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Overview
Equal parts investigative and deeply introspective,
The Wreck is a profound memoir about recognizing the echoes of history within ourselves, and the alchemy of turning inherited grief into renewal.
There is a secret that young Cassandra Jackson doesn’t know, and it’s evident in the way her father cries her name out in his sleep. Through awkward encounters with family, she comes to realize that she is named after her father's niece, and looks eerily like the child’s mother, both of whom were killed in a car wreck along with her father's beloved mother, and—as she soon discovers—his first wife. Cassandra learns to keep silent about the wreck, but soon learns there is no way to outpace the claw-like grip of her family’s past trauma.
In this luminous memoir, Jackson attempts to unearth her lost family, while also creating a new one—only to discover little progress separates the past from the present. As she moves back and forth between her girlhood and her journey to motherhood, Jackson reveals the chilling parallels between the harrowing inhumanity of Jim Crow medical care and the toxic discrimination that undergirds healthcare in the United States today. But as she traces the cascading effects of loss punctuated by racism, she also discovers a powerful legacy of fearless love and furious perseverance that she hopes to extend to a new generation.
Lyrical, urgent, and wise, this is an unforgettable story of reclaiming the past to reclaim ourselves.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593490020 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2023 |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Sales rank: | 662,546 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.80(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
My father knocks on the door of a house, and when the door opens, he waves for me and my mother to get out of the car. We hesitate for a moment. The house we're parked outside of looks more like a trailer whose wheels have been stolen than someone's home. But we walk across the patchy yard, go up a few steps, and follow him into a dim living room with bumpy linoleum floors and air thick with the smell of Noxzema and fried pork chops.
An old brown woman walks up to me and points. "This the baby?"
My father nods, but I am not a baby. I am five years old.
The old woman tries to smile, but the edges of her brown lips refuse to turn all the way up. Her eyes dart across my ashy knees, my long noodle arms, and the hook nose that is way too big for my narrow face. I already know what she will say-the same thing the last two old ladies we visited today did.
"Humph . . . She just like 'em. Ain't she?" The old woman shakes her head and goes into the kitchen while we sit down. She comes back with a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of icy red Kool-Aid. She puts both on the table in front of me and nods for me to eat.
I have to take a bite, even though the last old lady, the one who cracked her neck when she looked at me, already gave me sugar cookies and lemonade, and the tall one before her who whistled when she said my name gave me a dish of homemade caramels.
I press a fork into the cake and it gives like warm pudding. I put a small piece in my mouth. Now the old lady's eyes watch my throat to make sure that I swallow. I know what she is doing. She wants to make sure that I am a real girl who eats and not a ghost. One time, when we visited another old lady in the country, I didn't eat or drink anything, and she started telling my parents to watch out for ghosts that she called "haints," who slip out of their graves and into new bodies. My mother began to nod her head like she always does when old people are talking. But then she stopped. My father told that lady that there's no such thing as ghosts. And later in the car, my mother said the same thing to me. You know that's just old people's nonsense, right? I nodded, but I do not know this for sure. Some of the old ladies we visit talk about bad hips and gas prices and those are real.
I hold the sweet chocolate in my mouth for as long as I can without swallowing and watch the old lady trying to pay attention to my father and keep an eye on me at the same time. He asks her questions about how other old people are doing, and if that storm that came through last week did much damage out here in the country. The lady tells him who died and who is about to die. My mother says that's a shame and when the old lady looks at her and moans "mm-hmm," I swallow the cake.
My father lets out a long "well" that means it is time to go.
The old lady says that it is too soon for us to leave, we just got here. But my father, who cannot bear to sit in anyone else's house for very long, stands up and says we have to be getting on back down the road 'cause we have a drive ahead of us.
The old lady turns to me with yellowing eyes and her mouth opens, but no words come out. I pick up the glass of Kool-Aid and watch a shiver pass through the old lady's body. I fill myself with sugary redness. When I put the glass down, she smiles at me for the first time since we arrived.
