“Of course, Arlette understood, this was not a tragedy. Tragedy would be a broken neck or spine. Paralysis for life. A coma.” Illustration by Hokyoung Kim Today, we published a new novella by the longtime New Yorker contributor Joyce Carol Oates. “Evie’s accident with the bike,” they would call it. Or, if a reproach was intended, a hint that Evie had no one but herself to blame for almost getting killed on the Cayuga Bridge and the summer of misery that followed: “Evie’s accident with her bike.” Was it a subtle distinction—the bike, her bike? Arlette, Evie’s mother, took care never to allude to the accident on the bridge in the second way. She never blamed Evie. She was so grateful that her daughter was alive. To think that you almost died, Evie, on that bridge! And we didn’t even know where the hell you were. How could you . . . sneak away like that, without telling me? That had been the hurtful thing. Without telling me. But she didn’t allow Evie to know that. She wasn’t that kind of mother. Support The New Yorker’s award-winning journalism. Subscribe today » |
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