“I hope you get the job,” he whispered.
When he kissed me goodbye, his lips were soft on my cheek, making me curious to know how his mouth would feel on mine. Imagining our kiss, my heart beat faster, like it did the first time I read A Room with a View. I tore through scenes, waiting for George and Lucy—who were so right for each other—to confess their unbridled love and embrace in a deserted piazza. I wished I could flip the pages of my life faster, to know if I’d see Paul again.
I moved to the window and watched him hurry down the street.
Behind me, I heard the glug-glug-glug of Papa pouring a digestif. Sunday lunch was the one time each week that he and Maman indulged themselves in the dark memories of the Great War. After a few sips, she reverently recited names of neighbors who’d been killed, as if each were a bead on her rosary. To Papa, the battles his regiment won seemed like defeats because so many of his fellow soldiers had died.
Rémy joined me at the window, where he picked at Maman’s fern. “We scared off another suitor,” he said.
“You mean Papa did.”
“He drives me mad. He’s so narrow-minded. He has no clue about what’s happening.”
I always sided with Rémy, but this once, I hoped that Papa was right. “Did you mean what you said… about war?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Hard times are coming.”
Hard Times. 823. British literature.
“Civilians are dying in Spain. Jews are being persecuted in Germany,” he continued, frowning at the frond held between his fingers, “and I’m stuck in class.”
“You’re publishing articles that raise awareness about the plight of refugees. You organized a clothing drive for them, and got the whole family involved. I’m proud of you.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Right now, you need to focus on your classes. You were at the top of your class; now you’ll be lucky to graduate.”
“I’m sick of studying theoretical court cases. People need help now. Politicians aren’t acting. I can’t just sit home. Someone has to do something.”
“You need to graduate.”
“A degree won’t make a difference.”
“Papa’s not entirely wrong,” I said gently. “You should finish what you start.”
“I’m trying to tell you—”
“Please tell me you haven’t done anything rash.” He’d donated his savings to a legal fund for refugees. Without telling Maman, he’d given the food in our pantry to the poor, down to the last speck of flour. She and I had rushed to the market to get dinner on the table before Papa arrived home so he wouldn’t find out and scold Rémy.
“You used to understand.” He strode to his room and slammed the door.
I flinched at his accusation. I wanted to yell that he never used to be so impetuous but knew that fighting would lead nowhere. When he calmed down, I would try again. For now, I wanted to forget Papa and Paul and even Rémy. Hard Times. I drew the book from my shelf.
CHAPTER 4
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, JANUARY 1984
DAD AND I hovered at the side of Mom’s hospital bed. She tried to smile, but her mouth just quivered. The color had gone from her lips, and she blinked in slow motion. Around her, machines beeped. Why hadn’t I gone straight home after school? Maybe if I had, Mom wouldn’t be here now.
I closed my eyes and took her away from the bowl of half-eaten green Jell-O, away from the sterile hospital stink, to the lake. Inhaling the marshy scent, she and I tramped around, her face flushed from the warmth of the sun. She noticed something in the grass. Moving closer, we found a copse of Coors cans. She pulled a plastic sack from the pocket of her windbreaker and picked them up. Wanting to just enjoy the moment, I said, “Come on, Mom. Forget the trash,” but she ignored me. It was important for her to leave a place better than we found it.
Dr. Stanchfield brought me back. He’d come to translate the specialist’s diagnosis: the EKG showed that Mom had had several silent heart attacks, which had caused extensive damage. I didn’t know how we’d traveled from Mom insisting she just had trouble catching her breath to heart attacks. It seemed like a long stretch of road with no warning signs, no “Falling Rock,” no “Dangerous Crosswinds.” How did we get here? And how long would Mom have to stay?
* * *
FOR SUPPER, DAD heated Salisbury steak frozen dinners and set up TV trays. He said it was so we could watch the news, but I knew it was so that Graham Brewster, the grandfatherly anchor, would do the talking for us. Tonight, he interviewed a member of the Union of Concerned Scientists about what would happen in the event of a nuclear war.