We all file out of the house with the old lady trailing behind, saying she can't remember the last time she saw us and that we need to visit more often because she's old and will be dead before we know it. I worry that she will try to hug me and her old lady smell will turn my full stomach. But when I turn around to say goodbye, she squints and shakes her head at me like I have given her bad news.
"That's something ain't it? That she could look that much like Maggie 'nem."
We get in our car and wave as we pull away. We are done visiting today and I do not know when my father will pick another Sunday afternoon and say, Let's take a ride to the country. Sometimes we travel out here every few weeks and other times months pass before we drive this way again. I do not know if we will see the same old ladies or other ones because I do not know which ones are cousins, which ones are friends, or which ones will die before we return. All I know is that when my father says, "Let's take a ride," my eighteen-year-old sister and my sixteen-year-old brother, who both know how to drive their own cars, will have somewhere else to go and I will climb into the green Oldsmobile and ride for a while, so that an old lady the color of pennies or pine cones or margarine can stare into my face again.
Today, my father drives most of the way home in silence while my mother talks about which old ladies looked sick and which ones looked well. Tired and full, I close my eyes in the back seat until I hear my mother ask my father, "Which one does she look like, your mama or your sister?"
I open my eyes and see my mother frowning at me like I am fruit that is starting to go bad.
"Mostly like Maggie, but Maggie looked like Mama. San looked different, you know, 'cause of all that red hair. But she had big eyes too, just like them," he says.
"So she kind of looks like all of them?" my mother says.
"Yeah. Just like them," he says.
Experiment Number One: In the kitchen, I crack a brown egg and shift the yolk from one half of the shell to the other, letting the clear thick snot of the white stream into a bowl. I suck the goo up with a yellow medicine dropper that looks like a shrunken turkey baster. I carry the full dropper to my bedroom, where I lie down next to my husband, Reginald, and insert the albumen of a chicken egg into my vagina. I feel the slime sliding back out even before I can squeeze the last bit of liquid out of the dropper.
"I think we better hurry," I say.
I am thirty-six years old, and I have been trying to get pregnant for six months. All my reading and research has only alerted me to the fact that at my age, my fertility is plummeting like a drop tower ride at an amusement park, one that falls so fast that the riders' screams hang in the air longer than the ride.
I know that mine is a shit-or-get-off-the pot situation and I am determined to shit. I have spent the last decade in academia, where infertility is the honorary faculty member who never misses a department meeting. The explanation is simple: many women postpone having children to complete PhDs and secure tenure, both of which take many years. Women who have children prior to completing degrees or before publishing enough research to get tenure sometimes lose the support of mentors and colleagues, who perceive them as lacking the necessary commitment to be a scholar. Of course, there are women professors who are childless by choice. Nonetheless, academic hallways are thick with the twin anxieties of research production and human reproduction. At the obligatory dinner parties I attended while in graduate school, I listened to white women debate over frittatas and white wine the best time to have a baby'searching for a moment that won't impair one's ability to finish the PhD or leave one visibly pregnant while on the job market. When I became a professor in a department where most of the women led fulfilling, adult-centered lives, it was impossible to know who had chosen not to have children, whose bodies refused to have them, and whose ambivalence had morphed into medical impossibility. Some of the women joked that while they had not had babies, they had given birth to books. But many of these same women were just a glass of wine and a cheese plate away from disclosing other women's losses: You know she tried, right? Miscarriage. Twice.
I scour infertility blogs and discussion boards and discover tons of women seeking at-home conception solutions, some of them in their kitchens. That's how I discovered that, apparently, egg whites can create the perfect highway for sperm, making their journey as fast and smooth as a high-speed rail. If a woman is not producing enough mucus to get her partner's guys to the target and this hypothetical woman is willing to take the risk of contracting vaginal salmonella, the egg whites could be a cheap and simple solution to infertility. It makes sense, as stupid ideas often do. Numerous women in cyber-land claim that it worked for them, and their avatars are pictures of grinning babies.
