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Brooke: The summer of 1990 had drawn to a close, and as always, the air felt different. Nature has its own way of letting everybody know that school is about to begin, and the new year seemed more full of promise than ever before.My mother, Jean, was beginning a job teaching special-education kids in a neighboring district. She had gone back to school to get her teaching certificate and had just graduated in June. September 4 was going to be her first day on the job and my first day starting seventh grade at Murphy Junior High in Stony Brook, N.Y.
My father, who works for the Social Security Administration, had taken the day off. He didn't want to miss either of our first days and felt the uncertainty that always goes along with new experiences.
"Wardo?" my mother called from upstairs. She calls my dad Wardo, or honey, or sweetheart. Wardo is a derivative of Eduardo, the Spanish translation of his given name, Edward. It was early in the morning, and my younger brother, Reed, and older sister, Kysten, were still sleeping.
"Wardo," she said again.
"Yes," he replied from the kitchen table where we were sitting.
"What time is Brooke's bus coming, and where is it picking her up?" My mother likes to ask questions to which she already knows the answer. It's her way of making sure that everybody else knows too. This morning she seemed unusually apprehensive. It was not only her first day of work but also the first day of leaving her three kids to fend for themselves.
My father grabbed a schedule off the refrigerator door. "She gets picked up at nine and dropped off at one, at the corner of Shetland and Sheppard," he said, as if it was something he knew right off the top of his head.
Dad and I looked at each other and smiled. My mother is possibly the most organized person I know. Now she had finished getting ready, and came down to sit with us for a few minutes before she had to leave.
"Your clothes are laid out on your bed," she said.
"Thanks, Mom."
"Don't forget your loose-leaf and new class schedule."
"I won't, Mom."
"It's hard for me to believe that you're starting the seventh grade, and look at you."
She stopped, put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on my cheek.
"Don't forget to find out about orchestra and cello lessons," she continued, "and dancing school starts this week, so you'll have to work out how and when you're going to get your homework done."
"I know, Mom. I'll take care of it." There was a pause, and she got up from the table.
"Brooke," she said, "I want you to remember everything that happens to you today. Don't forget anything, even the little things. Promise?"
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