Event!

This excerpt is from my novel-in-progress, The Ghost Tree 

Chapter Two  (Jo is Tullie's mother. Tullie is six years old)

        In the kitchen, Tullie stops biting her hand. Jo shakes herself. She tries to throw off what’s just happened, to banish the energy they’ve thrown up, the violence that's still crackling around them. She casts up her hands without thinking, as if she could push it away. Tullie’s eyes follow the movement, and Jo takes note of that (Good tracking, good eye coordination). Tullie smiles. The mood may be changing. Jo decides to pretend that it has. 

        “I need some hot coffee!” she shouts, swishing in towards Tullie, who allows herself to be held under the arms and scooted along (Tullie likes this, feeling Jo’s arms wrapped tightly round her chest). She makes herself stiff, like a shovel, so that Jo can pull her along).

        “I’ve got it,” Jo shouts,” I’ve got it, look what I found, a cup of hot coffee! With lots of froth! Look at this one!” She is talking nonsense, the words pumping out of her mouth.

        Tullie giggles.

        “Oooh, and this cup of coffee is HEAVY. Thirty-eight pounds of HOT coffee, Look at this one! Did you ever see such a large cup? This is not a demi-tasse, this is a tasse!” (Jo never knew she had it in her, but somewhere this language was stored, yards and yards of maternalese, coiled like the tail on a vacuum cleaner). 

        Good. They are out of the kitchen, and Tullie is happy. Jo must keep this mood going. 

        When they reach the bedroom, she studies Tullie’s face. The joy has gone; the smile’s no longer flowing through it. How can she get the mood back? Would anybody know how to do it? Yes, Dr. Greenspan would. 

        Tullie goes over to the window. She begins to slap her palms against the sill.

        If she kidnapped Dr. Greenspan, Jo thinks, she would be able to get his services for free. Dr. Greenspan, illustrious doctor, founder of the Floortime approach. She pictures him: small dark eyes, baggy sweater, long legs. His legs fall haphazardly around him; he’s not quite in possession of them, he’s so long and thin. She imagines him standing by the window... Now he’s crouching (it’s important, he says, to get down to the child’s level). “Now watch her,” he says, “watch her, to begin with.” 

        And here comes George Harrison, Tullie’s favorite musician. He sidles into the room, leans against the chest of drawers, glancing at Tullie with amused, laidback, curiosity. “Well now, little girl, what’s this?” He has a Liverpudlian accent. Jo can barely remember what that sounds like (she has been in America for more than twenty years).

        Tullie’s head swivels towards George (does she recognize his voice?). She keeps banging her palms against the windowsill.

        He is young, this version of George. He reminds Jo of Rasputin: dark beard, glittering eyes, loose, embroidered shirt. 

        “I’ll sing you a song, little one.” It must be luck; he picks Tullie’s favorite, While my guitar gently weeps, and hums a few bars. Tullie’s hands stop moving; she is watching him. 

        “Good eye-contact!” shouts Dr. Greenspan, “Good. See that? Now you’ve gotten her attention, what are you going to do with it?”   

        George looks puzzled. “Well, I wasn’t really counting on…” 

        “Go on,” says Greenspan, “She’s interested. I like your hum—now, how can you expand on that?”

        George points his guitar towards Tullie and begins to strum (the guitar is white. He pushes it out from the whiteness of his hip, as if it’s part of him). “I look at the floor and I see it needs swe-ee-eping—" he sings.

        “I don’t know ho-oo-oow…” His voice takes the word high, higher than Tullie’s ever heard it; she looks surprised. 

        “Excellent,” cries Dr. Greenspan, “Now, you’ve got to challenge her—so, expand, go on, George! Pull her into your space!”

        George starts to sing again, “I don’t know hoooo-ooooow…” He stretches the word out even longer this time. Tullie looks at him and frowns. 

        “That’s right, George!” shouts Dr Greenspan, “keep changing it, get her to notice the change—remember, we are working on anticipation!” 

        “I don’t know how someone contro-ooo-lled you,” sings George.

        Tullie takes a step away from the windowsill, towards him.

        “I look at the world, and I notice it’s tu-uuu-rning.” 

        Tullie takes another step. 

        Dr. Greenspan gives a small, delighted laugh. “Ah yes, yes! Now we have circles of communication, now we’re cooking! Now we’re doing Floortime!” 

        “I don’t know---hooo---oooo-oow…” Up goes George’s voice, climbing, holding the word, unwinding it above Tullie’s head. Tullie looks up—he keeps the word there, suspended.

        Tullie takes another step. Is she going to touch him? 

        Greenspan doesn’t speak. His eyes are boring into Tullie; he’s joined his hands together.  

        Tullie reaches out to George….Oh don’t be ridiculous! Jo comes back to earth, back to the room, as it is—and there is Tullie, slamming her hands against the windowsill. 

        But Jo allows the imaginary scene to spin out a little longer: Now, Tullie is following George as he moves around the room wielding his white guitar…and now, Tullie breaks into words—at which point, Dr. Greenspan begins to shout, “By George, she's got it!” This, Jo tells herself, is really rather silly. But she knows she will go on indulging in such fantasies, go on watching Tullie bursting into language—as if the words were still there, fully formed, waiting to be released like Athena exploding from the head of Zeus. Every parent, Jo suspects—every parent who has a child who no longer speaks—must have a fantasy like this. 

