your pain. Our past like shrapnel inside us. It shreds our veins.
MAY 3 1991
Theo’s school had a parent show-and-tell. I never do that kind of thing, but Theo asked me to. His eyes wide and questioning and with a look in them like, I know you won’t.
It’s true I was terrified by the thought. His teacher wanted me to get up in front of the whole class of shouting children, not to mention their parents, waiting for me to fail so they can tell all their friends.
But I had to try. Theo had asked me to.
I made it to the school. Which itself was a bigger success than these idiots realize. I was shaking, I was coming apart inside. I handed my slides over to the teacher, Cassie fucking Davenport, and said Here you go and tried not to sweat. She held them up through the light and squinted at the shapes. Then she brought them down and gave me a tight-lipped smile.
Miranda—you can’t show these to the children.
There’s no projector?
There’s a projector. She handed me back the stack. But they aren’t appropriate.
It’s art. It pushes boundaries.
They’re offensive.
There’s no violence. I didn’t choose any of the ones with blood.
Yes, but the nudity. It’s too much.
I stood there in the front of the classroom and a huge anger rose up in me. I wanted to shake her. All the talk these people give about wanting to raise well-rounded children. Natural everything, no chemicals, no dyes, wearing handwoven shawls $200 each. And then they come to me and say breasts are too much for these kids.
It’s nothing against you, she said. You can still present without the slides.
Her mouth like a crocodile. The children started filing in. Theo hovered at the door. His face so full of hope.
No, I said at last. My head split open with a terrible ache. I don’t think I can.
I didn’t stay to see the other show-and-tells. Or Theo’s face. I walked home. My shoes gave me blisters, I had bought new shoes for those bitches, and no one even looked at my feet.
When I told Jake about it, he said, I don’t know why they invited you in the first place. It’s not like your recent stuff is any good.
MAY 4 1991
When we left New York, I thought of it like disappearing. I would make the art and leave it open to interpretation. Let people see whatever they wanted to see, without me as a distraction. I wanted their eyes off me. Their feverish, scratching eyes. I figured the pictures could handle the scrutiny. They had glass to protect them. Security guards.
But still, after all these years of exile, every place I go, every clipping about an exhibition I’m in, says right up front—Miranda Brand, recluse. Miranda Brand, nutcase. My plan has backfired. The pictures can’t escape me.
I worry about what I will leave behind when I die.
19.
KATE
“Library day!”
Startled, Kate nearly dropped her mug on the kitchen floor. She had slept poorly the night before. A bad dream. She couldn’t remember the details—only the horror of something bleeding in front of her. Organs spilling from a vertical slit, liver and intestines and kidneys all glistening in an unholy light. It felt wrong, remembering this dream now, with Jemima standing before her in her sandy camp clothes, emanating a sugary smell of sunscreen and child’s sweat and holding a reusable Trader Joe’s bag full of books. Her shins were streaked with gray mud from that day’s nature explorations.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking your bath?” Kate asked.
“Oscar’s going. Anyway, I’m the librarian, and librarians don’t need baths.”
“But baths are where librarians get their magic,” Kate said.
Ignoring this transparent propaganda, Jemima began hauling books out of the bag and arranging them on the kitchen table. “What book do you want?”
“Huh?”
“It’s a library. You have to choose a book.”
Kate set down her mug and went over to look at the selection. Miss Twinkle and the Venus Fly Trap. Dried Up: A History of Droughts in Southern California—Theo had been reading that recently; Jemima must have taken it out of his room. Toot Toot the Engine. Prima Ballerina: A Ballet Stars Story.
Kate tapped Miss Twinkle. “How about this one?”
Jemima wrinkled her nose. “You’re too old for that.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Fifty?”
Kate laughed and held up her hands. “Okay, you pick the book. They all look so good.”
Jemima took the question seriously, stepping back to consider her array. Kate watched her downturned head, the thin line