From Where I Stand

By Caroline Goldberg Igra

Burdened by a troubled history with her mother, Elizabeth struggles to raise her own teenage daughter differently. She wants to celebrate when Belle receives a fabulous opportunity miles away in New York City, but is concerned that this move will prolong the estrangement between them. Even worse, it would

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781646635511

Caroline Goldberg Igra

Caroline Goldberg Igra is an author, an art historian, a competitive triathlete, and a mother. Her first novel, Count to a Thousand, was published in 2018. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in many literary journals, and she presently blogs for The Times of Israel. She has a doctorate in art history, taught at the University of Haifa, has published numerous articles in international periodicals, and has curated several art exhibitions in Israel, following earlier projects in the United States. The monograph she wrote on Polish artist J. D. Kirszenbaum was chosen as one of Slate Magazine's Best Books of 2013. Caroline is a native Philadelphian but currently lives in Tel Aviv, where she occupies herself with the English language (teaching, editing, advising). A devoted mother to her three children, she frequently explores the challenges and joys of that role in her writing.

Book preview

PART I

ELIZABETH

ONE MORE SET OF HEADLIGHTS. They swung my way, blinding me with their yellow glow; but I didn’t blink, and they moved away, disappearing down the street. It wasn’t Belle. Not yet.

It was so late. She was angry with me. She’d been angry for weeks. It had all started with that boy, that Tom—with the moment I’d walked into her room and found them half naked in bed, on the way to trouble if not already there. I was shocked. I hadn’t even known Belle was home and just wanted to collect her laundry. I wasn’t expecting the trail of unfamiliar clothing on the floor by the door, the discarded boots several sizes too large to be hers, the appearance of my daughter in bed with a boy, mid-embrace. She was only sixteen.

Get up! Get dressed! Get out! I squealed like an animal being butchered. The boy jumped up, throwing on clothing. Belle disappeared under the sheets. Next thing I knew, he was out the window—not the door because then he would have to pass by me. Belle jerked out of bed, her eyes blazing. How could you! What’s the matter with you?

Belle . . . I stood in the doorway, watching as she pulled on clothes and then hopped out the window as well, leaving me standing there. Left alone, I made my way between the trail of abandoned clothing and sat on the edge of the bed. What is the matter with me? How could I have reacted in such a fashion when I knew full well what it felt like—the first time love meant something more than a kiss. My own mother took my adolescence hard. She was ill-equipped to deal with a burgeoning young woman. When my camp boyfriend suggested making the long trip down the Bronx Highway from Riverdale on his new ten-speed Schwinn, she threw a tizzy fit, clearly threatened by the reasons a boy might make such an effort—the rewards that might consequently be expected.

Hollering while Tom scrambled for his clothes, I forgot the significance of these firsts—how I’d buzzed in anticipation before Jon’s arrival, eager to show off my new lava lamp, the Deep Purple poster over my bed, and the ultra-cool look I’d achieved by changing all the light bulbs to blue. I was more than ready for a second round of the summertime love we shared the previous summer at camp and couldn’t begin to understand the draconian rules my mother quickly imposed in an effort to thwart any intimacy. Way back when, I swore I’d never recreate that atmosphere of forbidden, knowing it served no purpose. It was impossible to understand how decades later, having swapped roles, now the worried mother, I’d become the adjudicator and the hard-ass. Forgetting my own experience, I’d become my mother’s daughter, putting principles ahead at any cost.

•••

I waited what seemed like forever, and still Belle didn’t come home. When she finally did, my worries had morphed into anger.

How could you? You know how much I worry. Go straight up to bed. I changed my mind. I couldn’t just let this pass. No! No! Wait right there! We need to talk.

Her heavy movements, those skinny limbs nothing like their usual graceful selves, banged up against the doorjamb, the hall table, even the banister.

I can’t believe you’re drunk. We’ve talked about this. I’ve told you a million times. It only leads to trouble, bad decisions. Mark my words.

She was barely listening; I could tell by the odd angle of her head, by the way she was pulling at her ponytail and staring at her legs as if willing them to not buckle, to keep her upright just a few more moments—until she could collapse in bed.

