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by Heidi Hausman, '03

My sister and I bought a mannequin from a store going out of business. We thought my dad would really appreciate it. So, for his birthday we gave it to him in parts, an arm, a hand, a whole leg, and finally the body, under a sheet because it was too big to wrap. We put an old wig on her, something my sister and I used to play dress up with, so her hair looked plastic-y and disheveled. My sister painted her fingernails the only color we had, a free giveaway at Estee Lauders, Burnt Tangerine. I cannot remember the mannequin's name. I want to say Janie, my dad's girlfriend at the time because she too had blond hair, but I know that's not right. My dad loved her, this nameless mannequin. He kept her in our house on Ivydale Dr., standing in the dinning room so that we could see her from the kitchen and the living room, include her in our daily activities. She scared us more than once, a ghostly figure dressed in our cast-off clothes, surprising us if we needed a glass of water at night. The light from the street lamp glinted on her plastic-y hair and if we'd seen a scary movie recently, seemed to glint in her eye as well. My dad thought it was funny to talk to her, asking her if she'd like some crackers and cheese before dinner. This is how he taught us about anorexia, how it would turn us into lifeless, energy-less people like our mannequin. It wasn't scary so much as sad, so Kristi and I would sneak into the kitchen after dinner and eat a bite for her. When it was time to move to our next house, my dad told us that the mannequin was a part of this house and wouldn't be coming with us. My sister was especially attached to her and after fighting with Poppy and losing, secretly came back to the house and picked her up. She put her in her room in my mom's house. It has since been put into closets and then boxes and is sitting in storage, faded from my sister's memory. My mom's plan to "save the poor thing" is to rent her out to commuters who need three people to drive in the HOV lane in DC rush-hour traffic. ***** I can't decide who is more practical, my mother or my father, they both have their zany quirks. When they lived in Kenya my mom would collect the lint from the drier and squirrel it away so that some day she could stuff a doll or pillow. She ended up packing up that lint and shipping it back to the US when they moved back. Upon unpacking, she decided that she probably wouldn't use it and threw it away. My dad borders on the eccentric if you catch him at the right moment. He once missed a plane because he decided he just had to take a shower. Both my parents are never their kooky selves if they are around each other. I can't quite understand their current relationship but I'm sure it has something to do with each convincing themselves that they are the sane parent. ***** Breakfasts are inextricably tied to the memories of my houses. The layout of the dining room or kitchen immediately conjures up images of a particular food. On Ivydale Dr., I remember bagels with cream cheese and lox though the lox only came out on Saturdays and Sundays. On Beachway Drive it was always the juice, the fresh made juice that my mother loved to blend every morning. I'd hear the whir of the juicer as I carefully picked out my outfit and couldn't help but shudder, each turn of the blade meant more juice that I would have to choke down. It was especially bad if she put apples in it, just palatable if we got bananas. In the beach house in Morocco it was always toast, sometimes a bit old, and Earl Grey tea with sugar, to dunk away the staleness. I burnt my tongue almost every single morning, trying to relieve the chill that the ocean blew in under the front door. In Piggy it was always yogurt with granola on a good day, or corn flakes, if not. On Brook Drive my dad flashed his made at home granola, Dad's Delight, or thaws out a Thomas' English Muffin. On Burns Drive I remember Postum, the not-coffee coffee that my dad dribbled molasses into. It's an acquired taste to say the least. And so breakfast brings on memories. Fruit: mom. Omelets: poppy. Herbal teas: mom. Postum: poppy. Bagel: poppy. Homemade honey bread: mom. The rush of breakfast before school: mom and poppy. The blue weave placemats: mom. The thick wicker placemats: poppy. The plastic placemats with maps and animals: when they still lived together. The morning sustenance, energy and life meant to push us through the day, entangled with the kitchen, the table, the bowls, the spoons, the tea kettle, the view from the window and the parent. ***** I have tried to really remember what it was like when we all lived on Nelson Street, but I cannot. Perhaps the idea of both parents under the same roof has become so alien that though it was once true, it seems now impossible that it ever happened. Or perhaps we only remember the important things like dollhouses and snowmen before the age of seven. I've been telling myself for years that I am luckier now than I was before, now I can have each parent on their own, calm, relaxed, their true selves. I can travel with both parents, experiencing the rush from one country to the next with my mom and the weeks on end in a little town with my dad. I get twice the presents and more importantly, a real sense of who my parents are as individuals. I truly believe this and am glad my parents got divorced, saving the house from unhappiness. I remember one fight they had on Nelson Street, though perhaps with time the fight has grown in memory like the