My older sister’s bedroom is mostly pink and white. A 16-year-old’s Barbie bedroom with a splash of school spirit. She has pictures on her dresser in white frames with hearts on them. One is me. My fourth grade picture. She likes it because she did my hair that day and it actually came out all right. Myrtle spent forever on those two limp pigtails with damp curls on the end. It’s the only school picture where I’m smiling.
Myrtle’s hand is on the banister as we go downstairs. On the wall, photos march down beside us. All baby pictures. Rolling. Pointing. Laughing. There’s no evidence that we survived past the age of five.
My usual combination is Internet and whatever. Myrtle got us a computer that a record store was going to throw away. She stole a phone bill and set up a second line in the basement. Our mother still hasn’t noticed in the jumble of a phone bill we get.
This boy was riding in a shopping cart coming toward us. He was like five or something. I remember he had scrawny legs and those sandals with buckles that made little boys look like little girls. He was reaching toward bright colors on the shelves, saying things like “Mommy, that can is blue!”
My mother’s boyfriend’s closed mouth filled with laughter. But when my mother had stopped the cart, bent over, and laughed, he figured it was OK to let it out.
We stare at the ceiling. We read her mood by her walk.
