Constance had called her a woman that day and she had been pleased and proud. But now she wished that she were a child again, could be like Anne, who didn’t seem to have such complicated feelings and problems. Even though the night was muggy and warm, Toby crept further under the summer quilt, and it was a long time before she could fall asleep.
14
ON SUNDAY, WHILE SUSAN was still in New Jersey, Nell and Gene Orlando, friends of Toby’s mother, came to take her and Anne out for the day. They were about her mother’s age, but their three children were young, the eldest a year younger than Anne.
They went to Jones Beach and ate a picnic lunch. The Orlandos talked about Toby’s parents, about things they had all done together when they were younger. They spoke about her mother in a matter-of-fact way, about how rough things had been for her after Toby’s father died, and how she had always been a sensitive and fragile person. Toby listened, digging her fingers into the sand until she reached a cold damp place. She was going to ask them if they knew what was happening to her mother now, and what was going to happen next. But then their three-year-old came rushing from the shore, where he had quarreled with his older brother, and he spilled water from his pail and kicked sand on everyone. Nell jumped up to settle things and to brush off the sand. Gene ran toward the ocean to swim, and the moment was lost.
They drove back to Brooklyn Heights to have supper. Nell was an artist, like Toby’s father, and Gene was a poet. Their apartment was crowded with books and papers, paintings and toys, the overflow of their busy lives. It was shockingly different from the house in Queens, with its orderly spareness, its lace doilies on armrests and the backs of chairs.
The children all shared one bedroom. There were bunk beds and a crib, and no room for Anne and Toby to stay over. Toby was glad of that. The children were noisy and distracting. Although she had once liked them very much, had even babysat for them a couple of times, now she felt impatient. This was their old neighborhood, only two blocks from their own house, from her friend Rita’s, four blocks from her former school. Riding through the streets in Gene and Nell’s car, Toby looked out the window and rediscovered the familiar places: the Promenade, where strollers looked for the relief of a summer breeze, borne across the water; Furman Street, where her father had had a studio on the second floor of an old building. She could see the windows of his loft, could just make out moving shadows behind it as they drove past. Strangers there, and in the apartment on Henry Street. It was as if someone else were living their lives.
In the car, baby Alexander sat on Toby’s lap, tugged at her long hair, and tried to chew it. “No,” she told him softly, “that’s not good to eat.” He wouldn’t sit still. He bounced on her lap, reached for her eyes, tugged on her nose, and she couldn’t concentrate on the view from her window. They had driven past her old block before Toby knew it. Anne saw it, though, and said, “Hey, that was our house!” but when Toby swung around to look, with Alexander still attached to her hair, it was too late.
The Orlandos had one bathroom, so they doubled and tripled up for showers. Gene took his first, with the two older boys, and Toby could hear their laughter and shouts reverberating off the tile walls. It sounded as if ten people were taking a shower together. It sounded like fun. When they were finished, Gene went into the kitchen to start supper. Nell and the baby were next. They came out with their hair streaming and left damp, powdery footprints across the floor.
Then it was Toby’s turn, and Anne’s. She hadn’t undressed in front of Anne for a long time, not since they had shared a bedroom. Anne kept staring at Toby with great interest, at the soft swelling of her new breasts, at the darkening pubic hair. “Get in, dummy,” Toby said, and they argued over the temperature of the water and pushed each other out of the path of the shower spray. Anne got soap in her eyes, and Toby had to grope for a towel to wipe them, but finally all the sand and shampoo had swirled down the drain and they were clean.
After supper, Gene asked the girls if they’d like to go for a walk. They took his oldest boy with them, while Nell put the younger ones to bed.
It was the way Toby remembered summer evenings in this neighborhood. People were out walking, mostly in the direction of the water, children played in lamplight, throwing balls and yelling, and jumping out of the way at the last minute when a car came down the street. Teenagers, with arms linked, moved in small flocks, and people sat on stoops and on folding chairs on the sidewalk, fanning themselves and talking.
Gene bought them all lemon ices from a street vender. Toby had had ices in Queens. Sometimes Jim brought it home by the quart. But it had a different taste here, she decided, as she squeezed the small pleated cup, a taste that aroused other memories.
They walked down Montague and Hicks Streets, and came to their old block. “Hey, Tobeee!” someone called, and when she looked around she saw her friend Rita breaking away from a group of girls and running toward her.
“I can’t believe it,” Rita said, and she threw her arms around Toby. “Did you move back?”
“Not yet,” Toby said, surprised at how happy she was to see Rita again. They had been best friends once, but it seemed as if that was a hundred years ago. Now Toby’s best friend was Susan, and Rita and Susan had never met.
“Why didn’t you write to me?” Rita demanded. “You never even gave me your address like you said.”
Of course she hadn’t. That was deliberate on Toby’s part. She didn’t want any link with anyone here who knew all about her mother. “Oh, you know,” Toby said. “You get so busy, with school and everything.”
“School! School’s been out for ages!” She took Toby’s arm and led her back toward her friends. Toby knew all the girls, and they seemed genuinely glad to see her. Anne had found kids she knew, too. Gene and his son were sitting on the steps of a building nearby, eating their ices. He waved at Toby as if to say, We’re here. Take your time.
