How to Read an Unwritten Language Read Free

paper, and we found Mother sitting at the kitchen table without her usual mug of coffee, her hands oddly cupped together.
    â€œWhat’s for breakfast, Mommy?” Laurie asked.
    When she didn’t glance at us, didn’t move, Laurie repeated her question.
    Mother’s hands flattened on the table and she sighed. “Oh, I’m not a cook, dear. Why don’t you fix something for yourselves?”
    My sister stubbornly pointed a finger at her stomach. “We’re hungry, Mommy.”
    â€œSo am I, honey, but I just don’t feel like a cook today.”
    â€œWhat do you feel like?”
    â€œI don’t know … I feel like somebody else, maybe.” She attempted a weak smile, but her tired eyes so defeated her that Dan tried initiating a tease, chanting, “Mommy’s somebody else, Mommy’s somebody else.”
    Mother managed a laugh. Emboldened by Dan’s success, I asked a question that forever after I’ve wished I never asked: “Well, who are you?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know … a friend of your mother’s.”
    â€œIf you’re her friend,” I said, “then how come we never met you before?”
    Mother smiled sadly. “It’s never too late for introductions—”
    â€œSo what’s your name?” Laurie asked.
    â€œYou can call me Margaret.” Then, peering at us quizzically, she asked, “And what are your names?”
    We introduced ourselves, pleased with this new game.
    â€œWe’re hungry, Margaret,” Laurie announced again. “What’s for breakfast?”
    â€œI told you dear, I’m not a cook. And since your mother isn’t here, you’ll have to fix your own breakfast.”
    Disappointed, we stared at the cupboards and drawers as if we believed they might open themselves and offer us the necessary ingredients.
    â€œOh, I suppose you’ll need a little help,” Margaret said. She stood and opened one of the drawers. “Here, Dan,” she said to me, “take this spatula.”
    â€œI’m Michael,” I corrected her, enjoying this pretended clumsiness at learning our names.
    â€œOh, that’s too serious a name for a boy your age. Take the spatula, Mike.”
    Michael did sound serious. That’s why I liked it. But for the moment, I could see, I’d have to be Mike. I held the spatula and then flipped it jauntily in the air, as I thought a Mike might do.
    â€œNow, what is it you’d like to eat?”
    â€œPancakes,” Laurie said, and I nodded. Pancakes were fine, though how could we possibly make them? Dan loitered by the kitchen doorway and stared out at the backyard, angry at Margaret for calling me Dan. He turned and faced her. “You are our mommy.”
    â€œNo dear, you’re mistaken, though we do look alike. But I certainly wouldn’t mind having a fine little boy like you. Wouldn’t you like to help and get the eggs from the fridge?”
    For a moment Dan hesitated, then his stubborn face softened. He walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator and Margaret turned to Laurie. “Well, honey, what kind of flour do you want to use?”
    â€œWhite.”
    â€œOh, whole wheat is better for you.”
    We didn’t say anything. Mother had never used whole wheat flour before; we didn’t even know there was any in the house. Perhaps this woman before us was Margaret, and not Mother.
    â€œI like white,” Laurie said.
    â€œIf you add a little whole wheat flour, it’ll taste better.”
    Laurie didn’t reply, looking to me for support. I shrugged and flipped the spatula.
    â€œHow many eggs, Margaret?” Dan called out.
    â€œTwo will be enough, dear.” She turned again to Laurie. “Well?”
    â€œI’d like white … with some whole wheat.”
    Under Margaret’s directions, Dan cracked and beat the eggs, then mixed them with the milk. Laurie sifted the