Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells Read Free Book Online

Mama never been a star to begin with? Somewhere guilt developed whenever I seemed to eclipse Mama in any little way. Even winning a spelling bee made me worry, because I never trusted that I could shine without obliterating her.
    I did not understand then that my mother lived in a world that could not or would not acknowledge her radiance, her pull on the earth—at least not as much as she needed. So she made up her own solar system with the other Ya-Yas and lived in its orbit as fully as she could.
    My father was not included in this orbit, not really. All the Ya-Ya husbands existed in a separate universe from the Ya-Yas and us kids. In our summer world at Spring Creek, we plotted against the men, made fun of them, listened to our mothers as they did imitations of our fathers around the campfire. We watched them treat our fathers like bosses orfools or sometimes sweethearts. But we did not watch the Ya-Yas treat their men like they were friends.
    Perhaps Mama, more than Necie, Caro, or Teensy, depended on her girlfriends to give her what her marriage did not or could not. I do not doubt, for all their problems, that my mother loved my father, in her way, and that Father, in his way, loved her. It’s just that the ways I saw them loving each other left me terrified.
    Much of the Ya-Yas’ time on the creekbank was spent chatting, dozing, reapplying their sun-grabbing tincture, and keeping an eye on us. They took turns being responsible for watching us as we splashed, dove, cannonballed, jackknifed, dunked, kicked, floated, and fought in the creek water. The Ya-Ya who was on watch could only keep one foot in the conversation because she had to concentrate on how many heads were visible in the creek. Altogether, there were sixteen of us Petites Ya-Yas. Necie had seven kids; Caro had three—all boys. Teensy had a boy and girl. And then there were the four of us. Every half hour, the Ya-Ya in charge would stand up, look out at the water, and blow a whistle hanging from an old costume jewelry necklace. At the sound of the whistle, we immediately had to stop whatever we were doing and count off.
    Each of the Petites Ya-Yas had an assigned number, and the Ya-Ya on watch would listen for our voices as we called them out. Once we were all accounted for, we could resume our playing, and that Ya-Ya, her half-hourly job done, could settle down on the blanket. Although the ladies did not stop drinking while they were on lookout, it must be said that not one of us Petites Ya-Yas drowned during all those endless summer days spent on the creek.
    At least twice a summer, Mama would make one of us pretend to be drowning in Spring Creek so she could practice her rescue technique. Mama learned how to rescue drowningpeople long before we were born. She got recertified by the Red Cross every three years, but proclaimed it her responsibility to test herself every single summer. We begged and screamed and fought to be the drowning victim. We loved the special attention.
    Basically, what you had to do was swim to the deep end and bob up and down in a panic, flailing your arms and screaming like you were about to take your last breath before sinking.
    Mama would be up on the creekbank as planned. She’d be wearing her shorts and camp blouse over her swimsuit, and as soon as she heard your screams, she’d raise her hands to her eyes to block the glare. Then she’d scan the horizon like an Indian princess, and spot you. Even as she was searching, she’d start ripping off her blouse and shorts, and kicking off her tennis shoes. Then she’d run to the edge of the creekbank and plunge into the water, employing one of her famous shallow lifeguard dives. At the sight of Mama’s leap, you would quiet down a little and watch her swim, fast and sure, to the spot where you were drowning.
    When she’d reach you, she’d shout, “Flail more! Dahlin! Flail more!” And you’d flap your arms harder and kick and scream with increased vigor. Then, with