JOY

My grandmother had good reason to feel righteous. Chosen to fulfill the family tradition of woman-in-a-wheelchair (there was one in every generation), Ruth instead discovered the Christian Science Church founded by Mary Baker Eddy. She seized that ethereal remnant of ancient woman power and twisted it round with the strands of her more immediate inheritance: a little Calvin, a little Plymouth Rock, a little hatred of this bloody female body. Whatever it was that made her parents and aunts and uncles cry, “Ruth is the weak one!” simply disappeared, and Ruth, a woman with a strong face and unruly blonde curls pressed into a bun, stiffened her spine, twisted though it was by scoliosis, never had so much as a headache, and bore all seven of her children athome.

This is what Anne, who was my mother, told me, or what I think she told me. Sometimes my memories of her and my memories of myself blur together and I cannot be accountable for the truth, if there can be such a thing as truth when it comes to a life. Does it matter? Her life. My life. We shared the same womb in different ways, as did my father and my stepfather James in their ways, and my brothers in whatever way boys wallow in and kick atwombs.

Ruth’s firstborn, the twins William and Luke, died in infancy a week apart. Ruth wept a little, admonished herself to honor the supremacy of Spirit, and went on to bear five more children--at home and unassisted--with stern reminders to love the Lord and hate the flesh. She liked to tell the story of how one day she thought she had to go to the bathroom, and out came this baby, only it was blue and deathly still, so she wrapped it in a towel and put it under the sink. Having seen two infant sons fade into death, she was resigned. Then her husband came home and she, “a litte bit upset,” told him of this baby. He said, “Show me,” and so she unwrapped the towel, and lo, a pink baby shook its fists at them, arched its back and screamed. This was Michael, the surviving son. A year later came Alice, who grew up to become a Born AgainChristian.

Anne, who would someday be my mother, was the third living child. Her birth was unremarkable. Anne was the Sweet One. Her face was shaped like a narrow heart, with a tiny pointed chin and delicate bones. She hated being sweet