Quit kvetching,” my mother was saying, “All you do is kvetch, while the cat runs around the house, and your grandmother gets more and more deaf watching her Spanish soap operas.” I had the fridge open, beef stroganoff and cold cuts, and pickled vegetables mixing their smells within my nostrils. “But there’s nothing to eat!” My eternal qualm with our refrigerator. There was never anything to eat. Stuffed to capacity, and still, nothing. I was plagued, destined to eternally look into fridges and not want anything that was in them. As a small child, I was a phlegmatic eater. One spoon at a time. With a story. My grandmother would fall asleep reading to me at the kitchen table as I triumphantly smiled, thinking I wouldn’t have to eat any more. But a few minutes later, my plan foiled on itself, and I would grow impatient and wake her. “That Pippi Longstocking, she just puts me right to bed, after the hundredth reading, you know. Now stop saving it behind your cheek like a hamster and eat another spoonful.” Chewing slowly, methodically, my eyes resting on my grandma’s silver head, waiting for the next sentence.

My favorite book was one about a mischievous roof-mongerer named Carlson. He had a propeller on his back and ate jam like a maniac. Jam was the fuel to his tomfoolery and his propeller. He would climb into windows and break things and fly away, nonchalantly, leaving empty jars of preserves.

I loved Carlson more than I loved anything. More than I loved my grandma, more than the cat, and much more than the undesirable fridge.

I picked up a bowl of leftovers and sniffed it, grimacing. “Why do we have to eat the same thing every day, mama!” “Because I can’t cook for a family of four every day, honey.” Broken, beaten, by my mother’s kindness, her firm authority, and my complete childish devotion to her, I peevishly lathered some butter on a slice of rye and layered salami on top. I gave in and took a bite, still pouting, chewing, pouting, chin quivering of the injustice I was forced to undergo. Chew, pout. I would never admit that I actually liked the butter salami on rye, but my mother knew. And she smiled as she watched me gobble it up, my long, mousy braid swinging over the back of the chair.

The phone rang, “Hello? It’s for you.” My mother handed it to me, the archaic cord stretching across the table, into the butter, and across a salt shaker. I sprung up, sandwich in hand, running outside to jump on the chinese jump rope. Cat’s cradle with your feet. The grandmothers were all sitting outside of the building, in the shade, in their woven chairs, and we ran around like mad, chasing each other, pulling hair, and eating salami on rye sandwiches. Tan from spending the summer outside, limber, and completely unaware. For how could we be? The joy of being an eight year old can never be recovered.

“Mama, I’m bored! Play with me.” The main reason my mother was sorry for having only one child. Play with me. A restless, petulant daughter. Play with me, mama, pleeeeaaaasse. Please, please, pleaassee. Pleeeeeeeeeeeasseee. It could last for hours, until my mother grabbed a Barbie doll and disinterestedly subjected herself to my games.

I would tie my dad’s hair into giant bows, ones that I was forced to wear on a daily basis. It was the pinnacle of cuteness, bows the size of my head, lopping over to one side or another. Framed atelier studio photos still hang on the walls, my toothless grin, a stiff dress collar, and a monstrous bow. Everything else faded in to the fake-looking baby blue background. We have black and white pictures, my dad and I, identical hair-dos, bows donned, smiling ear to ear. If only things were as simple as before, when he would take me for milk shakes at the café near our house, and we wouldn’t tell mama. We’d walk by the river, though he always walked too fast for me, and I ran behind. Even then, things weren’t perfect. My mother, crying in the solitude of her bedroom because my dad forgot me at the book store. Forgot! His only child. I sobbed, abandoned, in the cashier’s lap who knew my family (my mother was an avid book collector). My father came charging back in, a wild look on his face. Where was I? Where could I be?! As I ate candy, drying my tears on the apron of the cashier. They handed me over like a piece of luggage at an airport, pockets full of sweets. I’m pretty sure he told me not to tell my mother, but how could I not? How could I hide from her the tragedy that had befallen me? The loneliest moment of my life thus far? Only she would understand. Plus, she could read it on my tear-stained mug.

My parents were already sleeping in separate bedrooms before I was even old enough to understand why parents slept in the same room in the first place. My mother’s bedroom was smaller, softer, pinker, and still had my baby crib in it. My dad’s had a futon, a television set, couch chairs, and three large windows spaced along the wall. I looked out of those windows waiting for them both to get home from work. When I asked why they needed to sleep in adjacent rooms, why one just wasn’t enough, she said it was because, “papa listens to the radio too loud, and I can’t sleep well,” or “papa kicks because he has bad dreams.” They put me in my grandmother’s bedroom, so the two of us wouldn’t get lonely, and we were pretty happy like that for a while. Falling asleep at the table reading Pippi together, and then repeating the motions at night.

I was scared of the dark too. Terribly. I remember the day it began. It was such an arbitrary moment, an ellipsis in time, when a friend turned to me in kindergarten and simply stated, like it was the most basic truth in the world, that there were creatures in the dark. “They want to eat you,” he told me,and turned away to listen to the teacher, or play with his blocks. My entire existence was shaken. I marched home that very day and relayed the message to my parents. “You sent me in there! With those… those…things! For a glass of water!” They tried to dissuade me, but couldn’t help finding it amusing. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my whole understanding of matter and light and dark was turned upon its head. I’m still afraid of the dark. This so-called “friend” is off somewhere, following the path of his own life, and I am still afraid of the dark. Still running away when I turn the light switch, hop, skip, and a jump to the next one.

Our apartment was a luxurious three-bedroom. I rode my tricycle up and down the hallway, scuffing boots. My grandmother’s friends used to come over, and I drank tea in the kitchen with them and showed them my ballet moves— before I even took ballet—moves that never existed in the realm of ballet or any other category of dance. My imagination ran wild. I hate to say it, but I was quite the fibber. Long, elaborate stories that never happened, my parents would sit there, mouths agape, eyes wide open, sneaking glances at each other, testing the verity of my “facts.” “Ohhhh, okay, sure,” my mother would say, with a good-natured sarcasm. My father humored me as well. I would lie on my mother’s bed, tracing patterns on the wall-rugs, and weave lies that could clothe our entire family. “Misha, can you believe it? Did you hear what she said? It’s insanity down in that kindergarten,” mama would wink at papa. I really believed in my lies, as all children do. Even adults believe in their lies somewhat. When forced to tell the truth, I was deeply shamed. I didn’t mean to lie. Not so much. It just sounded right. It…just sounded right. And some of it was true. Is true. Based on true events. I hope you wouldn’t be too upset if you found out this was all a lie. My childhood. My parents. Me. I hope you wouldn’t feel betrayed. Maybe I lied myself into being, into a long pervasive story. After all, reality is relative. Maybe you’re just a big lie too.