Silence at Mama's House

SILENCE AT MAMA'S HOUSE

The egg on the plate stared back at me. The brown edges looked crisp, still hot from the pan.

"I have to feed the baby," my mother said. I watched as she cut the glistening white border into small pieces. The yellow yolk spread out like sunshine in a nursery school drawing. I followed my mother's hand movements, one bite at a time.

Using my four-year-old mind, I visualized the chewed-up egg sliding down my mother's slender throat, through her digestive tract, and landing in her protruding belly, where an infant waited with its open, bird-like mouth. Mama had soft hands, and she was feeding her unborn child.

Several years later, I remember Mama sitting at her dressing table, her tummy now flat in a long-line panty girdle, smoking an unfiltered cigarette, the tip circled with red lipstick, tapping the ashes off with Fire and Ice-painted fingernails. I had a mother who was a movie star then, Lauren Bacall, glamorously curling blue smoke onto an oval mirror. Her bosoms heaved, full and voluptuous, now Elizabeth Taylor, encased in a 34C brassiere. I knew that someday I, too, would be a lady, a woman. I also saw the painful reality of imperfection. A grown woman had big brown nipples and spider veins on her thighs. Fortunately, my slender body was young and smooth, only occasionally discolored by a summertime mosquito bite. I knew my mother wanted me to grow up and be in the New York Times society page, that I must not have fat ankles, and that my husband would be the boss. I learned these truths at Mama's knee. One night when I was ten years old, I was lying in the twin bed on the opposite side of his room when Stephen, my

My older brother started asking me questions. I slept in his room because Mama had hired a live-in babysitter who slept with Kate, my younger sister.

"Have you started to develop on top?" he inquired.

"No," I lied.

"Do you have hair down below?", he continued.

"No," I lied again. I had never discussed intimate subjects with my brother, or anyone else in my family. After a while, we both fell asleep.

Later that night, as I lay asleep, I sensed a presence over me. As I began to wake, I felt the cold air on my chest because the top buttons of my pajamas were unbuttoned. Realizing what was being done to me, I decided not to embarrass Stephen by opening my eyes. Consequently, I rolled over, pretending to be waking up. This theatrical performance gave my brother enough time to get to the other side of the room. When I finally opened my eyes, he was standing by the window. He told me he couldn't sleep. I said nothing.

However, the next morning, when I saw my mother, I told her I no longer wanted to sleep with Stephen. When she asked why, I couldn't get the words out. I wanted to explain that I could no longer sleep in Stephen's room, but the words wouldn't come. I didn't know why she didn't insist on the truth. If my father knew, he would be furious with my brother. My mind kept racing. I wished for the courage to tell my father, but I couldn't find the strength. Neither my mother nor I said another word on the subject.

"Sleep in the nursery, Laura," my mother finally replied.

That night and many nights after, as long as Alma, the live-in, stayed, I slept in my baby brother's room.

My mother had told me that the most precious thing she had given my father was her virginity. My college boyfriend at summer camp kept trying to get me to change my mind. One night, when I felt his penis near my opening, I was sure I had just given "it" away. At that point, I shut down emotionally.

After that incident, I started pushing the Frosted Flakes away at breakfast. Mashed potatoes at dinner stayed untouched on my plate. The weight started to peel off me, pound after pound. I grew light and airy, always hungry, happy with my loose pants and growling stomach. Breakfast was cottage cheese and Melba toast with black coffee. For lunch, an apple and a carrot were routine, maybe a glass of skim milk. I cut the fat off the meat at dinnertime. I would not allow myself pizza, cookies, ice cream, or peanuts. Chocolate bars with almonds, once my favorites, were forbidden.

I had a bald spot on the back of my scalp, so I went to a dermatologist.

"You should eat butter and cream and drink frappes," the doctor said as she examined my skin under the light in the examining room. "Your skin is starving for Vitamin B."

The stiff needle went into my scalp. The room was dark, save for a gleam of light. I kept staring at the light so I wouldn't faint. Where was Mama? I had driven myself to the doctor's office because I was seventeen and had my license.

Back home, I went to the refrigerator. It was lunchtime, and I was famished from the strain of the doctor's appointment. I stood holding the handle of the Coppertone refrigerator.

"The doctor said I should eat rich foods, like butter and cream. My skin needs them," I reported.

Mama was dressed in a pretty suit.

"You should have a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of cream of tomato soup for lunch," she said. Her high heels clicked on the kitchen floor, the blue Italian tiles.

My mouth watered as I imagined the melted-cheese sandwich and the hot, creamy soup. Surely my mother would cook it for me. I had just gotten a shot in my scalp with a big, long needle. Mama, I thought, please make me lunch so I will get better. Just this once, I thought, cook for me. I felt like a little girl, not a seventeen-year-old. I wanted to be cuddled and rocked. Chant me a lullaby, mama with the soft hands. Rock me gently and sing, "Summertime, hush little baby, don't you cry, your daddy's rich and your mama's good looking." Please take care of me and tell me not to starve myself. Show me how to nurture my body.

Instead, she sauntered right out of the kitchen, dangling the feast in front of me.

I opened the Coppertone refrigerator door and grabbed a cold chicken wing from a plate of last night's leftovers. Gnawing on the bone, I sucked up the juices, devouring every last bit. I could not bring myself to make lunch. I did not know how to nurture myself. The skinny chicken wing would suffice.

Mama, mama, where are you? I remembered how she fed her baby, my unborn sister. Today, Kate was an adolescent.

Neither Kate nor I ever discussed our brother's nocturnal visits. Mama, don't you care what's happening to this family? Why doesn't anyone ask us to speak? I am seventeen years old. I weigh eighty-two pounds and am starving right in front of you.