It was a matter of fascination to me. Like the lyrics of a song trapped inside my brain. Over, over and over hearing. Over, over and over seeing how Lionel had come up behind me silently, stealthily to push me down the icy steps. So vivid the scene had become, I saw both of us clearly—the girl taken by surprise, the tall boy behind her pushing. It might’ve been a scene in a movie—I was sure that I had seen it.

There was also the police officer who’d grabbed me. As quickly and as deftly as Lionel had pushed me. At the Lock Street Bridge he’d grabbed me, twisted my arm up behind my back until I collapsed with pain.

Why it was crucial to run. As fast as I could run.

And quickly determine, wherever I was, where hiding places were. Escape routes. A deep sympathy I felt, seeing rats rummaging in Dumpsters that jumped out squeaking and scurried away in crevices to hide.

Aunt Irma tried to comfort me. You are safe now, dear. Here with us.

As if I could believe her! As if any of us can guarantee the safety of others.

But Irma was anxious, too. In those days before caller ID she answered the phone hesitantly—Y-Yes? Who is calling? A knock at the door suffused her with dread.

Recalling once how, when someone knocked at the door, a louder knock than seemed reasonable, Irma had cried to me to go upstairs, to run into the bathroom and lock the door—as if, in the exigency of the moment, she’d given in to the worst of my fears, that one of my brothers might have showed up in Port Oriskany, to murder me.

Later I would think how foolish this fear was. No one intent upon murder would knock so loudly on a door and announce himself.

WITHOUT MY KNOWING, THE YEARS OF WAITING HAD BEGUN.

When you are waiting you are neither unhappy nor happy. You are waiting.

Half-consciously assumed that I would remain twelve years old stunted and accursed yet time continued bizarrely, indifferently as if the catastrophe of my life weighed no more than a feather, that had already been blown away.

Growing into a tall thin girl with evasive eyes. Chronic puffiness beneath the eyes.

Sullen, sulky mouth. Pale skin, that burnt easily.

Dark hair resembling mad scribbles of crayon. Could not get a comb through my hair and even brushing it was a chore. Yet, I often let my hair go an entire day and a night without brushing and combing, so that snarls proliferated like lice. In this way both indulging myself and punishing myself in a single gesture.

Unlike Mom, Aunt Irma did not dare sweep into my room unbidden, snatch up a hairbrush and a comb to rid my hair of snarls no matter how I protested.

Look at you! Look at that hair! What a sight.