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Show in my father's house/ 201 my father's office. I felt it bitterly unfair that my father couldn't find some use, some necessity for my mother and her family. I consoled myself that we sometimes had him to ourselves, now, and that Aunt Helga wasn't around to point out all our failings to him. My mother faltered for a week or two after Aunt Helga's departure, then regained her footing. She smiled more, laughed louder, talked willingly of her thoughts and feelings, struck friendships with neighbors and members of the local Mormon Church, and soon was playing the piano all over town. She unfurled before our eyes, like a wilted bud suddenly given new life. When I was barely eight years old -- the Mormon age of accountability - my mother mentioned during my father's weekend visit that it was time I was baptized. He looked up as if startled, his eyes intent and fully focused on me for the first time in months. "So you're eight years old, Princess?" he asked. I nodded. He looked at my mother. "Come north with me. It's a beautiful place and Sarah has fixed the cottage real cozy. She'd love to have you for a week or two." "Well...I don't know..." my mother began, as usual. "If we don't get up there for her baptism, I don't know when we'll be able to do it. There's no place around here that's right for it." I watched my mother's expression change. "Well, if you're sure we wouldn't be imposing." |
