Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [111]
Linda numbers the twenty-eighth line of her notebook pad and records this, her latest rejection, from Mr. Charles Andrew Plumb, who did not even deem it worthy of his time to outline the specific reasons for his rejection. Somehow, the form letter’s generalized complaint is more wounding than the specific critiques made by previous lovers. Without specific reason for his departure, she feels it is not one particular habit or physical trait or personal flaw that he cannot stand, but rather her whole person that he abhors. Such comprehensive rejection makes her weak in the knees with grief.
Seven pages in, I stopped, unsure of how to end. Pencil lines of pink dawn seeped through the window blinds.
I went to the roof to watch the sunrise, carrying the shoe box of photographs with me. There was the yellowed picture of my first birthday, me sitting on my father’s left knee while he balanced the two-tiered chocolate cake he’d made for the occasion on the right. The first day of kindergarten, the last day of summer camp. Both of us on either sides of my bike the day he taught me to ride without training wheels. Two envelopes of pictures, barely enough for one album—never enough for a lifetime.
A cool wind blew. The leaves of the maple tree slapped against one another, like a hundred decks of cards flap-flapping as they shuffled. I loved our tree. It reminded me of the old gnarled oak that grew in my backyard as a child, its delicately veined leaves good for catching my attic daydreams, its limbs strong for climbing. I could feel, vividly, where the bark left abrasions, skin flicked back in thin strips like ash.
One particular summer day would always be with me. I was six and four months old as I would proudly inform anyone who asked. I could smell the funk of picked dandelion stems on my palms and, on the air, burning charcoals from the grill. We were hosting a picnic. All the Karrows had come. I was wearing my favorite jumper, the one with five pockets in front, two in back, every one of them stuffed with treasures: my one-dollar allowance money, worn soft as silk from its long-term investment in my pocket; two marble-colored rubber balls that sparkled; one flattened specimen of Bazooka bubble gum I was saving for a special occasion; and a fistful of tart red berries picked from the front lawn bushes and intended for Uncle Lynn’s balding head. I was sweating and hungry, but I climbed without slipping, even though dizzy from the height. I had climbed the tree a dozen times before but never this far up. I didn’t know what was goading me, but I felt a terrible urgency to find the top. When I reached the highest weight-bearing limb, I stood on its bending arm and shouted “He-ey!” to everyone below. A crowd collected. I heard a boy—probably the one who told me I couldn’t do it—telling his friend that he’d been to the top of much higher trees, and I heard my mother shouting at me to get down, and my grandmother crying out “Lord, have mercy” while she held her heart in her chest. They appealed to my father who was happily grilling and whistling and blithely unaware. He turned, he looked, he spotted me three stories up. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He was impressed by my achievement. He would no doubt brag about it at the next family event. I grinned. With only one hand pressed against the trunk for balance, I bowed, little histrionic creature that I was, and then shimmied back down, swinging faster and faster, imagining myself an Olympian gymnast windmilling her body effortlessly around the parallel bars, building momentum for the final landing! But of course I didn’t land. I fell, the wind flying out of my chest so fast and hard I felt momentarily breathless and deaf from the shock. There, floating over me, was my father’s face. “Amy, Amy,” he said, shaking his head, carrying me into the house. “Amy, my little battering