Free What My Mother Gave Me by Elizabeth Benedict

heard the faintest strains of Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ on) the Dock of the Bay” coming through the loudspeakers. No one remarked upon this, but it struck me as both ominous and vaguely threatening, as in, Th is lake only looks safe. I began to worry that three hours might be too much time. Captain Steve steered us to the right, taking the lake in a clockwise motion. He announced over the microphone, “Here’s your first view of Monona Terrace,” the Frank Lloyd Wright – designed conference center close to the dock. Th e first of many views, we all understood, because Monona Terrace was the only architectural milestone on the lake.
    But the bar was open, and the warming trays were warmed, and we all helped ourselves to small plastic glasses of champagne and orange juice, or Bloody Marys, and to heaping plates of French toast covered with candied pecans. Th ere were inch-thick slabs of pink prime rib, for those eager to move on to lunch, and hash browns smothered with cheese. Everyone piled their plates high, and went back for seconds. Most people clustered around the bar, and the one Asian family on board stuck close to Captain Steve, who pointed out things to them that the rest of us didn’t see. A legless man in a wheelchair faced a window. Someone had brought a baby, who was crying, but we were by far the youngest patrons who had come of their own volition. My husband tugged his hooded sweatshirt around his face to block out the noise and the cold, misty wind off the water and, I thought, in an attempt to enter a one-person witness protection program.
    We circled the lake once, and I got as excited as a puppy at the sight of the dock, but no, of course not yet. We circled the entire lake again then, then a third time. By the time we hit a rock, temporarily halting our voyage, I began to wonder if we would ever disembark, or if I had willingly signed us up for the maritime version of No Exit, where we would be with the rain-bonneted ladies and Captain Steve for the rest of our lives. Relaxing into the pain, my husband and I took photos of each other, and the rainy deck of the boat, and our food. Th e lake itself looked gray and uninviting, but I thought I could still swim back to shore if necessary. Th e water would be cold, but I would get home faster.
    After our misbegotten shipwreck, Captain Steve revved the engine enough to knock the rock loose, and we were again on our way. By the time the boat had again reached the dock, my husband and I were feeling solid on our sea legs, and rushed toward the plank that would bring us back to land. As soon as we rounded the corner onto the leafy residential street that would bring us home, I called my mother to tell her that we had finally taken the cruise, and then described it to her, second by second, while she laughed, her hooting and snorting keeping me warm as we walked the four blocks home.
    I don’t remember many of the gifts that my mother has given me—though a knockoff watchband from Chinatown and bags of Margarita Mix from her pantry do come to mind. But when I think of her, I don’t think of objects. I think of walking somewhere with her, arm in arm, our laughs always the loudest in any room, or her clapping along with whatever music is playing, always having more fun than anyone else. If my mother had come on the boat with us, she would have hummed along with Otis Redding and introduced herself to Captain Steve. She would have been driving the boat, rain bonnet or no, happy as could be. My own happiness during every terrible minute of the Betty Lou Cruise came from knowing that when it ended, I would get to tell her all about it.

Th e Circle Line
    MARY GORDON
    She throws an envelope onto the kitchen table, vaguely in my direction. She has written my name on it, and underlined it twice. I know what’s in it: it’s my birthday and inside the envelope there will be, as always, a check. I am only ten years old,