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would conclude her swim by coming back to the shallow end, where the sandbar beach was. She’d emerge from the water, shake her head, and jump on one foot to shake the water out of her ear. Then she’d do the same on the other side. I marveled at her beauty, all wet and cool, her hair slicked back, her eyes shining, proud of her strength.
    Mama and the Ya-Yas carried a big red ice chest down to the creek with them every day. The old tin kind with a lid that snapped off. Inside were chunks of ice chipped off large blocks of ice that we’d buy at the Spring Creek Shop and Skate, the local grocery and roller rink across the road from the creek.
    That ice kept their beer and our Cokes cold. On top of the beer and Cokes were our ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. The crusts were cut off the sandwiches for the four of us, who wouldn’t touch bread if the crust was left on. Paper napkins sat on top of the sandwiches,and when we opened the chest and lifted them out, they had a papery, powdery coolness that disappeared instantly, so we would quickly raise them to our cheeks as soon as we could in order to savor the chilly darkness of the ice chest.
    Mama still drank beer when we were little. It was not until I was a teenager that she gave up beer altogether because it was too fattening. But even back then, when we were little, Mama would often forgo a beer in favor of a vodka and grapefruit juice, which she kept in a squat aqua-and-white thermos. Across the front of the little thermos she had written with a freezer pen: RE-VIVI-FICATION TONIC . She described the concoction as “a cocktail and diet aid rolled into one.”
    Mama and the Ya-Yas were always using different plays on my mother’s name. If Teensy walked into a party that lacked pizzazz, she might announce, “This party needs to be Vivi-fied .” Sometimes they declared things to be “Re-Vivi-fication projects,” like the time Mama and Necie redesigned the uniforms of my Girl Scout troop.
    When I was young, I thought my mother was so internationally well known that the English language had invented words just for her. As a child, I would turn to the skinny “V” section of Webster’s and study the many words that referred to Mama. There was “vivid,” which meant “full of life; bright; intense.” And “vivify,” which meant “to give life or to make more lively.” There were “vivace,” “viva,” “vivacious,” “vivacity,” “vivarium,” and “viva voce.” Mama was the source of all these words. She was also the reason for the phrase “Vive le roi” (which she told us meant “Long live Vivi the Queen!”). All these definitions had to do with life, like Mama herself.
    It was the word “vivisection” that baffled me: “A surgical operation performed on a living animal to study the structure and function of living organs and parts.” It seemed tocome out of left field. Its very sound gave me chills. I constantly asked Mama to explain it, but I was never satisfied.
    Ever on the lookout for any words that might refer to me, I would paw through any dictionary I could get my hands on. There had to be at least one word that concerned me . At least a “Siddafy,” like “Vivify.” But the closest I could find was “sissified.”
    It was not until I was in second or third grade that my friend M’lain Chauvin told me that Mama had nothing to do with those words in the dictionary. We got into a fight about it and Sister Henry Ruth intervened. When the nun confirmed M’lain’s claim, I was heartbroken at first. It changed my whole perception of reality. It began the unraveling of unquestioned belief that the world revolved around Mama. But along with my disappointment came a profound relief, although I could not admit it at the time.
    I thought my mother was a star for so many years that when I found out she wasn’t, I was stupefied. Had she once been a star and her bright burning had dimmed? Maybe because she had us? Or had