by Cat Lavoie
The room is silent and I watch my mother. So many emotions are fighting it out on her face. I think I see a glint of a tear in her eye but her jaw is set and her lips are pressed together. She goes towards my dad and strokes Steffi’s back.
“It’ll be okay, Steffi. We’re here.”
“You hate me, right?” Steffi asks, leaving my father’s arms and facing my mother.
“Of course not. Why would you think such a ridiculous thing?” Mom tucks a wayward strand of Steffi’s hair back behind her ear.
“But you’re disappointed in me.”
Mom sighs. “I’m not going to lie to you, Stefanie. I am disappointed. In myself. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I didn’t do enough.”
I look over at Izzie and even though there’s never been an inkling of sibling telepathy between us, I know exactly what she’s thinking. We all went through it at some point.
Mom never trusted the school system to teach her children about birth control. Being a respected social worker and concerned parent, she took it upon herself to give each of us a guided tour of the condom aisle. With detailed commentary. It was the Rule family version of The Talk. I had mine the week after I turned fifteen. Mom dragged all three of us to the drugstore on a Friday night. Of course that drugstore had to be in the middle of a crowded mall. And not just any kind of crowd—it had to be high school kids much cooler than me. If only my mother had known that accidentally brushing up against Murray McKenna in math class was as much sex as I was having at the time. She insisted on parading us down the condom aisle while lecturing about STDs and birth control options. I remember her repeating ‘intercourse’ over and over again and, to this day, I can’t hear that word without cringing. I’m sure Mom never doubted the effectiveness of her Talks. Until now.
“Is anybody hungry?” I ask to break the tension.
“Roxy, how can you think of food at a time like this?” Mom says, shaking her head.
“Nora, Roxy’s just trying to be helpful. I’ll take a cup of tea if that’s all right, pumpkin.”
“Sure, Dad.” I turn and go into the kitchen. My refuge.
I take my time getting the kettle out and finding Dad’s favorite English breakfast tea. After a few minutes, Izzie joins me.
“Poor girl. She’s getting grilled,” Izzie says, leaning against the counter. “I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“Should we go back in?” I ask.
“Well, I’m not spending the rest of the night in the kitchen. I’ve got things to do in the morning.”
I throw the teabag in the sink. “For someone on forced vacation, you’re pretty busy. What are you working on?”
The sound of Mom and Dad laughing fills the kitchen before Izzie has a chance to answer. We walk into the living room and see my parents with their hands on Steffi’s belly.
“The magic of Peanut,” I whisper.
Izzie grunts, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing the scene in front of us. “I can’t believe she’s getting away with it. If I’d come home knocked up by some guy when I was twenty-two years old, Mom would have killed me. Let’s face it. She has no job, no money, no real place to stay, and no husband. What kind of life is she going to provide for this child?”
“Shut up, Izz.” I don’t bother keeping my voice quiet.
“You shut up. I’m just speaking the truth. Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy?”
“I think you’re crazy.”
“Wow, Rox. What a great comeback. How long did it take for you to come up with that one?”
“Girls. Stop that right now.” Mom’s voice is like a cold shower. All eyes are on Izzie and me. Steffi looks like she’s about to cry.
“Sorry,” Izzie mumbles, looking at Steffi.
“I’m sorry too,” I say. It’s time to clear the air. “I’m sorry I lied to you about Steffi, Mom. But she needed some time to deal with everything and I wanted to respect that.”
Mom nods. “It’s okay. You were only looking out for your sister like you always do.” She comes up to me and hugs me and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. I breathe in and smell the vanilla sugar perfume she’s been wearing ever since I can remember. It’s one of the reasons I always think of my mother when I’m frosting cupcakes.
“How long have you known about this?” she whispers in my ear.
“Two weeks,” I whisper back.
She nods and lets me go and I can see in her face that she believes me.
“Where do you keep the sugar, pumpkin?” Dad asks, coming out of the kitchen with his cup of tea.
