“Interrogative Mode”
I started asking questions at an earlier age than a lot of kids. Or maybe I was just asking different ones. “What's your mom’s name?” I asked my friend Tracy when I was five. “Um, Mommy. I don’t know. What’s yours?” “Her name was Stephanie.”
Tracy had actually met my mom. She let me sleep over at Tracy’s when I was four. I didn't want to leave daycare until I understood my plans. “When do I get to sleep over at Tracy’s house?” “The day after tomorrow.” “When’s the day after tomorrow?” “Well, there’s tomorrow, and then it's the day after that.” “I don’t get it.” “It’s in two days.” “Two days. How long is that?” “48 hours.” "How long is an hour?" "60 minutes." "How long is Sesame Street?" "30 minutes." "So how many Sesame Streets?" "A lot." "So I have to wait a long time?" "Enough, Heather, we're going home. Go get your coat from your cubbyhole."
We had a hard time communicating. I was four, and my mom was grieving her father’s death. She got angry over little things like when I resisted the pain of her brushing my hair. Now I know she was depressed. Then, I got scared. But I could still touch her, like on her legs where there were prickly hairs. “Am I going to have prickly hairs like these someday?” “I need to shave.” “Oh.”
I saw my mom up close the most in the bathroom. I saw her sitting on the toilet and wadding up the toilet paper when she peed so she could have a nice bundle to wipe with. One day, she opened the glass shower door, and it swung open and hit me in the belly. I looked down and saw a brown spot where the shower door bumped me. “You just did that!” I exclaimed. “No, that’s a mole.” “No, you did that!” I thought I was sure.
Such different worlds we get depending on the questions, the answers, and what we want to believe.
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