There were things I could not say, things which were too intimate, details which were too explicit. She wanted to know if there was anything she could have done, if there was anything we could do now. I said no, it was always there and it would not go away. And when did it start, she asked.

I looked at her in the glass as I spoke, I told her what I could, and sometimes she asked a question. What I said became distant from us, as though I were reading from a book, or reciting a story I had been told. We were actors that night in the old hallway of the apartment, me talking and my mother listening to the lurid tales of a wayward son, my mother infinitely patient, but not reacting, making clear that she wished to know everything before she could pass judgment.

I HAVE A MEMORY of a dark evening in Buenos Aires when I must have been five or six. I was with my father in the street, I was catching his hand. He had come with me to the dentist. I remember that I had been lying back with my mouth open crying with pain and fear; everything the dentist did seemed to make things worse, and my father trying to calm me, standing there holding me, telling me that it would be all right, it would be over soon, the dentist just needed to do a little bit more. I think I remember this because it was the first time anyone had used Spanish to soothe me and calm me down. Usually, if I was sick or afraid or crying about something, it was my mother who spoke to me and she always spoke in English. I have a feeling also it was the first time that my father really noticed me, the first time that he believed that I cried or wanted attention for a good reason. I remember that I tried not to cry because I did not want to alarm him, and then I could not stop myself, and he held my hand and tried to distract my attention.

I remember us both in the streets leading up to our street; I must have sensed his relief that the drama of the dentist’s surgery was over. He bought me plums. I could not eat them because my mouth was sore, but I liked having them. I must have asked for them, and even still I love the smooth purple texture of plum skin, and the soggy flesh inside.