        Jo is driving with Tullie to the pool. The windows are rolled down. George is playing on the radio. When they turn into the parking lot, Tullie starts slamming up and down in her seat, making vivid popping sounds (Jo pictures a hail of red flowers). 

        They’re halfway down the hallway, going towards the changing rooms, when Tullie stops. Jo tries to persuade her to keep moving, but Tullie won’t budge; she stands, looking through the viewing window at the pool below. How long are we going to get stuck here today, Jo wonders. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? Tullie’s arms ripple. Her body starts to sway. I can’t move, Jo thinks. I’ve been stapled to the floor. 

        Ten minutes later, they advance to the next tile. 

        People pass them, slide their eyes sideways to take them in, then slide them away. Because Tullie is dancing ecstatically and making sounds they can’t identify.

        So that’s where Jo is, when the men walk by. She doesn’t see their faces; they’ve almost passed by the time she takes them in completely. They are big strong men walking side by side. As they walk, they almost block the walkway. Stiff work pants exaggerate the swinging motion of their hips. FIRE DEPARTMENT say the letters printed on their backs. Jo watches the back of their necks, their long, tanned muscular arms. They walk in step, with the same heroic masculine stride. It is so exaggerated, so perfect, that Jo smiles. It’s the cowboy walk, the walk of the gunman striding down the street of a lawless western town (and they bring the music with them). Blast-o-man! Testosterone! Phew! 

        Jo wishes she could join them—just keep marching down the hallway. It’s been a long time since a man like that would turn to look at her. I’m no longer juicy, she thinks. I am forty-two.

        Turning back to Tullie, she uses the I'm-the-mother, I'm-in-charge voice: “Let’s go!” 

        Tullie rolls her chest away, slides her arm behind her. Jo tries to catch her hand from the other side, but Tullie swerves in the opposite direction. She smiles; she knows she’s getting the better of Jo. 

        They’re moving again, Tullie’s arm is linked in Jo’s. Jo walks quickly; if there’s the slightest break in momentum, Tullie will stop abruptly and sit on the floor. When they get close to the automatic doors, Jo walks even faster. She begins to hum the overture from William Tell. 

        They’ve crossed the threshold, they’re in the tiled area…and now, they’re in the changing room. Jo pulls out her bikini and realizes that she’s brought the wrong one, the one with long, untethered parts that don’t connect. She turns it over, flaps it about. How is this thing put together? Tiredness storms over her. Tullie bangs her hands against the shelf. Jo catches sight of herself in the mirror (the light above the glass is vicious). She can’t avoid her face: the dark eyes, the hair that refuses to curl, the cords in her neck that are just beginning to assert themselves. I was never juicy, she thinks, and now I’m dry, squeezed out. I’ve become hard and jutting and un-bonny—and I’ve brought the wrong bikini, which means I’m going to hold things up. What I need is an old-fashioned swimming costume (it is still the British term that comes to her first: swimming costume—something ceremonial, suggesting high-buttoned boots and ostrich feathers). She thinks of the black costume she borrowed the week she arrived in Chicago, a garment that covered half her thighs. She had worn it at the Michigan Avenue Beach the day she met Lizzie (the other student who had come out from England with her). There were some of Lizzie’s American friends at the beach—because she already had some. On the way, Jo stopped to ask a man for directions. He was the first person she came across; every encounter then was an encounter with foreignness, a thrill. “Could you tell me the way to Michigan beach?” she asked. 

        “Huh?” (The man wore a knitted cap the color of pale wood. He seemed to have been whittled out of a tree). “Huh?” he kept saying, “Huh?” 

        She asked him again. “Could you tell me the way to the beach?” 

        “Huh? What’s that you want?” 

        Jo could feel her surprise. It caught in her throat like saliva, like something she had swallowed. English was her first language. She had not expected this. (She hadn’t even known she had an accent.) 

        “Could you help me? I’d like to go to the beach. …directions to the beach?” 

        “What’s that you said?” 

        She could hear her own voice reaching out into space, echoing, coming back to her like the voice of a stranger. 

        In the end, she said, “I just want to find the sand…could you please show me the way to the sand?” She sounded as if she were reading from a phrase book. 

        She had swum in Lake Michigan, on a beach rimmed with cigarette ash, swallowing the cold grey water, looking out with Lizzie at the lights along the pier, thinking: Now it begins! 

        In the changing room, at the Paradise Sports Center, Tullie keeps banging her hands on the shelf. Jo shakes the bikini-top again, and something falls out: a piece of padded beige flesh the size of a human ear. What could this be for? 

        Tullie smacks the doorknob.

        “We can’t go out yet, sorry. I’ve got to work out how to put on this impossible contraption—” 

        Tullie takes Jo’s hand and places it over the doorknob; she looks back at Jo, making small, snapping, deliver-unto-me-noises. 

