Mary Clearman Blew in The Unwanted Child moves between tenses and point of view a lot in her first few paragraphs. Starting out in a present first person narrative, Blew then moves into using a first-person simple future tense, "If he calls me Mommy again, I will break his glasses...I will kick him right in his obscene fat paunch. I will bury my foot in his disgusting flesh" carrying this until she meets her husband. I also find it interesting that on page 44, she changes tactics and begins to use the word "you." It has a way of projecting herself out on the readers. "When you get married, you can move into married student housing." or distancing the subject out further from herself and you, "All young women in 1958 like sex."
I am sitting on the toilet. I am not actually using it, the lid is down, and I am fully clothed. I'm doubled over on the toilet seat, forehead pressed onto my knees, toes pushing against the blue-diamond tile, arms wrapped across my legs. This rushing feeling builds inside my stomach, perhaps less rushing-- more sloshing, like someone has turned a blender on the sushi and fruit punch Gatorade I ate for lunch, and the chucks of salmon and nori are hitting the lining of my stomach, bouncing like pinballs into my esophagus. I swallow hard.
I will not be concerned that I am fighting vomit on a toilet seat. I will wait here another moment, then place my white flats tossed under the wood-finished cabinets on my feet, slip out the bathroom down the stairs to the front door. I will get in my car and leave, because my sister is waiting for me to pick her up from work. When I leave this place, I will not throw up. Before I leave this place, I will not throw up. I think my stomach swears at me.
I don’t know what it is I see that reminds me of you first. The dusty orange ribbon attached to the carcass of the balloon I got my roommate for her birthday, the tall, yellow-topped container of wipes I left in here so I could wipe the toilet seat before I used it, or the small tube of body shimmer powder—it’s sweet smell dusting and covering the gray holes on top with a white film. It is with these brief glances that I become distracted, forgetting the hummingbirds plastered on the bathroom walls, forgetting the paisley shower curtains—remembering what?
That you’re in Parris Island. Deep breaths, I can feel the rice grains creeping upward, little brown ants with no legs, stalking for an opening. I move, and my elbows press throbbing circles into my thighs. I take two more deep breaths then reach for my shoes. I hate being late.