“Is Mom getting better?” I asked Dad.
“I don’t know. She seems less tired.”
More than 225 tons of smoke would spew into the air, said the MIT physicist.
“When will she be home?”
“I wish we knew, hon, but Stanch didn’t say. Real soon, I hope.”
The smoke would black out the sun, triggering an ice age.
“I’m scared.”
“Eat something,” Dad said.
No matter how bad things are now, the scientist concluded, they can always get worse.
I moved the meat around with my fork. My belly had stiffened into a boulder, and it beat long and slow, like a confused heart.
After dinner, Dad disappeared into the den. I twirled the telephone cord around my finger and called Mary Louise. The line was busy. If her sister Angel wasn’t on a date, she was on the phone. I glanced around to make sure Dad wasn’t nearby before dialing 5896. Please let Robby be home. “Hello,” he answered. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I wished I could talk to him but didn’t know how. I eased the receiver onto the cradle but didn’t let go right away—his voice, deep and velvety, made me feel less lonesome.
At my bedroom window, I stared up at the full moon. It stared back. The wind snatched at the brittle branches. When I was little and scared of a storm, Mom had pretended that my bed was a boat and that the gusts were waves, the sea slicing to and fro over our lawn, taking us to a faraway land. Without her, the wind was just the wind, howling past on its way to somewhere better.
* * *
TEN DAYS LATER, when Mom came home, she sank onto the bed. Dad prepared a cup of chamomile tea. I lay beside her under the lemon-yellow afghan. She smelled of Ivory soap. Icicles dangled from the roof. Snow tight-roped the telephone lines. The big sky was blue, our world white.
“We’re lucky today.” She gestured toward the window. “Plenty of hawks.”
Sometimes they glided high over the pasture across the street. Sometimes they flew low, searching for mice. Mom said bird-watching was better than TV.
“When I was pregnant, your dad and I cuddled on the window seat and watched robins. I loved their bright breasts, a sure sign of spring, but he didn’t like the way they slurped down worms. ‘Think of it as spaghetti,’ I told him.”
“Ew!”
“You were almost a Robin. After you were born, I told the nurse that was your name, though I knew your dad preferred Lily, because lily of the valley was in bloom when we bought the house. Then I saw you with him, your fingers clasped around his pinkie. They reminded me of the tiny flowers. He leaned down and kissed your belly. The way he looked at you… with such love—I changed my mind.” She told the story often, but today for some reason, she added: “When Dad works, it’s not for himself. He wants us to feel secure. He was poor growing up. Deep down, he’s scared he could lose everything. Do you understand?”
“Kind of.”
“People are awkward, they don’t always know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts.”
People are awkward. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts. What did she mean? Something about herself? Or Dad? I heard Mary Louise’s mom say that my dad took himself for a Wall Street stockbroker and that he liked money more than people.
“Dad’s g
one an awful lot,” I said.
“Oh, honey, what a pity that babies don’t have memories of how they were cherished. Your dad held you all night long.”
He was an eagle, she said, calm and brave. I’d learned about eagles—both the male and female take turns sitting on the eggs.
“Humans have families,” she continued, “but what about geese?”
I shrugged.
“We say a gaggle of geese.”
“How about sparrows?”
“A host of sparrows.”
“Hawks?”
“A cast.”
Like a bird TV show. I giggled.
“Do you know what they call a group of ravens? An unkindness of ravens.”
It sounded too silly to be true. I scoured her face for the truth, but she seemed serious. “What about crows?”
“A murder of crows.”
“A murder of crows,” I repeated.
It felt like the good old days, back when everything was okay. I hugged her tight, so tight, wishing everything could be like this always. Us, together on the big brass bed, warm inside.
* * *
IN THE MORNING, Dad and I lingered at the kitchen counter with Mom. He said it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a day of school.
“I don’t need babysitters!” Mom said.
