Page 246 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

eyes when she said it. I am at a loss as to what I am expected to say in response.

“Thank you, Mamá,” I manage to mutter.
I can’t say any more, and we sit quietly for a while, the air between us thick
with awkwardness and our awareness of all the time lost, the opportunities
frittered away.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Mamá says.
“What is it?”

“James Parkinson. George Huntington. Robert Graves. John Down. Now this
Lou Gehrig fellow of mine. How did men come to monopolize disease names
too?”
I blink and my mother blinks back, and then she is laughing and so am I.
Even as I crumple inside.

The next morning, we lie outside on lounge chairs. Mamá wears a
thick scarf and a gray parka, her legs warmed against the sharp chill by a fleece
blanket. We sip coffee and nibble on bits of the cinnamon-flavored baked quince
Thalia has bought for the occasion. We are wearing our eclipse glasses, looking
up at the sky. The sun has a small bite taken from its northern rim, looking
somewhat like the logo on the Apple laptop Thalia periodically opens to post
remarks on an online forum. Up and down the street, people have settled on the
sidewalks and rooftops to watch the spectacle. Some have taken their families to

the other end of the island, where the Hellenic Astronomical Society has set up
telescopes.
“What time is it supposed to peak?” I ask.
“Close to ten-thirty,” Thalia says. She lifts her glasses, checks her watch.
“Another hour or so.” She rubs her hands with excitement, taps something on the
keyboard.

I watch the two of them, Mamá with her dark glasses, blue-veined hands
laced on her chest, Thalia furiously pounding the keys, white hair spilling from
under her beanie cap.
You’ve turned out good.
I lay on the couch the night before, thinking about what Mamá had said, and
my thoughts had wandered to Madaline. I remembered how, as a boy, I would
stew over all the things Mamá wouldn’t do, things other mothers did. Hold my