Things were lively at home during the first months of my treatment with Mrs. Weberman. My second sister Esther Matti was about to get married to a broad-shouldered boy with a budding blonde beard whom she had spoken to twice, but who she looked at, in the form of a wallet sized photo, at all hours, especially when she was already in her nightgown and sitting up in bed with the photo album.
My mother plucked a men’s black umbrella from above the shelf of men’s hats and hat plastics, and handed it to me, as a way of instruction. “Why don’t you go pick up the dress that girl Shaina wore at her brother’s wedding? Maybe it would be something that’d look right on you.”