To Gillian on her 37th birthday
TO GILLIAN ON HER 37TH BIRTHDA Y
By Michael Brady
Rachel - 16 A young girl is bitter about the death of her mother.
RACHEL. This was my mother's hat, kind of her lucky hat. The last time I saw her, I mean before the accident, she was wearing this hat. She always wore this hat. This was her bike. It's a long story. We used to come out here, first thing when she put back from the summer. It was like our place to get reacquainted, have a mother-daughter . . . She would tell me all about her orangoutangs and then she'd go develop her pictures. I remember the last time she had given the orangoutangs our names. Esther was the bossy one. Paul was the one that made faces all the time. And Rachel was very, very quiet. I had forgotten all that. You know sometimes I think about her, and I tell myself if I think about her, somehow she's still alive. That's crazy, right? . . . I went with her once, to Kenya, when I was nine. I was in her way the whole time, though she never said so. The next summer I lied. I said it was too hot; I wanted to stay on the beach. I could have helped her now. I know how to tag animals and I can do the weighing and the observing. We could have been friends. That's what she wanted . . . I just wanted her to be my mother. She was a good scientist. I think she was the best, but she was away a lot. And she took risks. Going up on that mast was reckless. It was stupid and reckless and why doesn't anyone talk about that? She shouldn't have gone up there. She was my mother, and if she had acted like my mother, just that one time, then maybe she'd be alive today.
By Michael Brady
Rachel - 16 A young girl is bitter about the death of her mother.
RACHEL. This was my mother's hat, kind of her lucky hat. The last time I saw her, I mean before the accident, she was wearing this hat. She always wore this hat. This was her bike. It's a long story. We used to come out here, first thing when she put back from the summer. It was like our place to get reacquainted, have a mother-daughter . . . She would tell me all about her orangoutangs and then she'd go develop her pictures. I remember the last time she had given the orangoutangs our names. Esther was the bossy one. Paul was the one that made faces all the time. And Rachel was very, very quiet. I had forgotten all that. You know sometimes I think about her, and I tell myself if I think about her, somehow she's still alive. That's crazy, right? . . . I went with her once, to Kenya, when I was nine. I was in her way the whole time, though she never said so. The next summer I lied. I said it was too hot; I wanted to stay on the beach. I could have helped her now. I know how to tag animals and I can do the weighing and the observing. We could have been friends. That's what she wanted . . . I just wanted her to be my mother. She was a good scientist. I think she was the best, but she was away a lot. And she took risks. Going up on that mast was reckless. It was stupid and reckless and why doesn't anyone talk about that? She shouldn't have gone up there. She was my mother, and if she had acted like my mother, just that one time, then maybe she'd be alive today.