“James, you can have your tea at home. Girls, go get your bags. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
Nobody moves. Izzie looks over at Steffi and then back at Mom. She opens her mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Steffi squeezes her eyes shut like she did when she was a child and she thought that shutting out the world made her invisible.
“I want to stay here, Mom.” Steffi’s eyes are still closed but her face is relaxed and her voice is strong.
“Me too,” Izzie adds.
“Don’t be ridiculous, girls.” Mom has already gathered a few of Steffi’s things. “This place is barely bigger than a broom closet and you can’t keep imposing on Roxy.”
“Really, I don’t mind,” I say.
What I really want to say is that I don’t want them to leave. I want to cook for Steffi while I watch her get bigger and I want to feel Peanut kick my hand from the other side. I even want to get into pointless arguments with Izzie. But, most of all, I don’t want to be alone.
“Nora, I think it’s time to go home,” Dad says, putting his hand on Mom’s arm.
“But...” I can see the panic in my mother’s face. She sits down next to Steffi and puts her arm around her. “Promise to call me every day, okay? I want to know how you’re doing. And let me take you to the doctor, okay? We can go see Dr. Sheridan. I want her to check you out and make sure that you and the baby are healthy. Will you promise me that?”
“I promise.”
“And if you ever change your mind, your old room is waiting for you.” She looks over at Izzie. “And that goes for you too.”
Izzie nods, and I’m surprised she doesn’t remind our parents that Dad’s exercise equipment has been gathering dust in her old room for years.
Mom looks at me and I can see worry in the tiny wrinkles around her eyes. “How are you doing? Do you need anything?”
I could tell my mom about what’s going on with Ollie but, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t seem that important. And I don’t want to break her heart by telling her that Ethan doesn’t want our families at the wedding. Besides, Mom and Dad deserve to think that at least one of their daughters isn’t going through some sort of crisis. “Everything is fine,” I answer. “Don’t worry.”
After a few more minutes spent reassuring her, Mom agrees to leave without any of her children.
“I almost forgot,” Mom says, one foot already out the door. “I was shopping with Aunt Jude the other day and we saw the most beautiful wedding dress. The shop owner says they also make it in bigger sizes too, so you should go try it on.”
Wonderful. Anything that my Aunt Jude finds cute must have been all the rage near the turn of the century. I picture myself drowning in a big, puffy white dress with a huge crinoline and a neckline up to my forehead. And they make it in a size 16. How lucky am I? A wedding bikini is starting to sound great right about now.
I walk my parents back to their car. The old man who usually stands outside my building preaching about the End of Times isn’t on duty tonight. If he was, my mother would have snatched the Bible from his hands and used it to make me swear that I don’t mind harboring my fugitive sisters.
“Take care of yourself, pumpkin,” Dad says, giving me a hug.
“Call me if this gets too much for you,” Mom says, kissing me on the cheek.
The night air is a bit chilly for June and I wrap my arms around myself. “Bye, Mom. Bye
, Dad. Don’t worry.”
I stand on the sidewalk until I can’t see their car anymore. When I run back inside the apartment, both of my sisters are in their rooms with the doors closed.
“You’re welcome,” I tell the empty living room before turning the lights off and settling on the couch, a loose spring poking me in the back.
Chapter Six
When my alarm clock rings a few hours later, I feel as though I’ve barely slept twenty minutes. As I make my way to the kitchen, my hand massaging my achy back, I remember what went down last night. My brain—not fully awake yet—gives me glimpses of Mom talking, Steffi crying and Izzie scowling.
Steffi’s door is closed but Izzie’s door is wide open. The bed is made and there’s no sign of her anywhere.
I stumble into the bathroom and bang my toe against the doorway. “Ouch,” I yell out and hop around on one leg, my muscles screaming out in pain.
“Everybody all right out there?” Steffi asks, peeking out of the bedroom door.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed.”