        “I’m sorry, but I can’t go out there naked.” Jo gives the other cup a tap—the cup designed to hold a breast. There’s an ear hidden in that one too. Jo wishes she could ask Lizzie what it’s for. Lizzie would know. 

        It’s breast padding—that’s what it is! Jo stuffs it back in. 

        “You’ve showed me what you want, Tullie. That’s good non-verbal communication. Good gesturing!” (She is talking like a true Floortime believer) 

        Tullie rattles the knob. 

        The women in the next cubicle are talking: "Oh, yeah, they're good. They have some good stuff. I mean, I found a lucky jacket at TJ Maxx, one time. They're mainly brand names…I found a Lucky jacket, for like twenty dollars. I mean how cool is that? It was tie-die and it was gorgeous.”

        Perhaps she, Jo, could find a lucky jacket? But how would she know it if she found it? How would she recognize it? Ah, but she had, in Filenes Basement—it must have been the summer she visited the beach—the jacket was made of green silk, boxy, late 1980’s style. When she put it on, she felt herself relax. In this jacket, she would be spontaneous, sophisticated, blasé: Oh yes, it promised! Raw silk. Beads on the lapel. She tried it on, and it was really not bad. In this jacket, she could pass for a put-together woman; she could be almost sexy. It was reduced to nineteen dollars—which was more than she could afford—but if this was the jacket, if it could smooth her uncoordinated joints, shrink her enormous feet, it would be worth it. Whenever she put on that jacket, she’d become a faintly smiling creature: She would pass through glass doors, just beyond men’s reach.

        She bought it. 

         At the Paradise Sports Center, Tullie walks towards Jo through the shallow water. It’s been three weeks since Jo has heard her say a word. Tullie used to speak, although the professionals said she did not use words the way they should be used, functionally, joined together end-to-end like squares of linoleum. No, but she used them beautifully. Jo remembers her throwing them out: avocado, ballerina, gigantic! Watch those words fly! Hydrocortisone, cappuccino! Watch them dazzle and glow! 

        The pool is rapture to Tullie. It’s total relaxation. It’s a magic carpet. Occasionally, in the water, Tullie will speak. Just a single word. So, Jo is going to get to work; she’s going to try to bring another word back. 

        Jo leads Tullie round the pool; she laughs, grabs her, and spins her around. “Okay, stop!” 

        Tullie laughs, an answering laugh—a social laugh—Good.

        Jo holds her in position. “Ready, set….” (She is building anticipation, stretching it out.) “G-G-G—” Jo makes small, tipping motions, teasing, showing Tullie what would happen if she said the word, Go. “Go on, Tullie, say it, say the word ‘Go.’ Say it, and I’ll spin you! G-G-Go—”
       Tullie’s face is alert, waiting. Is she going to say it? 

        “G—G—” Jo gives Tullie a quarter spin.

        No word from Tullie. Not this time.

        “Go!” Jo shouts, hoisting Tullie into the turn as hard as she can, producing a magnificent body of spray. Tullie whoops. She bustles to make herself ready again. 

        “You little plumtree,” says Jo. “Ready, set, set…G-G—what’s next, Tullie?”

        Tullie’s eyes are close to Jo’s. She makes a noise of devout intention, then tips her head forward. “Ge…” she says.

        “G-G-G-Go on, Tullie, say it and I’ll spin you! Go on, SAY IT!” 

        “Go!” The word shoots out. Tullie looks surprised by it.

        Jo launches Tullie into a big tumbling whoosh, all the way round.

        Again they spin, and again. Twice, Tullie says, “Go!” She digs her nails into Jo’s shoulders. The water crashes over them. Tullie laughs, throws back her head. (Circles, Dr. Greenspan would say: Now you’ve got circles of communication! Now you’re cooking!) 

        Tullie brings her head close to Jo, opens her eyes wide and searches Jo’s face. Jo wonders if she has ever looked at anyone—even a lover—like this.

        Looking right at her, Tullie says, “Hi!”

        “Hi!” Jo shouts back, “Hi, Tullie, HI!” 

        The word was unmistakable. Tullie created a space for it. She cut out a platform and pushed the word towards Jo: There you are—if you have any doubt, here it is! 

        Jo watches Tullie advance: she’s pressing herself through the water, her legs are working hard—now, she plunges downwards. Jo sees her face underwater, watches her bangs lift in a dark wave—and there’s a string of bubbles rising from her mouth. That’s not what I expected, Jo thinks, that looks very odd. Then she feels it—alarm rushing through her: Do something! Danger, Danger! Daughter drowning! Jo catches Tullie round the waist and starts to lift her.
       There! Tullie appears again above the water, miraculously whole, unmistakably herself. But her face looks flattened—and she might be getting ready to cry.  

        “Hey, what happened there?” asks Jo, “We’re alright, aren’t we? Oh yes, we are! We’re hunky dory!” Jo makes a funny face.

        Tullie laughs, a small, shuddering laugh. If Jo didn’t know better, she would think it was fake.

        Jo lets the excitement fall out of her face. She must not make this funny. Tullie might go back under the water to get her to make that interesting face again. 

        Jo leads Tullie out of the pool. 

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