the ghost child
TRANSCRIPT
University of Northern Iowa
The Ghost ChildAuthor(s): Harriet BrownSource: The North American Review, Vol. 289, No. 6 (Nov. - Dec., 2004), p. 21Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127259 .
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LINDA LEVIN-SCHERZ
Adriamycin, cyclophosphamide, and vincristine were
some of the names that interrupted my attempts at
studying when the women came to our house. They talked
about their "ones" and about radiation and about sex.
They took their shirts off and compared scars and recon
struction. They discussed meds and noted that Xeloda and
Taxotere were having good results in clinical trials.
"All right, ladies. Has anyone had a difficult time with
sex?" my mother asked. It was the third time they had
gathered at our house and my mother had a number of
topics to discuss for each of their meetings. "Your
Changed Body and Sex" was one from the list of topics
provided by the American Cancer Society. There was laughter.
"Let me rephrase. Has anyone not had a difficult time
with sex?"
"Yeah! Like who can even think about it?" one of the women asked. I crept down one of the steps to get a better
view.
"My husband is disgusted with the way I look. I can see
it in his face," another women said softly. "Bastard." Someone replied.
My mother held her hand up. "This is not at all uncommon for men to have some
kind of negative reaction," my mother said. "And let's face
it, if our guys were to suddenly, oh, I don't know, gain fifty
pounds, our feelings towards them might change as well.
We have to realize that their reactions are honest and they
might have to redefine how they look at us." "No offense, Laura, but that is bullshit. I'm friggin'
dying and the last thing I want to think about is sex," one
said.
"Ditto. Actually, the whole idea is repulsive," said
another.
"Oh, I don't know. In a weird kind of way, it's been
better for us. There's a sadness there, but also a sweetness,"
another chimed in.
I looked to see what my mother's reaction would be. She
nodded. I'm sure she was thinking about the way my
father looked at her.
"You have a good point. I guess I live in an idyllic world in many ways." She touched her breast. "And in other
ways, not so idyllic." The women laughed. "How do we
teach men to accept us, injured and all? Is it possible?" The women talked about faults in men's hard-wiring,
that they were incapable of responding to a woman who
was less than perfect. My mother must have felt my pres ence, because she looked at the stairs and caught my eye before I could move away. She winked at me, and I quickly
moved up the stairs.
Mr. Goodreau called me to his office a few weeks after my mother began treatment. He was my guidance counselor,
and I knew my teachers would have mentioned to him
HARRIET BROWN
The Ghost Child
glides through the house in its gray shift
while the rest of us are frantic
with things to do, dinner and violin, the last sweep of the bedroom
before sleep. Invisible doppelganger, shimmer in the corner of an eye,
doomed to its half-life beside our bruising
everyday wrestle and squeeze.
Who sees it? Not the older sister,
rapt in her teenage frankincense.
Not the younger, swinging toward
the blue sky she deserves. The father
has forgotten its incandescence.
Only the mother remembers the blot
and bone-knowing, grief a hand over
her mouth, the April day brilliant
through drawn blinds in a room
too light for words.
Who would you be now, shadow,
your dark hair tangled, your tongue between your teeth? What long nights and patience would we have lived
together, what rage and connection?
You make no noise, take up no room.
You are a finger of sweetness, loss
on a trembling teaspoon, a stone
I am still swallowing and swallowing?
that my concentration was off, my work incomplete. I
waited until the end of the day trying to muster up a
defense that wouldn't invite pity. The guidance depart ment was next to the main office, a series of squat rooms
off a long corridor.
"Come in," he said, when I knocked.
"Hey," I nodded.
"Hold on one minute, Cassie," he said, pressing the
"hold" button on his phone. I waited for him to finish
talking, and looked at his diplomas hung on white cinder
block walls. Stacks of materials for college-bound high school students were on his bookshelves and desk. A
picture of him and a woman squinting into the camera
was on his desk.
November-December 2004 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 21
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