“You didn’t wake me. I haven’t been able to sleep at all.” Her face is drawn and the dark circles under her eyes are even bigger than mine.
“Peanut’s keeping you up again?” I ask, rubbing her belly.
“Yeah, he was up all night beating the crap out of my kidneys. I had to pee every twenty minutes.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been pregnant. Never even had a pregnancy scare. But I did hold Tali’s hand when she bought a test and stood by her as she prayed to God for it to be negative. He answered her prayers back then, but I always wondered what would have happened if things hadn’t turned out her way. And now I’m looking into the face of someone whose prayers weren’t answered.
“You want to see what I did all night?” Steffi asks, a smile stretching out across her face.
“Sure,” I say.
She waddles into my room and comes out holding a half-knitted sweater. “It’s for Peanut. I made it yellow in case Peanut turns out to be a girl.”
“When did you start knitting?” I ask, fingering the soft yarn. “It’s beautiful.”
“Julia bought me a knitting kit when I started getting too big to go out with the girls and I had to stay home. Nobody wants to see a pregnant girl clubbing, you know?” She lowers her eyes.
I don’t know much about my sister’s life in San Francisco, but I’d hate to think that her friends cast her aside. I want to ask if that’s the reason she’s here, but the slight quiver of her chin tells me I shouldn’t push it. I hold up the sweater to inspect it. “This is incredible, Steff.”
“Thanks,” she says, her eyes lighting up again. “I’m going to try and finish this sweater today and then I want to knit some booties. And a hat. Maybe a winter jacket. What do you think?”
I think she’s doing everything she can to distract herself from the fact that she’s having a
baby, but I doubt she wants to hear that from me. “I think it’s great,” I say, and watch her smile as she slowly settles down on the couch with her balls of yarn.
I finish getting dressed and when I leave the apartment, Steffi is still concentrating on her knitting, her feet propped up on the coffee table.
The subway is crowded and I shove myself between a man in a business suit and another man wearing what looks like a prom dress, circa 1989. The train trudges along slowly and the Prom Dress Guy starts talking to me but my earphones are shoved in my ears. And even though I forgot to charge my iPod last night and there’s no music coming out of the earphones, I pretend like I don’t hear him and close my eyes, trying very hard to be invisible.
I was only supposed to work at Kilborn PR for a month. That was how long the temp agency said I was hired for. Being a data entry clerk at Kilborn was a great part-time job. My cubicle was tucked away in a corner and there were empty desks all around me. I could listen to music, I could eat, and I could talk on the phone. I only knew Greta by name and reputation then. She was the Big Boss Lady, the one who drove everyone crazy. I used to listen as people told each other horror stories in hushed voices, looking over their shoulders. It was all very amusing at the time.
I recognized Greta right away the first time I met her in the elevator. I’d been working at Kilborn for close to a month and my contract was going to end in a few days. She noticed my pass.
“You work for me,” she said, looking straight ahead. She was wearing dark sunglasses even though it was the dead of winter.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m Greta Kilborn. You work for me.”
I kept my eyes on the numbers, willing the elevator to skip floors five to fourteen and get to the fifteenth as fast as possible. “Oh, hi. I mean, hello. I’m Roxy Rule. I do data entry.”
“I know. I’ve seen you around. Roxy Rule, that’s an interesting name.”
My face grew hot from the bridge of my nose to the tip of my ears. “Oh, thanks. My dad wanted to call me Roxy Hart Rule. He’s a big fan of Chicago. But my mom wouldn’t hear of it and they couldn’t agree on a middle name for me so I have none.” The words rushed out of my mouth in one huge breath and I regretted them instantly. Why would Greta Kilborn care about where my name came from? I looked down at my shoes and hoped she didn’t know about all the pens I’d stolen from the office supplies closet.
“Be in my office tomorrow morning at nine. I’m going to offer you a job,” she said, still looking straight ahead. The elevator pinged and the doors opened on the fifteenth floor. We both walked out.
