saved her soul, and she wasn’t letting go.
    It was my father’s reaction that had us dumbfounded. He never once gave Mom a hard time. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed. He accepted it like it was her destiny. I think he was glad she was so happy. She’d finally found her voice (in a manner of speaking).
    JD and I were mortified for a long time. We realized pretty fast that we should make friends with any new kids who moved into town. Those families just thought Mom was British. I remember that in first grade, I had a classmate named Cindy Bone. She was vicious—for a seven-year-old—and she had an equally vicious mother. One day, soon after my parents returned from England, I came home from school and was standing on my front porch when Mrs. Bone walked past our house with the evil Cindy. I don’t think she saw me standing there, but she stopped in front of Mrs. Withers, our neighbor, who was weeding the flower bed in her front yard. With a mocking hand held up to the side of her mouth to feign discretion, she called out, “Has Elaine Spencer lost her mind, or has she landed a part in My Fair Lady ?” That sent Mrs. Bone into an interminable horror-movie cackle that ended up in a half wheeze/half gag until she quickly stuck a newly lit cigarette between her shriveled lips. Thank goodness Mrs. Withers had the decency to turn away silently, start up her lawn mower, and drown