The Stain by Karen Levy Israel 1979 My mother is in her element. I have turned twelve, and my bat mitzvah party is just a few hours away, caterers like frenzied ants carrying trays of food, crisp linen tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, steaming pots. Small round tables have appeared under the trees in our garden, like mushrooms after a rain, while from branch to branch hang wires bearing colorful lanterns which will soon bathe the greenery in magical light. My father has disappeared altogether, his distaste for elaborate celebrations ignored by my mother’s need for the dramatic. He suffers quietly through every birthday his own included, while my mother begins the festivities at the first light of dawn. I still recall waking up to the shadowy outlines of gifts in my room, and my mother’s eager face bent over mine, bursting into the birthday song, her eyes reprimanding anyone who wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm. It never stopped there. Birthday breakfast was followed by cake. Birthday lunch, and cake. Birthday dinner, more cake. And a constant need to ensure that we were enjoying ourselves, that the gifts were appreciated, that the day was special enough, not just another ordinary day. Today she has outdone herself and soon will come her confirmation in the shape of dozens of guests who will attest to her entertaining prowess. All I need to do is put on the dress purchased for the occasion, thank one and all for my gifts, and keep my hands out of her sight until the stains are successfully removed. The now fading purple splotches that covered my hands like a pair of berry colored gloves were the result of a science experiment gone wrong the day before. The biology teacher had most likely explained the effects of Kali Permanganate on skin, but her warnings had faded into the distance as I dropped the dark crystals in the liquid before me, watching the slow curl of violet tails swirl towards the bottom of the glass container. I wanted to feel those smoky ribbons, their regal color, my hands dipping into the water and fishing out the nearly dissolved crystals so I could drop them in again, make them repeat their watery dance before their magic wore off. By the time the teacher caught me in her sights the damage had been done. My hands were slowly darkening, my classmates awed into unusual silence. My mother had not been pleased. Why now? Why today? She questioned when I arrived from school, shaking her head in disbelief at my bad timing, her lips a thin disapproving line. I didn’t know how to explain how my heart had leapt at the unexpected secret contained in those deceivingly mediocre specks on my desk. How they flowered before my eyes and asked to be touched. I had spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing until my hands felt raw, the stubborn dye slowly fading under the persis32 theMeadow
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