“Stanch said you should still be in the hospital,” Dad replied.
We ate our bacon and eggs in silence. The minute we finished, she pushed us out the door. At school, all I could think of was her—at least in the hospital, she hadn’t been alone. In the middle of math, Tiffany Ivers kicked my chair. “Hey, spaz,” she said. “Mr. Goodan asked you a question.” I lifted my head, but he’d moved on. When the last bell rang, I rushed home. From outside, I could see my parents on the window seat. I went around to the back door, entering quietly through the kitchen.
“Stanch suggested getting a nurse’s aide,” I heard him say.
“For heaven’s sake! I’m fine.”
“Would it hurt to have some help around the house? I think Lily would breathe easier.”
He was right, I would.
“Who would you ask?” Mom asked.
“Sue Bob?”
My ears perked up even more when I heard Mary Louise’s mother’s name.
“I don’t want friends to see me like this,” Mom said.
“Just an idea,” Dad backtracked.
Maybe Mrs. Gustafson could help. I knocked on her door. This time I waited for her to answer.
“Mom’s still sick,” I told her.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And we need some help around the house, so she doesn’t overdo. Could you—”
“Lil?” I heard Dad say behind me. “What are you doing? We should get back to your mom.”
“I suppose I could help out,” Mrs. Gustafson said.
“No need,” Dad said. “We’ll manage.”
She looked from him to me. “Let me make dinner. I’ll just gather a few ingredients.” She went inside and came back with an armful of vegetables and a carton of cream.
At our kitchen counter, she peeled potatoes so finely that the skins were see-through.
“What are you making?”
“Leek-and-potato soup.”
“What’s a leek?”
“In eastern Montana, a most neglected vegetable.”
She cut off the curly roots before splitting its slender white body. It smelled like a meek onion. She sliced the leek and scraped the pieces into the pan, where they basked in bubbling butter while the potatoes boiled. Then she pureed the leeks and potatoes in the blender before adding a dollop of cream and pouring the white soup into bowls.
“Supper’s ready,” I called.
Dad walked beside Mom, his hands hovering near her waist like a hospital orderly. Before, I’d rolled my eyes when my parents kissed, but now I wished they could go back to the touchy-feely way they used to be.
After we said grace, I hunched over my bowl and shoved a spoonful into my mouth. The soup felt silky good. I wanted to eat fast, but it was hot.
“Soup teaches patience,” Mrs. Gustafson said. Her back was straight as she brought the spoon to her mouth. I stretched my spine taller.
“Delicious,” Mom said.
“It was my son’s favorite.” The light in Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes momentarily dimmed. “It takes just a few ingredients to make a healthy meal, yet industrial food companies have Americans convinced there’s no time to cook. You eat bland soup from a can, even though leeks browned with butter taste like heaven.
“Going without has made me more appreciative. During the war, my mother missed sugar more than anything, but I missed butter.”
“So food was hard to come by?” Dad said.
“Good food was. I’m not sure which ‘war delicacy’ was worse—baguettes baked with wood chips because there was a shortage of flour, or a tasteless soup made of only water and rutabagas. Endless lines for meat, dairy, fruits, and most vegetables, but vendors couldn’t give rutabagas away. And when I came to Montana, do you know what my mother-in-law put in every one of her stews? Rutabagas!”
We laughed. She made us laugh as she talked about this and that, giving us a break from the unnatural quiet that had descended on our family. When she rose to leave, Mom said, “Thank you, Odile.”
Our neighbor looked surprised. I wondered if it was because she wasn’t used to hearing her given name. Finally, she said, “My pleasure.”
* * *
WHEN MARY LOUISE and I got home from school, we could hear laughter coming from my parents’ bedroom. Odile had kicked off her high heels and moved the rocking chair closer to the bed. Mom’s hair had been freshly washed and curled, and she wore the same brick-red lipstick as Odile. She was beautiful.
“What’s so funny?” Mary Louise asked Mom.
