starvation, was too efficient at using calories. So my body ballooned up, and I became a fat girl.
The Reilly family had so many kids that to an outsider I blended in—just one more Irish face—although I felt more like a stray kitten nursed by a mother dog along with her litter. Mrs. Reilly’s care pretty much amounted to a benevolent smile whenever I ran through her flat on the heels of her kids. But she never hit or scolded me. One of her daughters was in first grade with me, and her closest sister was a year older. The girls looked similar enough to be twins—both with pale skin, freckles, and mousy brown hair cut short. My mother said Mrs. Reilly cut her kids’ hair around a bowl, as if this was shameful. I pictured her seven kids lined up with cereal bowls on their heads waiting for their trim. I thought they looked cute and wished Mrs. Reilly would cut my hair, too.
The Reilly girls taught me how to eat peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon and how to make mud pies in the backyard. Sometimes we played Red Rover or Cowboys and Indians with their brothers. We rode all over the neighborhood on our roller skates tightened to the bottom of our sneakers with special keys, skinning our knees when cracked sidewalks tripped us. I always went to Margie with my banged-up knees—she knew just what to do and say to make the hurt go away faster.
My mother arranged one of her week’s vacations to coincide with my Easter break. This didn’t mean that I saw much of her. There were no family-goes-to-amusement park types of vacations for working-class Boston Irish. Rather, we roamed with the neighborhood kids all day until our stomachs growled for supper. One evening, after climbing the stairs to our flat, I found the door ajar. This was odd, but being six years old by then, I didn’t worry about it. I just shoved it open.
“Ma!” I called. “I’m hungry.”
The flat was silent. I walked through each room, calling for my mother. I couldn’t find her. I didn’t think to see if her things were gone. I knew that she’d had enough of me and decided to leave. I must have been a bad girl, I thought. I wished I knew what I’d done wrong so I could make sure never to do it again. I wished I knew where my mother was so I could tell her I was sorry and loved her and would never be bad again.
When Margie arrived home an hour later, she found me standing in the living room, crying.
“What’s the matter, Anna Banana?” she asked.
“My mommy’s gone,” I said.
“What do you mean gone?”
“She’s gone. She wasn’t here when I came home from playing with the girls.”
“Oh dear God, I hope nothing’s happened to her. Let’s go ask Mrs. Reilly if she’s seen her.”
We walked downstairs and knocked on the Reilly’s door. Mr. Reilly answered. His face held a scowl and a two-day stubble.
“Hi, Mr. Reilly. Have you or Mrs. Reilly seen my sister Mary? She wasn’t home when Anne came in, and she didn’t leave a note.”
“She’s gone off to the hospital with my wife and daughter. The stupid kid got her fingertip sliced off on her bicycle. So now I’m taking care of all these brats on my own.” Behind him we could see a blur of kids shoving each other in the kitchen.
“Stop that now or I’ll give it to you,” he shouted. He closed the door in our faces.
“That rude, ignorant man,” Margie muttered as we climbed back upstairs.
My mother finally came home after Margie fed me hot dogs and beans and got me ready for bed. I heard them arguing.
“Where in hell have you been?” Margie asked.
“Little Mary Reilly cut her finger badly,” my mother said. “Mrs. Reilly took her in a taxi to the hospital. I went along with her. I had to help.”
“Well, you left Anne here without anyone to watch her,” Margie said. “I found her sobbing in the living room.”
“I had no choice. Mrs. Reilly needed my help.”
“You couldn’t even tell Anne where you were going? You couldn’t even take time to leave me a note? What was I supposed to do? For all I knew, you were lying in a gutter somewhere.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Margaret, I was just trying to do the right thing and help that little girl. Nothing bad happened to Anne. And you were coming home soon.”
“What if I’d been delayed? Who would have given Anne her supper? Who would have gotten her ready for bed?”
“Jesus, Margaret, I knew Anne would be fine on her own for a while.”
“She’s only six years old! She’s a little girl.”
“You just want to baby her. It’s about time she did more around the house for me.”
“I’d like to see how you could manage without me. I’ve a good mind to get my own apartment.”
“Oh, stop being such a martyr, Margaret.”
There was silence after this. I heard plates rattling in the kitchen, presumably my mother making herself supper. Now I had two things to worry about. Earlier, I worried that my mother had left me because of something I’d done. Now I was petrified that Margie might move out. I didn’t know what I’d do without Margie. Who would kiss my skinned knees? Who would play Go Fish with me? And who would rub my back at night and tuck me in so that I could sleep?
I crept out of my bed to the bathroom and saw my mother from the side of my eye as I passed. Margie’s door was closed, but light leaked from underneath. Back in bed, reassured that they were both home, I slept.
April arrived with cool mornings and warm afternoons. I let myself into the apartment after school using the key I kept on a ring with a picture of Saint Anthony. The saint was supposed to guard against losing things. I threw down my book bag, hung up my winter coat, and grabbed the sweater I’d just pushed out of the way to make room for the coat. I didn’t stop to change out of my school uniform—I had very few clothes anyway, so I couldn’t see the point.
Outside the back door, I fastened the roller skates onto my shoes, giving the key an extra twist so they wouldn’t fall off. I quickly caught up with the Reilly girls and off we went. After two hours of strenuous play, we skated into our backyard in response to Mrs. Reilly’s call. We trooped into the kitchen, where a half-dozen kids were trying to grab early tastes of dinner. Mrs. Reilly, baby on one hip and toddler pulling her nylons down her calf, was swatting the bigger kids away from her stove with a big wooden spoon. At 5:15 P.M. sharp, my mother walked in. My mother smiled and thanked Mrs. Reilly for once again watching me.
I followed my mother up the stairs to our flat. I was tired and hungry, glad to be home. My mother was quiet. We walked into the apartment.
“Shut the door,” my mother said.
After releasing the knob, I turned, ready to head for the bathroom. The blow to the side of my head stunned me. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. My mother held her big black leather purse in both her hands. Then she hit me again with the purse, this time
