THE WINDOW
STAY
SEATED, Mandy," the flight attendant says. "When the other
passengers have gotten off, I'll come get you."
Right. She should try staying seated
herself, when everybody else is standing up and the guy by the window wants out
and stuff's tumbling from the overhead bins and you get bumped half into the
aisle.
A man says,
"Watch it," and some other man says, "Hey." Suddenly
there's a pocket of hot silence. Everyone around has just realized I can't
see.
"Those
must be your folks. They've got a sign with MANDY on it."
Then a woman
is hugging me, Aunt Emma I guess. Her front is soft and she's shorter than
me. She laughs, flustered. "I knew you were fifteen, but
somehow I hadn't pictured . . . I mean, I thought of you younger . . . "
A man hugs me,
and another, hugs of wool jackets and aftershave, clumsy big hugs, and their
voices rumble.
One tells me
he's my uncle Gabriel. Great-uncle Gabriel. They're all greats, for
that matter, Great-uncles Abe and Gabriel and Great -aunt Emma, who is Gabriel's
wife.
"So,
Mandy," he says, "I hope you're going to liven up our gloomy old
house."
"Gabriel,
hush," Aunt Emma whispers. "It's too soon."
"Don't
worry about me," I say. "It's OK."
And even if
it's not, I can take care of myself.
That's my
gift. Other girls get blond hair and nice families and brains that tell
them the right things to say. I've got knowing how to take care of myself,
and how to face what I have to face.
Like that
night I woke up in the hospital and heard the nurses talking about whether they
should take me to my mom . . .
(Text from THE WINDOW, copyright © 1996 by Jeanette Ingold, used by
permission of Harcourt, Inc.)