That’s when I saw the envelope. Steadying herself the best she could, Belle reached into the bag draped loosely over one shoulder and pulled it out. I tried to figure out the odd mixture of happiness and expectation on her face. It wasn’t what I expected.

I was celebrating. She handed it to me.

Congratulations.

Completely taken aback, I looked up into her eyes. Although dulled by the alcohol, they glistened with excitement. The words that followed swam before me:

This letter serves to inform . . . admission . . . program . . .

My heart galloped. Julliard. Julliard. Julliard? When did she apply to Julliard? Why didn’t I know?

Belle. I paused, fumbling to find the words. I don’t understand. I mean, WOW! But . . .

My head began to pound, my worry and anger replaced with a whirlpool of thoughts. Julliard was in New York City. We lived in Grand Forks, North Dakota. The distance between the two points was too great to calculate. And that was only the beginning. There were vast cultural differences between the frenetic urban life she’d find there and the sleepy kind we lived tucked away in the Great Plains. How will Belle ever negotiate them? How can she get along without me there beside her? On top of all this was the bold reality that if Belle left home, left me, there’d be no time to repair our seriously tattered relationship.

Mom? Come on! Something! Give me something! Belle’s voice, now more sober, was tinged with frustration and disappointment. It’s great, right? Isn’t this amazing? She paused, denying the influence of obvious intoxication and standing a bit straighter, shoving her bangs out of her face.

I found my voice. Oh, Belle. It’s just the most extraordinary opportunity. Gently tugging at the letter, she pried it from my grip.

Look here, Mom. I just love this part. She read aloud: We were entranced by your audition and are certain you’ll benefit from our pre-college program.

Yes, yes, it’s just so wonderful. But I don’t understand how it all came about. How did they even find you? Was it something to do with the program you did last summer in Minneapolis?

Oh, that! She hiccoughed loudly, covering her mouth with a giggle. That was Daddy!

Your father? What could Mike possibly have to do with Julliard?

Dad set it up. And Mr. Berman. We made a recording, and I had an audition!

An audition? When?

Belle was on a roll. And hey! I’ve already talked with Grandma. Belle’s words cut straight through me. Julliard meant she would become closer with my mother, Lillian, the woman I’d spent a lifetime trying to get away from. I couldn’t bear the thought that she was running straight to her.

She’s very happy for me, you know. Grandma. She thinks this could work out well.

It’s a fabulous opportunity, baby. I’m so happy for you. That first attempt at excitement was feeble. My voice cracked, revealing my hesitation. I cleared my throat, working hard to sound more convincing. I’m so very proud of you, Belle. And I was. I was more than proud of her. I didn’t have to fake that part at all.

Belle smiled, obviously relieved. She needed me on her side, and that’s where I wanted to be.

Mommy, this is it. I feel it.

Mommy. The word instantly vanquished my misgivings. It almost didn’t matter what followed. Taking one more glance at the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, I pulled her in close, wrapping her tightly in my arms. This child of mine had been offered the extraordinary chance to realize a dream. Tears gathered in my eyes, stimulated by the immensity of this feat. My Belle deserved a shot at Julliard. All of that and more.

Watching her unsuccessfully skip up the staircase, I felt the beginnings of a chill. No matter how much I wanted for Belle, no matter how wonderful it was to see her bursting with happiness, I couldn’t deny my deep misgivings of what lay ahead. Lillian held a story I didn’t want told. A new intimacy between the two could very well lead to her deciding to break a decades-old vow of secrecy. Although desperate to share Belle’s euphoria, I was petrified with fear.

BELLE

I WOKE UP TO A headache, the pounding strong enough to keep me from bounding out of bed. I’d absolutely had too much to drink the previous night. I lay still, opened my eyes slowly, and let them roam lazily around my room, taking in all the little things that made this space mine: Mom’s old lava lamp—so retro; the postcards stuck into the corners of the large mirror over my chest of drawers—the holy trio: Jacqueline de Pré, Hilary Hahn, and Julia Adler; a poster of Kris Allen rocking his viola from before his days on American Idol; a Calgary Flames banner.

