What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [54]
For Two Things, all the women sat in a horseshoe before the display table. Then, at the prompting of the hostess, each woman said her name and two things about herself. Sharla and I always had high hopes that something fantastic would be revealed; nothing ever was. Still, the information was entertaining. Last time, Mrs. Jacobson had revealed that her cat had had seven kittens, named after the seven dwarfs.
We sat at the top of the steps, leaning forward to hear better. Joan Phenning said that her favorite food was brussels sprouts and that she had two beautiful boys. Sharla and I looked at each other. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, that’s what we called her two beautiful boys. Mrs. Five Operations said she had reached the six-month mark after her laminectomy and could now lift grocery bags. Also that she had a new recipe for a cold cucumber soup in her purse that she was willing to share with anyone who was interested. My mother said she expected gigantic roses later this summer and that today was her birthday. There ensued a happy chorus of “Ohs!” and “Happy Birthdays!” And then we heard Jasmine say, “My name is Jasmine Johnson. I wanted to be an actress and I never loved my husband.” There was a stunned silence. Then a titter, and some rustling sounds. And then, “My name is Jane Samuelson. This summer we’re going to Wyoming, and next week my older daughter Janie will be getting her braces off. And—well, I wanted to be a dancer. But that’s three.” Sharla and I sat immobile. We did not look at each other. The next woman, Eileen Hansen, went back to the usual format, saying what her husband did and how many children she had. After Two Things was over and Sharla and I went back to the bedroom, she asked, “Why does Jasmine say things like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sometimes she is so weird.”
“Yeah.”
“Why does Mom like her so much?”
I picked up my bowl of Jell-O. “Because she’s so different.”
“Huh,” Sharla said. “That would make someone not like her.”
“Not everyone,” I said. The Jell-O was wonderful. It slid effortlessly down my throat. I wanted more.
My father brought pizza home for my mother’s birthday dinner. She’d said she didn’t want to leave me to go to a restaurant when I was sick, though I felt much better. “Twelve-hour virus,” my father had pronounced, then tousled my hair. “Right? You’re better already, right?”
I’d nodded. He didn’t like it when anyone was sick: he had to make it into something nearly gone as soon as it arrived. When Sharla was hospitalized for a week with her tonsils, he was beside himself; that was the most serious thing that had happened to us. He called the nursing station relentlessly when visiting hours were over; he held Sharla’s hand the whole time he was there with her; he told her as soon as she awakened from anesthesia that she was all better. It was an odd feeling, being sick around him; you felt secure in his assurance that you were fine; but you felt frustrated, too, at the distance between what he said you felt and what the truth really was.
After pizza, served unceremoniously on our usual dinner plates and accompanied by a salad my mother made, my father presented her with a large package, and Sharla put our gift on top of it. She’d used Christmas paper to wrap it; my mother smiled at the sight of flying reindeer in August. “I wanted to get it gift-wrapped,” Sharla said, “but Ginny got sick.” She looked accusingly at me.
“This is fine,” my mother said. “More interesting. It’s nice to have something unexpected once in a while.” She untied the red ribbon. “Let’s see what’s in here.” She took off the paper carefully, folded it. Then she lifted the box cover and held up the nightgown. I looked