“Don’t be late,” she called after me as I made my way to my tiny cubicle. I turned around to tell her I wouldn’t be but she was already gone.
The next day, Greta Kilborn offered me a job as her personal assistant. It wasn’t just an ordinary job; it was a job with health benefits and paid vacation. I told her I’d think about it and get back to her, but when I walked out of her office, I already knew I was going to accept her offer. That was the easy part. Telling my parents I was going to quit college was another thing.
My father was so proud when I told him I wanted to go to NYU and study English. Of all his girls, I was the only one who had shown interest in going into the family business. Izzie had spent her entire childhood watching the People’s Court and telling other kids on the playground that they were overruled or in contempt. Steffi was too busy with ballet classes and Barbie dolls to be interested in anything else. But me? I loved sitting in the middle of my Dad’s study, piles of books on every surface, listening to him read Shakespeare and Chaucer in his booming professor voice. Every now and again we’d drive down to the city and see a Broadway show. Just the two of us; it was our special time.
After high school, Ollie and I went off to NYU together but, unlike my best friend who was totally engrossed in his architectural studies, I was never passionate about my English classes. Most of my classmates lived and breathed for dead writers, but I knew I didn’t belong there. Greta gave me a way out.
My mom kicked up a storm when I finally told her I was dropping out of college. I’d invited my parents over to the apartment and cooked them dinner hoping that it would lessen the blow. Dad was very quiet and didn’t say anything while Mom paced around the room ranting and raving. After she was done listing all the ways in which I was messing up my future, Dad took over.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “Will it make you happy?”
“Yes,” I answered, not really knowing if that was true.
“That’s all that matters.” He got up and kissed me on the cheek. He tried to smile but I could read the disappointment all over his face.
Ollie wasn’t too thrilled about my decision and neither was Emma. They all tried to talk me out of it but, two weeks after meeting Greta in that elevator, I showed up for my first day as her personal assistant. I had no idea what was about to hit me.
When I climb out of the subway, I’m hot and sweaty and there’s a suspicious stain
over my right knee which I’m convinced wasn’t there when I left home this morning. I walk a block and step inside the Pocheville Bakery. When I open the door, a dozen tiny bells chime in harmony. I’m pretty sure this is what heaven sounds like. The scent hits me first. Mmmmm. Baguette. Brioche. Pain au chocolat. Raspberry tarts. I could eat it all right here, right now.
“Roxy!” Madame Pocheville steps out from behind the counter, comes up to me and kisses me on both cheeks. I never get tired of her French accent. It makes me feel like I’ve stepped inside a movie where all people do is eat cheese and bread and red wine and laugh and ponder the meaning of life and love. “How are you? Julien! Roxy is here,” she calls out to her husband.
“Ah, la belle Roxy,” Monsieur Pocheville says as I start to blush. “Comment ça va?”
“Bien, merci. Et vous?” I say in a thick accent, turning my head to make sure there’s no one else in the store to overhear me.
I was part of the French Club in high school but I never quite learned anything besides how to introduce myself, ask how you are and direct you to the nearest bibliothèque. All the club did was sit around every second Tuesday of the month and talk about France. In English. We mapped out our dream itineraries in the off chance that one of us made it to Paris some day. Massive quantities of croissants and brie cheese were consumed and—at the very last French Club meeting during our senior year—Shelley Hofstetter snuck in a bottle of red wine from her parents’ cellar and we all got a little tipsy. I ended up puking in the bushes on the way home but it didn’t lessen my enthusiasm for the cobblestoned streets of Paris. I was convinced I’d get to walk them someday.
“What do I get you today? The usual?” Madame Pocheville asks, as I give lustful looks at the baked goods. I swear I could eat every last morsel.
Every weekday I have the same thing: a pain au chocolat and a cafe au lait. Madame Pocheville’s pain au chocolat is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. Flaky, buttery croissant with a burst of oozing dark chocolate in the middle.