Stepping Back from the Ledge

Laura Trujillo has a brutal story.

She was in college (or close to starting) when her mother's new boyfriend began raping her. Trujillo didn't tell anyone. She was relieved to see her mother happy; she didn't want to make waves.

The mom and the boyfriend married. Trujillo went off into the world, married and had four children, and did high-profile work for USA Today.

At some point, she went home to visit her mother, and the Rapist Relative, now-deranged, asked for a kiss. Or something like this. And the question brought forth memories of trauma--and Trujillo found herself disclosing the rape stories to her mother.

Now, for several weeks, the mother remained with her boyfriend. She didn't leave! Then Trujillo wrote a note: "Just so you know, I don't blame you. I'm not angry with you." The mother received this note, considered it for two days, then threw herself from the rim of the Grand Canyon. Her body was recovered by means of an elaborate search-and-hoist mission; she had fallen 100 feet, and she had left several notes of apology before she died.

Trujillo then struggled with her own suicidal wishes, for a long while, and finally emerged from hell to write her book.

Portions are fascinating. Trujillo--a journalist--wonders if discussions about suicide are valuable. One would think YES, but actually, in this Oprah era of confessions, chats about suicidal moments have *not* led to a decrease in suicides. In fact, the number of suicides has gone up. (But perhaps the climb would be *steeper* if chats weren't occurring? Who knows?) Trujillo writes in a stunning way about her grandmother--who is still alive, and who seems to have no ill will toward the rapist (but won't talk to her memoirist grandchild!!!) And Trujillo has an eerie, gripping section on the Grand Canyon; no one fully knows why the canyon exists, even after years of study, and if you visit the gift shop, you may find your mother's suicide discussed in a breezy way in the twenty-dollar guide. (Trujillo never authorized a discussion. For her, finding the guidebook was like an out-of-body experience.)

No one seems to want to criticize this memoir, because of the story it tells, but I'm going to make some difficult observations. I don't blame Trujillo for sloppiness; I do blame Random House, and I blame Trujillo's editor, Kate Medina. At the end of the book, the "gratitude" portion seems to disclose, in a coy way, that Trujillo is now divorced. Given that her husband is a major part of the story, the omission of the husband's "end portion" seems glaring. Additionally, Trujillo writes that we're not meant to speak of "committing" suicide (the right term is ""died of suicide")--but then Trujillo *embraces* the term "commit," and seems unaware of the messiness on the page. Finally, there is a big hole in the analysis of Trujillo's mother. It's possible that Trujillo feels no anger toward Mom regarding the college years--but how about watching your mother *remain married* to the rapist AFTER the rape story gets spilled? How do you wrap your head around that? Trujillo doesn't really "go there," and not addressing the question seems like a major flaw (to me).

When reviews don't raise these last points, I get puzzled.

I wish the drafting had taken one or two more years.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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