The Original 1982 by Lori Carson Page A

never touched, or kissed, or held.

Thirty
    W e visit Jules at her new apartment in the West Village. It has a whole wall of exposed brick and windows that overlook a little park. The floor tiles in the kitchen are stylishly black and white. We watch as she grinds whole beans and makes strong black coffee in a French press.
    Jules is flush with movie money and speaks of her luxuries and privileges as if they are commonplace. But she’s generous with you, so I try not to feel like a poor relation. You’re the best-dressed daughter of a struggling waitress, ever. She’s taken us to FAO Schwarz and bought you enormous bears and blue-eyed baby dolls. Your nursery overflows with a jungle of stuffed animals and other toys.
    She holds you, rocks her leg, wags her foot. She’s dying for a cigarette. The constant motion puts you to sleep.
    Conspiracy, Jules’s big movie, is scheduled to open soon, and she is overwhelmed with publicity commitments. She has offers for other movies but has rejected one for the nudity the role requires, and another because she’d be little more than arm candy. She’s going to hold out for the good parts, although her manager and agent tell her those are few and far between. They’re encouraging her to work as much as she can, to strike while the iron is hot, but Jules dismisses their advice. She believes things will always be as they are.
    This is how it is when you’re young, Minnow. You have no sense of the temporary nature of opportunity, the temporary nature of everything, in fact. You think it’s all going to last forever.
    Jules talks about her time in London, her dinners with movie stars, her interviews and auditions. Hearing about it all makes me feel that I am missing my chance, that life is passing me by. I want to be out there in the world, too. I want to prove something to my family, to show my father he’s wrong about me. I want to have a big life like Jules and Gabriel.
    But then you begin to cry and she hands you back to me. Your sweet baby scent is like a balm. The rush of love I feel reminds me of what’s important.
    The premiere for Conspiracy is on a Tuesday night. I’m on the schedule to work Tuesdays, but swap with Sofia. Jules is going early to do interviews. She says she’ll leave my name on a guest list at the door and that I should meet her inside.
    I’d love to buy something new to wear, but even if I had the money I wouldn’t know what to buy. On the day of the premiere, I put you in your carriage and we take the subway downtown to a thrift store on East Fifth Street. I’ve gotten the hang of it now, carrying you in the stroller down the steep stairs. Sometimes someone offers to help, but they hold their end at the wrong angle or move too quickly. It’s easier just to do it myself.
    At the thrift store, the clothing is piled up so high you can see it mashed up against the front window from the street. I’ve been coming here for years. You have to plow through the piles. It’s a treasure hunt. In the fifteen-dollar pile, I find a black velvet dress with spaghetti straps and little velvet balls that hang from the top of the bodice. I think it’s from the sixties. It’s lined in satin, not like the cheap stretchy velvet you get now. I hold it up against me. It looks about right.
    â€œThat’s a cool dress,” the punk girl behind the counter says.
    I look over at you, bundled up in your carriage, stationary as a sack of flour. I pay for the dress, and the girl hands it back to me in a plain plastic bag. I hope it fits. Most of my baby weight has gone, but I’m not the skinny girl I used to be. At the last minute I decide to dye my hair, too, and pick up a box of Clairol Medium Summer Blonde at the drugstore.
    The dress is a total score. It’s tight up and down. I just hope the zipper holds because I’m bursting out of it, and it’s an old zipper.
    The hair dyeing is less