Grandma’s spare bedroom was so drab, its palette big old boring beige. Now that a possibility had become reality, now that I knew I’d be moving in, I would fix it up the way I liked, with bold splashes of color. I’d dial it back to the land of the living. Maybe Grandma would let me paint in one of those chalk walls; maybe Mom would let me take my Marimekko comforter.

A particularly strong throbbing overcame me, and I closed my eyes back up. I’d just remembered a bit more about last night. In particular, the way Mom shut down completely after I shared my news about Julliard instead of celebrating it the way I’d expected, with a bit of whooping, maybe even tears of happiness. What had merely been unexpected at that moment—my whole world colored by a heady mix of alcohol, exhaustion, and euphoria—now, in the light of day, seemed truly odd. How could she not be excited about the best thing ever?

I rolled onto my side, hesitantly opening my eyes again, leaving them at half-mast. There had been signs that she was happy. The little crinkles at the corners of her eyes that emerged when she smiled had appeared in droves, and at one point she’d thrown her hands up in the air, grabbing mine and pulling me into an absolutely crushing hug. Ever since that incident with Tom, ever since she ruined things for me at school, making my life there a living hell, I hadn’t let her near me. But there at the bottom of the stairs, compromised by alcohol and euphoric after sharing my news, I relaxed into it. It was actually kind of nice. I guess I missed her. But those moments of grace passed quickly, that rush of warmth disappearing as if it had never been, her face blanching to a ghostly white, her brow turning into a sea of wiggly worry lines, and her whole body stiffening up. After glowing with what seemed like true delight, Mom suddenly looked absolutely and totally terrified.

The thing is, I had no idea why. I was certain she’d grab at this opportunity for a happy reunion. We’d been stuck in a deep freeze for such a long time. I could only guess that it had something to do with the distance. It was no small jump from our tiny corner of America—Grand Forks, for God’s sake—to Manhattan. And although Mom herself had been born and bred there, growing up as a real local, and it made perfect sense that at some point I would want to try out city life for myself, she hadn’t seen it coming—at least, not so soon.

Still, she should have. Here in town, I’d always been considered a relocated city kid, not only because that was the way the locals saw me but because that was how I saw myself. In fact, that was the way we saw ourselves—the whole family. When asked where we were from, whether visiting friends in Chicago or on vacation somewhere with palm trees and hot sand, Mom or Dad would adamantly deny having anything to do with the prairie. It always felt like a temporary gig. It was obvious that one day I’d get up and leave. After all, who would stay in the boondocks forever?

I dropped my leaden legs over the side of the bed and pushed up to a seated position. My head continued to pulsate, but with a bit less intensity. Maybe I’d misunderstood her reaction, read too much into it. My present headache testified to some seriously heavy drinking. In any case, it really didn’t matter. Although it would have been nice to get a bit more enthusiasm from Mom, it wasn’t necessary. I was moving on, with or without her. Life in the big city was calling my name. It just felt so right. It didn’t matter that just months earlier I’d never considered New York an option, figuring I’d eventually get back to Chicago, maybe for college. Once Dad dropped the application materials in my lap, the concept took shape, quickly becoming something concrete, something that simply had to be. A mere whisper became my life’s one ambition.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I smiled wide, then reached under my pillow where I’d stowed the letter from Julliard for safekeeping. The school logo burst off the paper like the fireworks the local council shot into the sky on the Fourth of July. Since its arrival yesterday, my entire world had changed, and I was able to relax in a way I hadn’t since beginning my prep for the audition months earlier. I took a few deep breaths, enjoying the absence of tension in my body—letting the pleasure of knowing I was to begin a new journey seep through me and calm my throbbing head.

It was such a relief after such a long time defined by anxiety and the possibility of true heartbreak. What if it didn’t work out? I’d tried to focus on the music, trying not to get ahead of myself, but the more I prepared at home, in dusty Grand Forks, the more I romanticized what I imagined to be the glittery world of Oz. I wanted this to be real. The chance to dive headfirst into something I found so intoxicating, to live in a city that was all action, bright lights, bold color, and dissonant sound, completely different from my monochrome, sluggish, and quiet hometown, was simply too good to forgo. Not once during this nerve-wracking period did I consider my Grandma. Truth be told, I didn’t really know her. All that changed when I arrived for the audition.

