I remember crying. I remember crying and telling someone how my dad always went to Sinclair for gas and how he got out of the car and watched everything the man in his little cap did there under the hood of our old Pontiac, and I told about the night my mother died, and by then several people were listening, and they asked me to sit on the sofa and drink coffee. I remember suggesting that their department put up a sign that said dig this, and a couple of people thought that was funny, except this one man who raised his voice louder, so that everyone would listen to him explain whatever it was he was doing or had done or was going to do.

Frank later told me that was the guest lecturer, there to talk about a recent discovery of a mammoth that had been written about in all the major papers. Apparently, I said, “That’s mammoth, all right, but can you do this?” And I proceeded to do an arabesque and a partial tour jeté, and that’s when we left.

We left, and Frank’s young colleague was watching the whole time. I saw the glare. She looked at me with pure hatred, as if she wished me dead, and I wanted to tell her that there are worse things. There really are worse things. If I had had my wits, I might very well have said that I’d rather be dead than to be a selfish, self-centered liar. Even here, stone sober on this cold gray day, I do maintain that. And just writing it down, looking at it here in daylight, makes me feel better. I am sorry for the embarrassment I might have caused Frank. I truly am. But what is he sorry for? Didn’t we promise to be honest? Didn’t we agree about the damage that secrets can bring?

Shelley

Shelley has felt invisible for so much of her life, with bodies around but none capable of responding, like those dreams where no one can hear you. Hello? Anyone home? I’m bleeding. Yes, looks like I need to go the emergency room. Hello? Yoo-hoo! I just won the school spelling bee, going to the state championship. I’m falling apart here; can anyone hear me? The guidance counselor says I need to go to college. The guidance counselor says I am someone capable of success and an advanced degree.