One Pink Line (6 page)

“Mom, can I use your computer?”

“Use your dad’s.”

“I can’t, it has to be a Mac, and I can download a ton of music onto this tiny thing.”

My mom handed it back to me. “Okay, sweetie, but please call Nana Lynne and thank her first.”

Patch walked in to survey the excitement. “Can I listen too?”

I ran past him, up to my parents’ room, closed the door and spent the next two hours with the instruction booklet and her computer. By the time I emerged, my mom was in the kitchen preparing her broccoli casserole to bring over to Grandma’s. Dad hated green beans.

She smiled at me when I sat down at our breakfast table, which looked like a restaurant booth, tucked away in an alcove near the back door. She was happy when I was happy. I adjusted my headphones and listened to the ten or so songs I’d downloaded. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears mostly, and watched as my brother ran in and out of the kitchen showing Mom different drawings of frogs that he’d been working on while she was cooking. From where I was sitting, each frog looked like a misshapen green circle, but she reacted like he worked for Pixar, sending him running with glee back to his waterproof markers to work on his next creation.

“Why doesn’t Nana Lynne send anything for Patch?” I asked, then pulled one of the earphones out of my head and let it dangle on my shoulder.

She answered, but kept to her casserole. “You know why honey.”

“Tell me again.”

“She sends him a card on his birthday sometimes,” she said, reminding me of his consolation prize.

“Why nothing at Christmas?”

“I don’t know, she’s not related to Patch, honey,” she said quietly. “Just you.”

I got a similar answer every time I asked, and each year I hoped for a few more details on the matter…but they never came, and I never pressed the issue. I was only ten years old, and not well-versed enough in the art of interrogation. I popped the earphone back into my head and easily fell back into my musical euphoria.

It was a year later, when I was in the fifth grade, that I learned my height and my gifts from Nana Lynne weren’t the only things that made me different.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
wo days before my fifth grade class was set to study sex education, a note was sent home to our parents. We were instructed not to open the sealed envelope that it was housed in, but since no other notes from school came home in a sealed envelope, I tossed the envelope and read the note on the walk home.

Dear Pleasant View fifth grade parents:

Next week we begin our studies in Human Sexuality. As you may have already heard from your child, we will be doing some of the lessons in a unisex group, but most will be taught in segregated boy or girl clusters. With this sensitive subject, there are typically many topics that can be intimidating and confusing to our children. Because of this, we want you to know that we are here for you if you should need any assistance in answering questions at home, or simply need someone to talk to yourself.

We have set up a hotline that will be available to you from the hours of 11:30am – 1:00pm. Thank you for your cooperation.

Best Regards,

The Pleasant View Staff

“Are they serious?” I asked myself aloud. The infinitesimal group of kids in my grade who didn’t know what sex was could be narrowed down to Deborah Zernagen, Miles Hurphman and Cletus Marberg. And quite honestly, I could’ve sworn I saw Cletus dry humping his backpack once.

I tossed the note and continued walking. I remember laughing to myself, thinking how smart I already was, and how hilarious it would be to watch my teachers try and teach us things about sex that we already knew. I mean, I was eleven years old, what more was there to know?

Later that week, I sat through two jaw-dropping, cringe-worthy days of sexual anatomy and sexual intercourse. In which I counted penis was said seventeen times, testicles eleven, vagina fifteen, uterus ten and ovaries nine.

But when day three ended, and our lesson on sexual reproduction was complete…I realized I wasn’t laughing or feeling full of myself anymore. No, I was struck with a reality baseball bat, and realized I still had a lot to learn about exactly how I came into this world…and the answers were not at school.

From what I’d just been told, the only way to create a life was for the sperm to enter the egg on the day of conception. How then was I conceived if my parents married when I was two years old?

Prior to having my dad in my life, it was just my mom and I in the old apartment. I don’t remember everything that happened to me at that age, but I did have vivid memories of their wedding day. Mom even framed the pink ballerina dress and lavender sash I wore in a boxy Lucite frame that hung in our second floor hallway. She said that I wouldn’t walk down the aisle unless I had a purple ribbon and a ballerina skirt. She also said I refused to drop flower petals, and insisted on carrying her bridal bouquet instead.

My memories of that day remain unscathed, due partly to the seven photo albums we have, and partly because we moved into a house with my dad the very next day. Boxes were hauled in, Grandma was unpacking dishes and making lemonade, and everyone was congratulating me on getting my dad.

“Hi, special girl,” he’d shout when I’d enter the room. “Guess what…you can call me daddy now,” he said and threw me in the air, igniting my signature toddler giggles. “You are the most beautiful little princess, you know that?”

“I know that!” I would yell on the descent.

He always called me his beautiful little princess.