•••

I didn’t know what to expect from Grandma before I got there. Besides that one quickie weekend visit to Grand Forks, and a handful of trips to New York City during which Mom and Dad would budget her a dinner or lunch, there wasn’t much contact between us over the years. I’d conjured up a vague idea based on what I’d read about in books: someone warm and fuzzy, old and comforting—akin to a warm pair of slippers. I envisioned sitting together over mugs of hot chocolate and cookies, maybe feeding the birds in Central Park, activities I figured were part and parcel of spending quality time with one’s grandmother.

But it didn’t take five minutes to figure out that my grandma was different, that she had her own agenda, and relaxing, hanging out, and getting to know one another wasn’t part of it. The explicit instructions I received regarding where and how to store my suitcase were just the beginning. And although I’d hoped to think about things other than the audition, maybe even enjoy the city a little bit, that wasn’t possible. Grandma was ultra-focused on the big event and on what my acceptance to Julliard would mean, ratcheting up the pressure from the moment I arrived, making the knot of tension that had already formed in my neck back in Grand Forks harden into a bead of cement.

She took every occasion to assert that this was the turning point in my life, opening doors that would otherwise remain closed. Her nonstop comments made me want to scream. And while I appreciated that this was a momentous event in my life—how could I not?—I was uncomfortable with the way she made Grand Forks a scapegoat. Her pointed attack on my hometown came across through comments interlaced within every conversation, whispered as we rinsed the dishes or settled into a cab, maybe while walking around the reservoir or over frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity; coming in a trickle or a flood, they were impossible to misinterpret.

This is going to be perfect.

Hmmm? I was in the middle of excavating the steam-plumped raisins from their hiding places in my oatmeal. I couldn’t formulate a response; she didn’t seem to need one.

It’s a surefire way to get you out of that ‘backwater.’ You need to be where you can shine. New York is just the place.

What are you talking about, Grandma? I wasn’t all that interested but knew that she expected me to reply. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, chided just the day before for not answering one of her millions of queries.

Grand Forks. It’s the middle of nowhere.

What are you talking about? It’s really central, just a hop, skip, and jump to Minneapolis and Chicago! Even Calgary! Have you been there, Grandma?

She made an ugly sound halfway between a bark and a grunt, ignoring me completely. Living there is detrimental to the achievement of a promising future. It’s simply not good enough.

What do you mean? It’s a great place. It’s home. By then, I’d returned to my oatmeal. This wasn’t a very interesting conversation.

Well. That’s true. I casually looked up again, watching her sip her coffee and neatly wipe her upper lip clean. She wasn’t in a hurry, seeming to choose her words carefully. At the time, I wondered why. You know, Belle, home doesn’t always serve a purpose. It doesn’t always have to be an anchor, something to which to retreat in shaky times. Especially when it’s not enough. And for you . . . Here her voice petered off before coming on strong. Well, it’s just not enough for you. It never will be.

I paused mid-bite, my interest piqued. What do you mean?

There was a long pause. That small town of yours, Grand Forks. It’s just a place to hide. Ask your mother.

I couldn’t begin to fathom what she meant. I knew Grand Forks couldn’t compare with New York City—who would even think to compare them?—but I’d never thought of it as a place to hide out.

When I didn’t respond, Grandma dropped the subject, and I was left to piece together what she hadn’t said. It obviously had something to do with Mom. That got me thinking. I mean, here I was, in the apartment where Mom had grown up. Yet before now, I’d rarely visited. Mom and Grandma barely spoke. Although I never understood the source of the problem, I’d always known there was one. I assumed it had to do with Mom’s dislike for the city, her distaste for the crowds and the hustle-bustle. The fact that she’d settled in a quiet town way out in the Great Plains seemed to prove the point.

But sitting there at the kitchen table with Grandma, nursing my breakfast in this small corner of the Upper West Side while she hovered and fluttered and chattered on about my brilliant future, I got another picture. I wondered if Mom’s continual trek farther and farther west, distinctly away from everything she’d ever known, had been about something else entirely—maybe escape. If the past few days were any measure, this must have been one hell of a pressure cooker. It was hard to imagine how my mild, soft-spoken mother had coped. For the first time, I considered whether my grandma’s attitude had something to do with why the two rarely got together.