The girls surrounded her, asking questions. What was school like in Queens? Did she know a kid named Cynthia Segal? She lived in Queens. Did she hear that Miss Jacobs was transferred to the high school? She’d be waiting to get them there in a couple of years. They admired Toby’s shirt, measured themselves against one another, back to back, and decided Toby had grown the most.
They didn’t say one word about her mother, didn’t even ask how she was. And these were some of the girls who had been in the street that night, their faces pink and curious in the revolving light of the ambulance. She wondered if they’d start talking about it the minute she left, if they’d be laughing and saying things about the loony bin and the nuthouse when she couldn’t hear them.
Rita borrowed a pencil and wrote Toby’s address on a scrap of paper. “You’d better write back,” she warned. “And let me know when you’re coming home. I hope we’ll be in the same homeroom again this year.”
They all kissed Toby goodbye, after Gene signaled that they were starting back. She turned at the corner and looked at her friends. They didn’t seem to be laughing, and Rita waved until they were out of sight.
15
SUSAN WAS HOME AGAIN at last. Her grandparents had taken her to Atlantic City for part of her Jersey visit and now she had a wonderful tan. She also had some new clothes and records, and she described dinners in restaurants, and movies she had seen. She was an only grandchild and Susan’s parents referred to her grandparents as The Spoilers.
Toby tried to imagine having grandparents like that. When she announced her own news, about getting her period, Susan was thrilled and envious. For some reason it was important to be first in matters like that, that seemed so mysterious until they happened to you.
But Susan had something else on her mind. She was very worried about her dog. Mrs. Ames had taken him home with her while the Schwamms were away, and when she brought him back, they could see that he had failed even further in that short time. Now he often gasped for breath, his long tongue lolling to one side while he looked up mournfully, as if asking for help. He
still tried to do his tricks, coming up to shake hands or attempting to roll over, eager to please, as if to make up for the puddles he left everywhere.
“Poor old man. Poor little Maxie,” Toby said, stroking his snout, where gray hairs mixed heavily with the brown. He panted and shut his eyes.
“My father says he’s suffering now,” Susan said. Her eyes kept filling with tears and she blinked and wiped them on the sleeve of her T-shirt.
“Maybe he’ll get better soon,” Toby said, but Susan shook her head. “He can’t,” she said. “And my father says...” She couldn’t continue. Her whole face collapsed and the tears came in a torrent. She put her head down on her bed and sobbed.
Toby had never seen her do that before. “Susan?” she said. She knew what Susan was afraid of. They had discussed it once before, after the Schwamms said they would have to take Max to the vet’s and have him put to sleep when it became too difficult for him to go on living. Susan had been furious. “I won’t let them,” she said. “And they shouldn’t call it putting him to sleep, either. It’s killing him.” The Schwamms had been sympathetic but firm. Susan made them promise they’d never do anything without telling her first.
Toby hadn’t known what to say then and she couldn’t think of anything now. There was no real comfort to be offered. She just sat there, hoping Susan would realize how much she cared, how truly sorry she was. She reached across to the night table and pulled out a bunch of Kleenex. When Susan sat up, Toby handed them to her. Susan wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She even tried to smile, a strange little lopsided grin.
“Are you okay?” Toby asked.
Susan nodded. “Yes. I guess so. I opened both faucets wide, didn’t I?”
“That’s all right,” Toby said. “You probably needed to get it all out.” That’s what people usually said when someone cried or yelled. She didn’t really believe it, though. Crying didn’t change anything, did it? Max was still going to die and Susan would still feel terrible about it.
The best thing Toby could think of was to change the subject. “Do you miss camp?” she asked.
“A little bit. Sometimes,” Susan said. “Not the bad parts, like getting up with the chickens every morning, and the food—ugh!” There was a punch they called alligator blood that was served every day with lunch, and meatballs that were rumored to be left over from the summer before. She hated the bugs and the small green snakes that disguised themselves as grass and always surprised her when she walked barefoot. But she loved the campfire songs and having four bunkmates to talk to at night after lights-out. “Maybe next year we can go together,” she said.
Toby could picture it: she and Susan waving from a train window, and their two mothers and Anne standing together on a steamy platform, waving back.
Then Susan’s father came home and Mrs. Schwamm called the girls down for lunch. Being with her always made Toby long for her own mother. A kaleidoscope of scenes rushed through her head as she sat at the table: her mother swimming in the lake in New Hampshire, water falling in silver sheets from her arms, or coming home from work and yelling hello to Anne and Toby, who waited for her at the kitchen window. And those last terrible days when things were out of control, when everything seemed to go wrong at once.
“Don’t you like shrimp salad, Toby?” Mrs. Schwamm asked, and Toby was startled to remember where she was, and to see the uneaten sandwich in front of her. She didn’t even recall how it got there or who had poured the milk next to it, or even opening the napkin that was spread on her lap. Her mother had forgotten things those last days. In the morning, when Toby woke up, lights would still be burning in the living room and kitchen, and once the radio had played softly all night with no one there to listen to it. Maybe the same thing was happening to her.