None of these blog posts mention that heterosexual sex with egg whites is like a pogo stick race on a bed of Jell-O-bungling and sloppy. When we are done, I must lie in bed for thirty minutes to give the sperm their best chance to complete their journey. My husband runs for a towel, but its absorbency is no match for the sticky mess and we are both laughing at the unexpected tenaciousness of egg whites.
I feel something light, like a balloon rising in my chest. Hope. I stamp it down. I may be foolish enough to lie in bed with egg whites running down my legs, but I don't dare admit that I think this trick could work.
My mother talks in a loud, high-pitched voice to a baby in the arms of his mother, the wife of a new hire at the factory where my father works. They sit on our plaid love seat. I kneel on the plush carpeted floor in front of them to get a close look at the baby's fingers that curl like a doll's. My mother tells the woman to tilt the baby up so he can see me. "Babies like San," she tells the woman. I do not know why she says this. I am nine years old, and I do not have a little brother or sister. I have never held a baby and the ones that I have seen at church scare me with their wobbly heads and screams that go off like stray bombs. I smile at the babies because my mother always grins at them in public and criticizes anyone who fails to do so. Did you see her standing there with her mouth poked out? Some folks so awful they don't even smile at kids. Good people like babies or pretend to, and in turn the babies are supposed to like them back. The woman tilts the baby up so he can see me sitting on the floor, but his eyeballs drift in different directions like Cookie Monster's.
"See," my mother says. "Ain't that something-how they know other kids when they see them."
The woman nods and returns the baby to a resting position in her arms. They talk, and the woman asks my mother questions, like which churches are Baptist and which grocery stores have the best prices on meat. Between answers, my mother leans toward the baby and talks nonsense in her funny baby voice. His face does not react, but he turns his head away from her. This makes my mother laugh and talk to him even louder.
"I bet you looking at me thinking who is this crazy lady here?" she says.
The woman asks to use the bathroom and settles the baby in my mother's arms. My mother continues to talk to the baby, asking him ridiculous questions, until she hears the bathroom door close.
"Watch this," my mother says in a loud whisper. She cradles the baby and presses his head to her breast. He opens his mouth and shakes his head left and right in search of a nipple, but he gets a mouth full of my mother's polyester blouse instead. He shakes his head again. This time he is frantic. His mouth opens wider, searching.
"They all do that when they're little," my mother says.
She turns to the now squirming baby and says, as if she and the baby are arguing, "I don't have any milk for you. I'm not your mama."
The baby's mouth closes and opens into a wide grimace like an angry gargoyle. The cry that comes out makes me want to run.
When the woman returns, she looks confused at the sight of her transformed baby.
My mother hands him to her. "I think he's hungry," she says.
Experiment Number Two: I dig out a disposable menstrual cup still pristine in its plastic wrapper from the bottom of a drawer of tampons and pads. According to a new thread on one of the many infertility discussion boards I visit, I could either insert the cup post-coitus or get my husband to make a direct deposit into the cup and then insert it into my body. I have the flu, so I choose the latter. The idea is to trap the sperm at the opening of the cervix, thereby increasing the chances that one of the swimmers will land and make it to shore. Improbable as this method sounds, I'd heard the occasional claim that a virgin had gotten pregnant by simply lying too close to the one-eyed snake. So why wouldn't trapping sperm near the cervix have a chance at producing a pregnancy?
I hand the cup to Reginald and he turns it over and examines it, laughing before disappearing into the bathroom down the hall.
No one explained exactly how I was supposed to insert the menstrual cup without spilling the precious contents. Never mind that I'd never figured out how to insert the hard, painful contraption even when it was empty.
When he returns with the cup, I look down at the few drops of cloudy liquid in the bottom. "Is that all there is?"