Suddenly, attending Julliard took on a new dimension. It wouldn’t only be about moving to New York, skipping out on the crap going on at school, exploring the music I adored. I would be jumping straight into bed with this frenetic, domineering woman, giving my already topsy-turvy teenage world a dizzying spin. I bristled when Grandma unexpectedly invaded my space, reaching over and wiping the tiniest curd of oatmeal from my upper lip. I hadn’t given much thought to this part of the deal before, but now it was front and center.

Fortunately, none of these questions mattered the minute I stepped onto the stage for the audition, placing my bow lightly on the A string, letting it find its place and settle, horsehairs finding their grip, before drawing out that first opening note. I watched a cloud of rosin rise above the strings. I’d rubbed on far too much. Nothing but the maximum would suffice on this all-important occasion, and I preferred to be overprepared. What had formerly been just an exercise, back in Mr. Berman’s music room, suddenly became a desperate plea.

As I began the first exercises, I had the strangest longing, unforeseen. I wanted my mom there. I hadn’t seen that coming, hadn’t expected to miss her at all. Back home, I’d banned her from attending concerts for the longest time, her enthusiasm and effusive support making me nervous, causing me to make mistakes. Yet there was something about that moment, its significance so enormous in the context of my little life, that almost demanded her presence. I suppose sometimes we all need our mothers, even if they’re not the ones we would have chosen.

The music itself took my hand and led me through. I’d known the pieces by heart for the longest time, ever since I did the recording at that little studio Dad found in Fargo. The pages of notes on the stand were primarily meant to steady my nerves, frazzled after hearing the more complex music played by other auditioning students. They all sounded amazing. There was no way I could compete. But Mr. Berman had promised me our choices were sound. Bach’s Prelude No. 1 and Beethoven’s Nocturne in D weren’t the most challenging works, but when I played them, they sounded absolutely magical. He said that’s what would count.

It helped that I knew exactly what to expect, the order of the elements I had to execute. First would be scales—A major, D minor, B flat—just to check my musical acumen. I used this exercise as a warm-up, a means of calming down and slowing my heart rate from a sprint to a stroll. Next was my favorite part: sight-reading. I loved jumping in and finding notes I wasn’t expecting. Discovering new harmonies, different combinations, and unexpected tones was what drew me to making music in the first place. With these prelims behind me, I was much more at ease and, crazy as it seems, began to enjoy myself. At one point, as my bow danced over the strings, the fingers of my left hand finding the right notes, making it safely home, I realized I was smiling. Smiling! Everything simply fell into place. I think I knew it would. Music never let me down. Since I’d marched around the house naked with my mother’s flute, pretending to be a majorette, I’d known that rhythm and harmony were what made me fly.

The teachers present to judge sat in a straight line, so formal, their faces working at neutral; it was difficult to guess what they were thinking. Yet the slight movement of their heads, their own fingers tapping out the music on their legs in accompaniment, and the occasional hint of a smile made clear that they were pleased with what they heard. I knew that they recognized my soul dancing along with the sound I was creating and appreciated the depth it gave to my performance. I knew they liked me.

Everything changed afterwards, most especially Grandma. She seemed to relax the minute I finished with the audition, replacing the overfocused henpecking of the first few days with a whirl of activity that blurred its significance. The days we spent together before I returned home flew by. She kept me constantly moving, visiting one museum or another, walking through Central Park, even fitting in a Broadway show. She escorted me around like a superstar, treating me like God’s gift to humanity. I barely had time to wonder what the judges had thought, to speculate if I’d won a precious spot. This part of the visit became about the city itself, the audition and its repercussions—whatever they might be—suppressed from all conversation. That was probably for the best, as the more I rehashed my performance, the more I worried that it hadn’t been good enough, that I’d misinterpreted the judges’ pity for delight. What could a girl from small-town America have to offer? There had been kids there from Manhattan, already studying with some of the faculty, auditioning for the same spot. The likelihood was that nothing would come of it, that this whole event would be just one blip in the long stretch of my teenage years.

