Free The Art of Mending by Elizabeth Berg Page A

never raised a hand to us, had rarely even raised her voice.
    “She was. And she crippled me in ways I can’t even . . .” She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead. Then she looked at me, her green eyes hard. “This is part of the deal I made with the therapist, okay? I promised I’d talk to you and Steve. If I can just get some sort of acknowledgment—”
    “Caroline. I’m sorry for what you’ve been feeling. I am. I know your life growing up was difficult; you were a very sensitive kid. And . . . highly imaginative in ways that I think hurt you. I think you hurt yourself because of the way you seemed to dwell on sad things. I thought you’d have to be hospitalized after we saw
Bambi.
” I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
    I leaned in closer, chose my words carefully. I didn’t want her to know what I was thinking, which was that she was a liar. I had to find a gentler way to say that—and to think it. Deluding herself; that might be a better way of saying it. I’d think of something.
    For the time being, I just said, “Look. I understand you’re going through a lot of pain now. I wish I could help—I’m worried about you. But you’re talking in circles. I think we should go back upstairs. We can talk more about this later, I promise.” I stood, picked up my purse. Caroline stayed seated.
    “Are you coming?”
    She didn’t look at me. But she said, “One time, when I was about seven, she came into my room and I was lying on the bed, naked—I wanted to see how it felt to have all my skin against that silky coverlet I used to have. And she yanked me off the bed and shoved me up against the wall and said, ‘Shame on you! Shame on you!’ and shook me so hard I thought my neck would snap.” She swallowed. “Then she put her hands around my throat and wouldn’t let go. She didn’t squeeze, but she wouldn’t let go. Finally, I bit her. Then she let go.”
    I sat back down at the table.
    “That’s not the only thing she did like that. She told me it was my fault, that I made her do these things to me. I believed her.” She laughs. “And you know what? Telling you all this now, I can feel some part of me still believing it.”
    “Caroline, is this really true?” She looked up quickly at me, and I said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but is it? Tell me honestly, now.”
    Caroline laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Right.” She slid out of her chair and walked quickly away, and I cast about for the right thing to do. Call her back? Call her names? The truth was, I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t imagine my mother doing such things. Then it came to me that maybe what I couldn’t imagine was my not knowing. And by extension, of course, my not doing anything about it.
    I remembered a winter night when Caroline and I were perhaps eight and ten. We were lying together in my bed, the blankets pulled up high over us. We’d had a flashlight that we were using as a microphone, and we’d been playing some sort of game where I was the host and Caroline was a glamorous movie star who was being interviewed about her glamorous life. “And how many Christmas pres-ents did you get this year?” I’d asked, and Caroline had said, in a pleasingly affected voice, “Oh, my heavens, so many; too many to count. I got a horse, a Tennessee Walker. And I got a jewelry box full of diamond necklaces. And I got toilet paper made of satin and silk.” We’d giggled, I remember, and then, all of a sudden, she’d turned to me and said, “I wish I could die.” At first, I was confused, thinking the “star” was talking. But then I had understood it was Caroline, speaking for herself. “Don’t you?”
    “Don’t I what?” I was beginning to be afraid of her. I could feel a coldness rising up my spine. I hated how her bangs were cut crookedly, how pale she was, the bruise-colored circles beneath her eyes.
    “Don’t you wish you could die now?” she whispered. “Just like this?”
    “
No!
” I’d