Chapter 4: Introductions
She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life. –Guy Mannering
The nine miles into town seemed to take an eternity. We finally arrived at Alfredo’s and tumbled out of the car, breathing in the fresh air.
Finding a table for eight people was another challenge. Our happy family outing turned into a disaster, fast. We had to wait almost fifteen minutes before they prepared a table large enough for us, and then seating arrangements were hammered out. I sat across from Erika, where I could keep my eyes on her, just in case.
When we finally agreed on what we were going to order – that is, what we could afford to order – we all lapsed into an awkward silence. Nobody knew what to say to each other.
“Margaret, pass the napkins,” said Mom.
Margaret and I reached for the napkins. She withdrew first. I could tell that this was going to be a problem.
“Should we tell them?” asked Roger, nudging Mom.
She smiled at him and dropped a nod.
I hoped they weren’t pregnant already! Six kids was already too many.
Roger looked pleased with himself, but also a little bit uncomfortable. “Your mom and I have decided to adopt you,” he said, looking at us, the Original Four.
“Why?” asked Peter. “We already belong to her.”
“Yes, but you all have different fathers.”
“Matt and I don’t,” I said.
“Well, no, but the others do. And you all have different last names. I’d like to adopt you and make you all Shentons. What do you think?”
We looked at each other. Did it matter what our last name was? And did they really care what we thought, anyway? Adults usually did what pleased them; our opinion was just a formality.
“Peter Shenton. I like how it sounds.” Peter smiled at Roger. I rolled my eyes.
“What does it mean?” asked Becky, who was always looking for new names for her dolls.
“It’s a good last name; it means ‘dweller at a beautiful farm.’ And we do have a beautiful farm, now.”
“Oh. Never mind.” Becky chewed her ice cubes and made patterns on the table with the water. She was too young to understand the implications, anyway.
“What about the rest of you?”
Matt shrugged.
Roger looked at me. “Well?”
I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t care. But what about Margaret and me? We’ll have the same name. Margaret Shenton.”
“We thought of that,” said Mom, “and we have a solution. We’ll just call her by her middle name.”
Margaret squeaked. “You can’t do that!”
Roger frowned. “Why not, honey? You’ll adjust.”
Her lips trembled. “Someone found out what my middle name was last year, and they always make fun of me now,” she whispered.
I turned to her. “What is your middle name?”
“Sarilla,” she replied. “They call me Sarilla Gorilla.”
I almost choked in laughter, but I caught myself in time.
Mom glared at me. “So we go to your middle name, then.”
It was my turn to be shocked. “That’s not fair! I like being Margaret. It’s my name, too!”
“Well, we can’t have two. It’s too confusing. Look at the trouble it’s caused already.” She knew I was getting ready to argue, and she held up her hand. “We’ll call you Beverly. It’s settled.”
I slumped back in my seat, defeated. They continued to talk but I blocked them out. My expectations of our new family were rapidly disintegrating, and there was nothing I could do about it. Erika hated me, Mom’s present was completely impersonal – a signal that she had ignored me yet again – and now Margaret stole my name. The world was against me.
Not only that, but I hated the name Beverly. Margaret, at least, was a character in my favorite book, Little Women. But Beverly was an old woman’s name!
I excused myself for a quick bathroom break. On the way there, I recognized the waitress, one of the girls from last year’s choir. “Hello, Jessica.”
“Hey, Margaret. What’s up?”
“I didn’t know you worked here. Something different with your hair?”
“Dye job,” she gushed, wiping a table with a gray washcloth. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you all summer.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “You ready for school?”
“No, but is anybody ever?” She pointed over at my booth. “Who are they?”
I stared at my mix-and-match family, unsure of how to begin. A tempting, wicked thought entered my mind. I decided to introduce my family in an honest, straightforward manner.
I pointed to my mother. “Well, you know my mom, I think.” I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “It’s her fourth marriage…” I raised my voice. “… and this is my new stepfather Roger.” Another whisper: “We’ll see how long he sticks around, hmm?”
Jessica’s smile began to fade at my disrespectful manner, but I continued. “You know my twin brother, Matt, who everybody thinks is my boyfriend because we don’t even look related. And this is Peter, my little brother, except that he’s my half-brother. And Becky, my half-sister, and she’s even half to Peter.”
I waited for Jessica to come to the conclusion that Becky was, therefore, only a quarter human, but Jessica really seemed confused.
“My new stepsister Erika, who hates my mother, and my other stepsister Margaret,” I pointed. “Oh, and since her name is Margaret and my name is Margaret, you’re going to have to call me Beverly.”
Jessica stared at me, her face blank. “Why?”
“Well, Margaret’s middle name is Sarilla, which rhymes with Gorilla, so that’s what the kids at school call her. Sarilla Gorilla. So we’ll use my middle name: Beverly. It means ‘Meadow of Beavers.’ Other girls get to be ‘Pearl of Beauty’ or ‘Flower of Joy’ but I got stuck with ‘beavers.’ Not that it matters – it’s just temporary...”
Jessica gulped. “Okay. Well. I have to get back to the kitchen. See you in school on Monday, Margaret.”
“It’s Beverly now.”
“Whatever.” She fled.
In the bathroom, I thought of plenty of good reasons why we should keep my name and change the other Margaret’s. I rehearsed in the mirror, knowing Mom would cut me off if she didn’t like what I had to say. When I was ready, I returned to the table, only to be greeted by a chorus of, “Welcome back, Beverly.” Obviously, they had been rehearsing.
“It’s not Beverly,” I began. “Let me explain a few things.”
“Not now, Beverly,” said Mom. “Margaret keeps her name. No more.”
“But, Mom-”
“Not tonight,” said Mom, and her icy cold glare told me “not ever.”
So. That was it. Without further discussion, I was stripped of my name.
I fuzzed out of the conversation and stared at my fork, drifting into the comforting world of my daydreams. To be honest, I have often wished I could actually live in my daydreams. They follow logical rules, and they’re always in my favor. Sometimes I dreamed about the typical “normal” middle class life – whatever “normal” in today’s world could be – and I had three kids, two cars, a loving husband, and a two-story house.
Wait. Make that a miniature castle, or at least a house designed to look like a castle. That’s it. A place where I could be a princess. A queen, really, and my doting husband would be a British man who I met at a Renaissance festival. After we were married, he would find out that he was distantly related to some Earl or Duke who had no direct heirs left, and he alone was the sole recipient of an immense fortune… I smiled in my daydream as I imagined my beloved riding up in his white mustang (the modern version of a knight in shining armor, you know) and saying to me, “We will live happily ever after, Margaret, my love. I mean Beverly. That is to say… whatever…”
My precious daydream was shattered
by the bleak reality of my name loss. That was always a problem: how to mix reality and dreams. I knew it was possible. It had to be! I desperately tried to regain the warm feelings from my imagined scenario, but they were lost. I jabbed my fork into my steak and used my knife to express my frustrations, carving my meat with excessive energy.
My furious sawing actions drew the typical disapproving eyebrow from Mom. “Is there a problem?” she asked, and we both knew she wasn’t referring to the steak.
“No, ma’am,” I muttered.
No problem at all. I had just lost my name, my very identity. I was now a stranger in my own family.