We are riding in the backseat of the car on the way to Flagstaff. As the youngest, it is a requirement that I sit in the middle, squashed between my two older brothers. They have been sleeping almost the whole way, either with their butts pressing against my legs, sandy blonde heads against the windows, drooling on the glass, or with their heads on my shoulders, breath against the folds of baby fat in my neck. Sweat, or condensation or both mixing with road dirt and making me itch, itch, itch. It is too hot, and I squall, waking up my brothers and driving my parents mad.
We are going to visit my great aunt, Mickey, whose decline in health has my parents concerned. I have never met her. I do not want to be in this car, in this heat, chubby legs in shorts stuck to the leather seat with no air conditioning. Meatloaf blares on the tape deck, and I sing along, although I don’t know what the words mean. Sometimes, I don’t even know what the words are. My parents tell me that this part of my memory belongs someplace else. It is not in this scenario, the driving, my brothers, the heat, Meatloaf, but it is there in my mind, a part of the memory that cannot be extracted and attached to some other event.
When we arrive, I meet Mickey for the first and only time, in the dark of her bedroom, propped up on a hospital bed. Everything smells of rubbing alcohol and age and urine and sickness, and I am scared of it, of her and of my parents, who brought me here to see this strange old woman. Even now, I find that smell terrifying, knowing that it means the snuffing out of life and light. It means closed, yellowed blinds and fatigue, and I begin to cry again.
My parents sit me in an olive green, threadbare velvet chair in the corner and hand me a book. At three, books are my lure. They coax me onto my potty chair with books. I have been learning to read, forming the sounds in my mouth, pink cheeks, lips, teeth and tongue working together in a concert of chatters, my mouth as round as the letter when I make my long Ooooos, my tongue poking out as I work hard at Elllll. Plosive sounds are easy, but fricatives tickle the inside of my lip and I don’t want to say them. Fffff and Vvvvv are appalling to me. My parents are sure that I simply imitate the words they read to me, learning how to speak without comprehension. Still, they give me books for comfort, like a stuffed animal, even though they suspected I could not read them.
The book is also green, although darker and somehow more real. Hardbound leatherette and musty with age, the cracks in the binding rasp against my fingers. I open it, peeking out over the edge of the book, staring at the tatty Persian rugs over worn woodgrain in Mickey’s room. My brothers leave to play in the yard. I want to leave, too, but my feet dangle off the chair, feeling heavy at the end of my legs. I feel like it is two stories down. I swing my feet and bang my shins and stare, hugging the book against my mouth, breathing in the taste of ancient paper, lingering on my tongue with every in-bound whoosh. I am sure, now, that my Aunt must have thought I was retarded, mouth latched over an old book, staring into space and banging my shins over and over again.
The vague, booming voice of my father asks me to read to my aunt. Startled out of my ennui, I take the book away from my mouth, set it down in my lap and stare at the pages. My mother also offers her encouragement, scooping me up and setting me in her lap, surrounding me with soft arms, smelling like sweat and soap. Delighted, I read aloud to the scary lady on the bed, to my parents and myself.
I could not tell you the details of the story I read. It was probably a fairy tale book, or some such, suitable for children. Those particulars escape me. I do not remember the faces of my parents, although I have seen pictures of them around this time, my dad’s handlebar mustache and my mother’s perm, but I remember the amazement on my parents’ faces every time they tell the tale—of how I did not imitate, but read the words of the story in a strong but halting voice, a story I had never heard before.
