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Show At some point, I wet the bed, soaking through the cotton sheets and ruining their blankets. When Mr. DeBobes came to wake us, he found the accident and called for his wife. Diane screamed that I had wet the bed, looking at me as if I had hit her rather than dampened her nightgown. She ran around the room wiping her legs, yelling, gross, gross. The wet spot turned the green sheets darker, a forest blooming in the middle of the bed. Years later, I would be grateful for the accident because it provided a way to remember a night when Pele first visited my family. At the time, though, I sat in the sea of wet blankets, thinking someone must have poured water on the mattress; I could no more imagine wetting the bed than walking on air. I begged Diane to believe me. In the morning my father called. Mrs. DeBobes spoke with him for a long time and then handed the phone to me. It wgsJthefirst time I had ever talked with my father on the phone, one of the first times I had ever talked on the phone at all. His voice sounded thin and distant and he spoke slowly, choosing words like he might choose a tool, deliberately. You have a baby brother, he said without suspense or cheer. How's mom, I asked, is she coming home? She 'sfine, he said and then paused. More to fill the silence than anything, I asked what my baby brother's name was. He doesn 't have a name. Why? I asked, knowing that we had been talking about names for months at this point. Something happened, he said. 55 |
