Free Thy Neighbor by Norah Vincent Page B

So what?
    She’ll be disappointed when I finish. There’s nothing there. But it’s all I can think of.
    It’s what she wants, so I’ll give it to her.
    â€œWe were eating and watching the TV, and then I happened to look down at what was on my spoon, and I saw a small white worm curled inside one of the berries, wriggling.”
    I hang on this, still hoping she’ll trip, say the wrong thing or interrupt, and then I won’t have to go on with the rest. But she doesn’t. She waits.
    â€œI hated insects then,” I say, feeling it now, coming strong, the picture running on its own. “I still do. I couldn’t believe that there was one in my food, and alive, too. I felt sick at the thought that I’d already eaten one.”
    Monica smiles uncomfortably, her face squirming with the ick of it.
    â€œI thought, how many worms had I already eaten in all the time I’d been eating fruit? It was horrible. I was probably six or something at the time, the age when discoveries like that are catastrophic.”
    Monica nods vigorously.
    â€œAround that same age, I once found a spider on my pillow, and for years after that—really, years—I wore socks and a tracksuit to bed every night, my logic being that how could you ever know what was crawling over you while you slept? I’d lie there all night sweating my balls off, but I couldn’t bear to sleep uncovered. That’s how bad it was.”
    I’m rolling it out now, blabbing, as if we’d never argued, and there’s no stopping me.
    â€œAnyway, I looked up at Dad, probably with those saucer eyes that kids get after they’ve just bumped their head on the coffee table but before the pain has gotten through—you know, like they’re looking at the parent to see if they should freak out—and I said, ‘Dad, there’s a worm in one of my berries.’”
    We both laugh at this and shake our heads. Kids.
    â€œI was full-on ready to pop,” I say, “just rigid with it. And I figured he was going to say something harsh, like, ‘Don’t be a baby, Nick.’ You know, shame me into eating it, like it was at the bottom of a bottle of tequila or something.”
    I pause here, the laugh having fallen out of the story. My voice goes serious and deep.
    â€œBut he didn’t.”
    Monica’s face falls, too, listening.
    â€œInstead, he said the most soothing thing he ever said to me. And, believe me, I know, it’s going to sound really lame and pathetic—like,
Jesus, Nick, if that’s the best you ever got, no wonder
—but, well, I don’t know, it just worked, and I guess I’ve never forgotten it.”
    I hang on this again, wondering, should I make this part up? Lie to her because the truth is so embarrassing? But I’m not quick enough for that, and she is really listening. Her knee is digging into my thigh painfully. She doesn’t realize.
    â€œHe said,” I say, leaning away and shifting her, “‘They think the berries are good, too.’”
    I smile at this and Monica does, too.
    â€œAnd then he smiled at me, and he looked right into my bulging, horrified eyes with those soft eyes of his, and—”
    I choke here and cough to cover the catch in my voice.
    â€œLike I said, I know it sounds like nothing. But it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t just
what
he said. It was
the way
he said it. It was bigger than just the words. It was his tone, so sure and so calm.”
    Monica’s eyes are darting across my face, from mouth to eyes and back again, guiding me to finish.
    â€œThat was really it, I guess. He was telling me that there was nothing to be afraid of. And the way he did it, with this combination of knowing and helping me to understand, it made everything okay instantly.”
    I say this again to the wall—“Everything. Instantly.”—and Monica puts one fingertip on the forked vein of