Summer 2010 - Fiction
"When you called me on it, I shouldn't have said you were ruining the moment. I let you leave, later sort of convincing myself that I tried to yell "come back" but blocked on the "c" sound."
"A tiny corner house. The girl has a little bed in her parents’ room. At night, she dives into her bald teddy bear and sleeps uninterrupted. She never hears them, but she sometimes wakes up into an angry room. When they laugh, the air is lighter."
"Bonma was my grandmother but it didn’t really feel like it. I’d met her last summer when Mum and I were on holiday in South Africa. The first thing she ever said to me was, You’ll have to do something about that skin of yours. My grandfather, Bonpa, ignored me completely and stayed in his room doing ‘research’. He was a professor of psychology."
"While we go upstairs to shower the remains of the day from our weary skins, the spare wife prepares dinner. As we eat, she waits, bland and innocuous, while my husband and I make each other laugh by painting the day’s frustrations in rosy afterglow."
Frank and I had bought a house on the beach in Scituate when I got pregnant with Christine. We’d been trying to have a child for so long, we had just about given up. We had in fact begun looking into adoption - I was thirty-seven - but then, miracle of miracles, it happened."