Page 43 of And Still Her Voice
“Of course, I admire her writings on female activism,” Mary said, reaching over to grab a book from her nightstand. “I’m reading from this book,” she said, holding upADirty Filthy Book.
“Ah, yes,” Grandma said. “Quite informative. Her talks on birth control.”
“Yes, and women taking agency of their own body,” Mary said.
And now I’d found myself sucked into the conversation and couldn’t resist adding, “So much for control. You still had my father.”
“What are you talking about?” Mary asked, peering at me.
“I was talking to her,” I responded to Mary, pointing to my temple.
Mary scrunched her brow and shook her head, clearly confused.
I waited for Grandma to say something, but she remained silent on this subject. I knew how she hated airing dirty laundry.Besides I already knew the story, something about how her music always came first. And then I added a zinger: “So, hewasa mistake, after all!”
Mary sucked in a breath and then slapped her hand over her mouth, muffling what she said next. “But I didn’t know he was married.” She lowered herself onto the edge of her bed, tears springing forth. Some sort of scab had obviously been picked off. I wanted to step in to help Mary and tell her we weren’t talking about her, but covering up for Grandma Phoebe usually got me into more trouble.
“I gave the child up for adoption. It was a mistake.” Mary sobbed.
“Darling, there are no mistakes, only opportunities to evolve,” Grandma said.
So why hadn’t I evolved, I wondered? Why did I still feel like a tiny plankton unable to swim against the ocean’s current of Grandma? Unable to see the sun? How could I to grow when she always stood in my light? I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and handed it to Mary.
“Thank you. Phoebe.” She blew her nose. “Sorry, may I call you Phoebe?”
“Why certainly, Mary, darling.”
Mary blew her nose. “This is all so fascinating. I have so many questions. You know, there was this study at Berkeley, about the future of teleporting information—machines called computers, but this discussion would be way more advanced. I don’t know if we’re even ready for—”
“Oh my God! How is this going to help me?” I asked. “What about your swami? When can I meet him?”
“Maybe. What if I invited you—and Phoebe—to come and lecture next week over at—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yelled. “This isn’t what I—how is this helping me?”
Mary stared at me in what I imagined to be a cocktail of shame, disbelief, and confusion.
The police are snooping around asking questions about a murder. I don’t have time to worry about Grandma and swamis and other people’s mistakes! I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. I’d miss my chance to talk to Mary’s swami, besides Grandma probably would have charmed the robe off of him anyway.
CHAPTER 15
AChurch Along the Way
I ran past a line of shivering hippies huddled together under blankets on Clayton Street, near the corner of Haight, right in front of where I’d thrown up the day I first met Mary. Waiting to get into the free clinic, they’d come from all over the country thinking it would be sunny in San Francisco in the middle of summer, but it wasn’t and they’d catch colds and even pneumonia. The clinic was also a place where runaways could get help with stuff like gonorrhea and cut feet. There were also injuries from botched abortions, stomach problems from eating rotten food, not to mention hallucinations and bad trips from all the drugs. The clinic’s motto was “Healthcare is a right not a privilege.”
Hugging my coat tighter, head down, I kept walking, guitar and knapsack strapped to my back, hoping I’d never find myself in need of such a place.
“Hey, it’s the Guitar Girl!” I recognized the voice and froze in place, staring into his eyes, like magnets drawing me in as Charlie, the creep from the van, smiled at me, a strung-out girl hanging on each of his arms.
“Run!” Grandma said.
I hurried toward the park, a shadow of paranoia following and then catching up to me, seeping into my pores, poisoningmy mind. He can’t catch me and why would he want to? I mean, he only had two arms. How could he possibly handle more than two girls? But what about the police? Overcome with terror, I imagined the police had somehow made the connection between my father’s stabbing and Dilbert. I took a right turn and before long I could see a twin set of church steeples practically piercing through the puffs of clouds. I ran toward the church.
Out of breath, I stood on the church steps surrounded by silvery pigeons soaking in the filtered rays of sunlight on their wings. The bells sounded and another flock of birds scrambled out of the towers. It didn’t look like anyone was following me and I needed a moment to rest and come up with a plan.
“Find the bus station,” Grandma said. “And get on a bus. Go home.”
St. Ignatius Church, the sign read at the entrance. I remembered learning about Ignatius the Spanish saint with lots of reddish hair like mine and Grandma’s.