“Toby?” Mrs. Schwamm said.
“Maybe Toby’s in love,” Dr. Schwamm suggested.
Susan laughed and Toby blushed. “I was daydreaming, I guess,” she said, glad to be distracted from her thoughts. But she wished she could ask Susan’s mother and father about nervous breakdowns, about how long they took anyway, and if you could inherit them like the color of your hair and the shape of your nose. Instead, she said, “I love shrimp salad,” and began to eat.
16
IT WAS THE BIGGEST lie Toby had ever told and there was no way to take it back. Susan and she were sprawled in their bathing suits on the beds in Susan’s room, with the air conditioner turned to high. They were bored. They had sung their songs until they were hoarse and had listened to records and talked about other girls and about a boy in their class they both liked. They had eaten lunch and then a large bowl of popcorn, and looked at magazines, and now they were bored.
“How’s your mother feeling lately?” Susan asked.
“Much better,” Toby said. “She looks very good.” She hadn’t known she was going to say that. She had intended to say something about how cheerful her mother’s letters were getting and how frequently they came. But instead she said that.
“How do you know?” Susan asked, sitting up. “Did you see her?”
“Uh-huh,” Toby said, keeping her voice casual, but feeling her heart lurch and then flutter recklessly.
“That’s great!” Susan said. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was when you were away,” Toby answered, surprised at how easily she could think of the right thing to say. “I meant to, and then I guess I forgot.”
“Well, tell me all about it now,” Susan said. “I mean, you must have been thrilled. It’s been such a long time. I don’t know how you stood it. You’re the bravest person I know.”
That was the same thing people had once said about Toby’s mother. “She’s in a hospital,” Toby began. “I told you that. It’s really a very nice place, more like a hotel, you know?” As she spoke, Toby began to picture the place she was describing: a large beautiful white building, looking something like resorts she had seen on postcards. “It has an outdoor swimming pool and everything,” she said.
Susan was astonished. “I never heard of such a thing! A swimming pool! What for? Isn’t everybody there sick?”
Toby’s mouth was dry. It must be that popcorn, she thought. “It’s for the doctors and nurses,” she said. “And for the patients who are almost better. My mother’s a wonderful swimmer.” That was the truth. “But she can’t go in yet.”
“I thought it was catching, what she had.”
“It was,” Toby said glibly, “but not any more.”
“What’s the name of that place?” Susan asked.
“I—I don’t remember. But it was nice. Jim drove me there. My mother has her own room, with lots of flowers and paintings and stuff in it.” As she spoke, she saw her mother propped on pillows in a pretty brass bed, wearing a pink bed jacket, holding her arms out to Toby and smiling. She swallowed hard.
“Are you going to go again?” Susan asked.
“Sure. But not for a while, I guess. She gets tired very fast. It was really good to see her, though.”
“Did Anne go, too?”
Did Susan think she was an answer machine? Toby had forgotten about Anne in her imagined story. What if Susan ever said anything about it to her? “No, of course not. They don’t allow little kids like that in hospitals.”
Susan nodded. That was true of the hospital where her father worked, too.
“So don’t ever say anything about it to her, okay? We didn’t tell her I was going, because she’d be very upset. You know what Anne is like.”
Susan nodded again. “Of course I won’t. You can trust me. I’m so glad for you, Tobe. Did you talk about when she comes back, about getting a place to live around here and everything?”
“A little,” Toby said, growing weary of invention. “We had a lot of other things to talk about, too.” In her head she sorted through all the conversations she wanted to have with her mother, all the unsaid words and feelings waiting to be spoken. Her heart had quieted after the first few minutes. Lying wasn’t t
hat much harder than telling the truth. Susan had believed every word of it. And while she spoke, Toby almost believed it, too. She wondered why she felt so sad.
17
AND THEN IT WAS Toby’s birthday. Before, she had always awakened on her birthday feeling a pleasant specialness, the anticipation of extra attention, of presents and a cake in her honor. She would walk around all day trying on the idea of a new age, almost as if it were a dress. She’d look in the mirror once in a while to examine herself for changes, for something that would mark her as being eleven instead of ten, twelve instead of eleven. And there were changes of course—she was taller and had grown hair under her arms, and her features changed—but they didn’t happen overnight, and remained a wonderful mystery.
This time she woke in instant knowledge that it was August 24 again, her birthday. But, instead of being joyful and expectant, Toby felt heavy-hearted and tired. And this was a special birthday in a way none of the others had been. She was thirteen, a teenager, the goal that had seemed almost impossible a few years ago. Then she had looked at girls that age in her neighborhood, admiring and envying them for the new status that came with the transition. Twelve and thirteen. There was a remarkable difference between them.
And yet now she felt as if she hadn’t had enough sleep or was coming down with something. She knew it was because she hadn’t heard from her mother and had set August 24, in her own mind, as the latest possible date she would.
What was going on, anyway? Making progress. Doing nicely. Coming along. That was what Miss Vernon would usually say in answer to Toby’s questions about her mother. Those phrases sounded like lies or evasions to her, almost like some of the answers she gave Susan.
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