It Hit Me Like a Ton of Bricks: A memoir of a mother and daughter

My mother calls long-distance to tell me that in spite of the recession and the fact that apartments cost a fortune she got us a sprawling three-bedroom in a prewar doorman building overlooking Washington Square Park. We are moving downtown. I am changing schools too. I burst into tears. My sister tells me not to worry because even though all the kids from my old school seem important now, one day, she says, I won’t even remember their names. I tell her that’s not true. I tell her I will always remember their names. She smiles at me like I am too young to know what I am saying. But I do know what I am saying. And I feel older than all of them.

I move in with my sister and the singer. The singer is learning to play the harpsichord. I am not allowed to touch the harpsichord. The singer’s house is in the mountains and my sister can’t spend all her time driving me around so I stay inside not touching the harpsichord and climbing up and down the shag-carpeted sunken living room. I play with the ice dispenser on the door of the fridge. I listen to Blue. The singer is impressed that I know all the words. I fly back to New York in August listening to “This Flight Tonight” on headphones. Turn this crazy bird around. I shouldn’t have got on this flight tonight, Joni Mitchell sings.

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