“Odile was telling me her in-laws had trouble pronouncing her name.”
“They called me ‘Ordeal’!”
“Marriage: for better or worse, and however loony the in-laws are,” Mom said, and they both laughed.
As Mary Louise and I went to my room to study, we heard Mom ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you and your husband meet?”
“At a hospital in Paris. In those days, an enlisted man had to ask his superior’s permission to marry. When Buck’s said no, he challenged the major to a game of cribbage—if he won, we could marry, if he lost, he had to clean bedpans for a month.”
“He was determined!”
Their words became whispers, so Mary Louise and I moved closer to the door.
“He didn’t tell me,” Odile continued, “and when I arrived, there was a scandal. I wanted to return to France but had no money for a return ticket. I thought people would forgive… Not that I needed their forgiveness!”
“What scandal?” Mary Louise whispered. “Was she one of those cancan dancers? Is that why people don’t talk to her?”
“She doesn’t talk to them,” I huffed.
* * *
MOM HIBERNATED THE winter away. After school, I lay down beside her and told her about my day. She nodded but didn’t open her eyes. Dad stayed close, ready with chamomile in her favorite china cup. Dr. Stanchfield prescribed more pills, but Mom didn’t feel better.
“Why can’t she get up?” Dad asked him. We three lingered at the front door. “Even the smallest effort tires her.”
“There’s been too much damage to the heart,” Stanch said. “She doesn’t have much time left.”
“Months?” Dad asked.
“Weeks,” Stanch replied.
Dad put his arms around me as the truth closed in.
* * *
MY PARENTS INSISTED that school was too important to miss, but Dad took a leave of absence from work and watched over Mom, never leaving her side.
“You’re suffocating me!” I heard her tell him. They’d never fought, but now he couldn’t seem to do anything right. When she got riled, she had trouble catching her breath
. Scared to make things worse, he went back to work, slipping out at sunrise and returning after dark. Not wanting to disturb her, he slept on the couch. At night, when the house was quiet, I heard Mom moan. Every scrape of her breath, every cough, every sigh scared me. Huddled in bed, I was afraid to go see if she was okay.
After I told Odile about Mom’s raspy breathing, I felt better. Odile knew what to do. She even moved a cot next to Mom’s bed so she could spend the night. When Mom protested, Odile assured her that it was no trouble. “I slept with dozens of soldiers.”
“Odile!” Mom exclaimed, her gaze twitching toward me.
“Next to them in the hospital ward, during the war.”
At 9:00 p.m., the back door creaked. Dad coming home. Odile crept from the cot to the kitchen. Tiptoeing behind her, I plastered myself to the paneling in the hall.
“Your wife needs you; so does your daughter,” Odile said.
“Brenda says seeing me so miserable makes her feel like she’s already dead.”
“That’s why she won’t let friends visit?”
“She can’t stand the tears, even if they’re for her. She doesn’t want pity. I wanted to be there for her, but now I figure it’s best to give her the distance she wants.”
“You don’t want to have any regrets.” Mrs. Gustafson’s tone had turned from tart to tender. Like a mom’s.
“If only it were up to me.”
Down the hall, Mom coughed. Was she awake? Did she need me? I rushed to her room. Suddenly scared, I stopped at the foot of the bed. Behind me, Dad said, “Brenda, honey?”
Odile nudged me toward Mom, but I resisted, my shoulder blades pushing against her palms. Mom reached out. I was scared to take her hand, I was scared not to. She hugged me, but I stayed stiff in her arms.
“There’s so little time,” she said, her words whispery, “too little time. Be brave…”
I tried to say I would, but fear stole my voice. After a long moment, she pushed my body from hers and looked at me. Trapped in Mom’s mournful stare, I remembered things she’d said: Babies sleep through the love. A gaggle of geese, a murder of crows. People are awkward, they don’t know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them; we never know what’s in their hearts. I wanted you to be Robin but you’re Lily. Oh, Lily.
The Paris Library Page 4