Sitting at Pleasant View School, after learning precisely everything I didn’t know about sex, I went numb. My mouth was dry as dirt, my skin was tight and my stomach felt like someone was stepping on it. I left the classroom without permission that day and ran to the nurse’s office.

Nurse Goode greeted me as soon as I crossed the threshold. “Hello, Grace,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

I sat on the squeaky vinyl daybed and looked into her eyes. She was a sweet, quiet woman who always had the right answer. She never made anyone feel like they were a burden to her, and whether she knew the students who were hypochondriacs or not, she always treated every ailment with kid gloves.

“I don’t know who my father is,” the words erupted from the pit in my stomach, and caught both of us off guard. I had every intention of complaining about a sore throat.

She spun her stool around and faced me before standing up and closing the door. Then she sat back down, smiled caringly, and folded her hands in her lap. “Grace, what’s going on?”

“My dad didn’t come until I was two,” I was talking fast. “And the sperm needs to travel through the cervix, into the uterus and plant itself into the egg before fertilization can begin. Only then can a fetus be created, and it’s nine to ten months from there,” I took her through everything I’d just learned, as though she didn’t know. “So how could he have come along two years after I was born?”

I’ll never forget the look on Nurse Goode’s face. I’d stumped the panel, I’d taken that lovely, unassuming woman who could dispense Neosporin faster than the speed of light, and rendered her speechless. She was frozen, instant-read thermometer in hand, but frozen nonetheless. “Maybe we should call your mom?”

After about twenty minutes, and a brief, softly spoken phone conversation with Nurse Goode, my mom arrived at the school. She was wearing her workout clothes and looked like she needed a shower.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and patted my mom’s back on her way out.

My hands were shaking, and I knew, simply based on the fact that Nurse Goode answered none of my questions, and instead called my mom to the school, something wasn’t right. I had just literally learned about sperm, ovaries and fertilization, so my mind was incapable of coming up with any answers on my own. My friends and I had never discussed when their fathers had come into their lives, so I had nothing to compare my situation to. I couldn’t help but wonder in that moment whether or not I was alone in my situation…whatever it was.

“Why do I feel scared?” I asked my mom, but kept my gaze securely fixed on the floor. I saw her wipe her eyes in my peripheral vision.

She took a seat on the wheeled nurse’s stool. “I’d hoped the school was going to send a note home letting us know when you were scheduled to begin your Sex Ed lessons.”

I couldn’t look at her, but I was desperate to hear what she had to say.

My mom rolled closer to me and took my hand in hers before she spoke. It looked like she was holding an empty glove.

CHAPTER SIX

Sydney

T
he night before I was supposed to meet Ethan’s parents for the first time, I was plagued with horrible menstrual cramps. So in addition to the nerves, I had cramping and bloating. The Reynolds we’re having their annual summer block party, and Ethan had invited me as his guest. He seemed to have a close relationship with his parents, and talked fondly of them. Ethan was Catholic, and although we were only in our late teens, my mother had warned me that all Catholic mothers want their sons to marry nice, full-blooded Catholic girls. She also warned me to be on my best behavior, to thank Mrs. Reynolds for the invitation immediately upon arrival, to introduce myself using my full name (not just my first), and to be sure and give her the gift that my mother sent along. Lastly, she reminded me that I was not Catholic.

“All I’m saying is that my Jewish roommate in college dated a Catholic boy from New York, and their relationship ended soon after she met his mother,” Mom informed me an hour before the Reynolds gala.

“Thanks for the confidence boost, Mom. But we’re not Jewish.”

Kendra looked at me from across the kitchen table and shook her head.

“But we’re also not Catholic,” she added. “In fact, your grandma Eddie was Jewish, and the rest of her family is Protestant. And what with uncle George being an atheist. All I’m saying is that you don’t have that edge going in.”

“Let the girl enjoy the block party for God sake,” Kendra interrupted with food in her mouth.

Mom put her hands up in defense; she didn’t make a habit of arguing with Kendra. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen it happen. Anyway, don’t forget the wine for Caroline,” she gasped. “Only don’t call her Caroline!” her finger waved in front of me. “And be smart,” she paused to contain herself. “Do you want to borrow my silver earrings?” she asked. “Or, I know, how about my sandals? You know, the ones with the gold anchors on them?”

“Nope, I’m good,” I said, strumming my fingers on the table.

“You sure? You always say how much you love them when I have them on.”

“On you, I do.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked defensively.

“She’s just fine, Mom,” Kendra said to appease her and to keep me from getting into it with my mother. My sister was always trying to train me on how to handle that woman. Kendra was no idiot; she and everyone else saw how my mother would torment me even over the littlest things. Simple questions could turn into arguments in a New York minute.

Mom turned away, and left the kitchen.
Chapter ten of child rearing book #2 clearly states: choose your battles.