•••

I carefully tucked the envelope from Julliard back under my pillow and, gripped by a sudden surge of energy, pushed off the bed and stood in front of the dresser. There I was, that girl in the mirror, soon enough heading off for a great adventure—Manhattan-bound! All my worries had been for naught. I was on my way. I turned my head from one side to the other, taking in my mussed hair, my pale face. I’d overdone it the previous night. Mom’s reaction came back as a chill, and I frowned, suddenly wondering what my life was going to be like, meeting new kids, living with Grandma. I wasn’t too worried about the former. It had to be better than now, the teasing and taunting at school having taken on gargantuan proportions.

I had a harder time dismissing my concerns about Grandma. Although it was easy to push the annoying pre-audition version out of my mind, the cooler post-audition one happily taking its place, it was hard to dismiss the niggling questions regarding her relationship with Mom. Where before there’d been only a few, now there were the beginnings of a pile. Dad’s insistence that the whole project remain a secret during the months leading up to my audition, something with which I’d easily complied—it was natural to shut Mom out of my life—now felt like an early warning I’d somehow missed.

It’s important she doesn’t find out about it, about the audition.

Who? Mom? Why? What difference would that make?

Trust me. It’s important.

Whatever you say. I can add it to the stack of other things I don’t share. I laughed, but he remained sober. But, Dad. Julliard? She’ll be so psyched. She’s the one that suggested I attend that music camp in Minneapolis last summer. She’ll love the idea. She’s a musician!

One thing has nothing to do with the other. You’ll have to just take my word for it. This needs to stay between you and me. At least for the meantime. Otherwise, well . . . otherwise, there’s a good chance it won’t happen at all.

Something had happened between Mom and Grandma a long time before I came along. That audition trip had shined a bright light on that mystery, making me wonder.

I pulled my hair back, out of my face, leaning toward the mirror and getting close enough to see the hazel streaks in my brown eyes. They were genetic. A little gift from my mom I appreciated. I shook my head a bit, shaking off the things I didn’t understand. I refused to ruin this golden moment with cloudy thoughts, to strain my already hungover brain with questions. The only thing that mattered right now was that I was leaving; soon enough I’d put the nightmare at school behind me, walk away from the murky shadows in my house, and replace the mother who’d ruined my life with one who celebrated it. Once I moved to New York, everything was going to be perfect.

LILLIAN

THIS WAS IT! A NEW beginning! I strode to my desk, invigorated by purpose, and settled on the booster cushion on the chair before my laptop. I was absolutely bursting to share my news. My granddaughter—my very own granddaughter! Going to Julliard! Well, not exactly the Julliard, not yet anyway, just their pre-college program. But that was entirely beside the point. This was still the most exciting thing that had happened to me in a long time! And yes, it really was happening to me, because I was going to play a key role in Belle’s promising future by hosting her in New York. Amazing! Simply amazing! An opportunity for both of us, really!

And just in time. I hadn’t expected the call from Dr. James’s office last month, had figured that the dark spots along my neckline were just part of aging. I sure enjoyed all those years of lying in the sun, slathering on baby oil, baking myself to a crisp. Brown was best, but red on the way was a close second. Back in summer camp, we’d all sit on the floor at the end of the day, peeling off layers of skin one by one, arranging them neatly in little piles and giggling at our achievement. Although I was fascinated with the dark freckles that cropped up on my arms during the summer months back then, drawing imaginary lines between them, a mesmerizing game of connect the dots, I couldn’t bare the way they now ran together into one amorphous blob.

Never, not once, had I considered that they could kill me. But that’s what he said. Sitting across from Dr. James the day after he called me back to the office, it was impossible to miss his concern, his somber demeanor. My lifetime passion for the sun had apparently caught up with me. I tried to shake it off at first, comforting myself with the numbers of those who survived melanoma of the sort he’d diagnosed, but I wasn’t naive. Apparently, the neck area was a different story. The doctor made clear that I had to take it seriously. It was this new knowledge that got me thinking, not so much about the things I could have done differently but, instead, about what I could still do, today. While bringing Elizabeth back into my life seemed almost impossible—decades of bricks, layered one on top of the other, firmly dividing us into two very separate camps—I still retained hope for Belle.

I barely knew my granddaughter, visits together having been restricted to an hour here or there for the most part. Yet