fica tree. They were "discussing" whether it was best for us girls to brush our teeth before breakfast or afterwards. My mom argued that it should be before so that we didn't eat the "night mouth," as we called it. My dad said that we should brush after breakfast so that our teeth wouldn't rot all day from any food that got stuck in them. In my memory this fight was a mammoth and I cried and cried, not understanding how something so stupid could be so important. Only later did I realize that it was about so much more than when to brush our teeth. Back then, I thought I could make it better. For months I brushed my teeth before and after breakfast, trying to bring the peace, trying to stop me from tearing them apart, trying to make it "all okay." ***** Every single house I've ever lived in has been alive with plants, busting at the seams, overflowing and voluptuous. Both my parents love the green, the idea of life, re-growth, fresh clean oxygen, and soil. To water is worship, to re-pot heavenly, to trim divine. There is the careful situation of plants by windows, the calculation of hours of sunlight and the near mathematical precision of watering rituals. The fica tree in my mom's living room grew up with me, inch by inch it rose with me until with three growth spurts I took over. We carried this plant from house to house and soon it became so heavy that we needed a TV stand with rollers to keep it in the sunshine. When my mom left America to live in Africa, we lent the tree to a friend for several years. Upon our return it graced our living room once again, taller and sicklier for few people have the gentle touch that my mother has when she cares for her plants. She used to love the African Violets. They were tricky though, never needing as much water as the rest, the dryness of the soil making tipping easier so gradually the soil lessened having been lost to the bowels of the dustbuster. The heat from the TV, on which the African Violets sat, kept them warm and flowering through the winter months, outlasting even the Christmas poinsettias. My mother loved the beauty, my father loved the striking and unusual. My dad loved the sprays of green with bold red stripes through the leaves, the white and green patterns or the yellow trimmed blossom. My mom loved the ferns overflowing in their pots, the geraniums and especially the hanging plant with the heart shaped leaves. ***** My mom has told me that her healthy eating started with my dad. I couldn't believe that my mother hadn't loved sprouts, soy, seaweed and supplements her entire life... until I found a picture of her smoking. My dad is more moderate, not having branched into the soy products quite yet and still eating meat. It's hard to think that one of the things that defines my mom came from my dad when now they are just "civil" to each other. "Honey, have you thought about what you might like to do this summer?" "Mom, I really can't think about that now, I have too much going on right now." "Well, would you like to go on a trip? We could go hiking in Kenya or maybe up to Canada to see your friends there. Or how about that job proposal I sent you in Sarajevo?" "Hiking sounds great." "We just couldn't be gone the whole summer, your father would be jealous." ***** My mother doesn't even want to come into my dad's house anymore. They did a much better job of being friends when I was younger, chatting and smiling when they saw each other. Maybe it was just for my sister and me, if it was they did a good job of pretending. Now, after she's dropped me off, I have to run in and ask if she can come in. She'll walk up the path slowly and I can see her controlling her breathing. She doesn't kiss my dad on the cheek like she used to because Margie gets jealous, is scared that spark that once brought them together will be rekindled. Margie doesn't realize how dead it is, deprived of the oxygen necessary to give it life, ground into the cement with a conscious twist of the heel, like a smoked cigarette. She doesn't realize that although my mom misses having a man in her life and has even gone on AOL dates to re-find what she once had, she wouldn't go back to my father for any reason, ever, and that he would never go back to her, either. Instead, my mom now says, "Hi Larry, how have you been?" as she stands behind a chair, putting objects between herself and the man she bore two children with. And Margie practically runs into the room to see firsthand anything that happens. My mom tries to be civil, not consciously make her uncomfortable, stress the situation any further, but the act is too much. One can't watch what they say every single moment without the conversations being empty as meringue, punctuated by awkward silences. She never stays more than two minutes, sometimes I think she times it, then saying "Ok then, I'm late so I have to go now. Nice to see you again Larry, and you too Margie. Larry, we should meet sometime to talk about Kristi's college." And it's over. I sit in the living room after she's carefully closed the door behind her and pulled out of the driveway. Margie will have left the room, satisfied that this encounter was a success and my dad might have put the kettle on for a cup of tea. I sit on the couch, a leather peach couch that my mother would never own because she doesn't have the money and if she did it would never go for a leather couch but rather for a trip to Hungary or the Bahamas. I remember times that we could all be in the same room, just sitting and talking, without claws extended and conversations like meringue.