by Anbara Salam
“The sheer cheek of him,” she said. Her face was in high color.
“What will Dad say?”
“You wait,” she said, her head twitching. “You wait until your father sees this.”
An hour later, after I’d eaten both my and Granny’s sandwiches, I saw Dad coming down the corridor. He smiled and put his briefcase down on the floor to give me a hug.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, pulling back his head and smiling deeper. He was unshaven and his eyes were faintly bloodshot. When he smiled, his face was almost the same as it used to be, but subtly changed, like a sweater that’s a bit lopsided after darning.
Was I supposed to tell him about Rhona’s doctor? Surely that was something Mama should do. She was hardly able to brush her hair—would she be able to explain it to him?
“Um—,” I began, horrified it would, after all, be me having to start a conversation about those papers. I hadn’t even read them.
“What is it, sweetheart?” he said, his eyes snapping to focus on mine. “What’s wrong? Rhona?”
“Rhona’s fine.” My Granny’s voice. She removed her glasses and let them hang around her neck, offering her cheek for a kiss. “Now, come with me. I have to discuss something with you.”
“Everything OK?” Dad looked between us.
“It will be,” she said ominously.
I gave him a wan smile.
* * *
Granny and I waited for Dad outside Dr. Porter’s office. I didn’t want to sit there, but Granny had this smug, expectant posture, and I couldn’t wriggle away. Her smugness grew palpably stronger as the sound of Dad yelling came through the door. I couldn’t hear what he said, only his voice getting strained and ragged, and the monotone of Dr. Porter’s voice trying to keep Dad calm.
When he came out, his face was red. “Good Lord. Where’s your mom?” He looked at me.
“She’s with the nurses,” I said. “They took her to see the babies in the maternity ward.” It was a little creepy, I thought, peeping in on the babies while they slept. But it made Mama smile, and that was reason enough.
Dad sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s probably just as well.”
“Roger?” Granny’s voice was strangled. “What did he have to say for himself?”
Dad motioned with his head down the corridor and marched us behind a pair of swinging doors.
I kept one eye on the glass windows in the doors, since it was a precarious place to stand.
“That quack,” Dad said, gripping his briefcase.
“We should get Dr. Callahan,” Granny said.
“Callahan suggested it,” he said, and Granny took a sharp inhale of breath.
“Do you know what kind of nonsense they’re saying?” he said, jostling his briefcase, where, presumably, the papers had been stuffed.
I nodded blankly, since he seemed to want a response. Don’t say it, I thought. Don’t tell me.
“These geniuses want to make a study of your sister,” he said. I didn’t know why he was focused on me. Why he wasn’t addressing Granny. “Genetic disorders. Mixed heritage. Oral phobias of impregnation,” he spat. His eyes flickered between mine and Granny’s, as if challenging us to leap to the doctors’ defense.
“But—you—you can’t get pregnant by mouth.” The words were out before I could stop them. A rush of shame sprang to my head so quickly, I became woozy. But neither of them appeared to be ruffled.
“No, Bridget, you most certainly cannot,” Granny said, staring at my father as if he were about to correct her.
He looked at me and shook his head. “No, Bridget.”
“And that has nothing to do with your sister’s appetite, either.” Granny’s lips were tight.
“Of course not,” my father said. He cleared his throat. “Or blood heritage.” He began coughing. “So let’s not hear any more about it. Understood?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I said. “I understand.”
16.
October
Three days later, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a biography of Ghiberti and sipping from a glass of defrosted orange juice. Coursework had become a particular kind of bittersweet torture; I yearned for anything that connected me to the academy, but the reminder that I was missing out made my gut tingly. I’d even had to hide my old Treasures of Italy book in the closet. I sipped again from my orange juice. Condensation dribbled down the insides of the windows. I doodled in the margins of my notebook, keeping an eye on the drive for the shadow of the mailman’s van.
Each morning I went out to check the mailbox for a letter from Isabella, but nothing had arrived yet. Typical of the Italian mail system. Still, I didn’t want her to worry, so I’d been writing her daily updates. Mr. Anderson, our old Latin teacher, was now sporting a rather obvious toupee. The Creamery had flooded after a storm and would be shut for six months. The PTA had raised funds to install a statue of John Everett Jr. in Bloomsville Park, except the forklift couldn’t fit through the gates so they’d had to chop down a hedge to drive it in. After being away, everyday life in St. Cyrus seemed quaint, almost sweet, a pastel-colored childhood memory. And writing about our hometown made me feel closer to her—it was a special code between us. On the street, a car lumbered past and I sat up on my knees. But it wasn’t the mailman. I sighed, rubbing at a sore spot where the cuticle was peeling from my fingernail.
“Do you need a manicure?” Granny said hopefully.
I smiled. Granny was ready to pounce on any excuse to spend money. “I’m OK,” I said. Involuntarily, I glanced up toward Rhona’s room.
Granny shut her novel with a snap. “Sweetheart.” She tipped her head back to look at me over the top of her glasses. “I know you’ve been worried about Rhona. We all have.”
My chest tightened. I thought, If she starts talking about anything medical, I won’t listen. I’ll put myself back at the academy, in a rowboat on the lake, feeding birds in La Pentola Square.
“But she’s on the mend now, and there’s no point in punishing yourself. Heaven knows there’s enough of that going around.”
A bubble of self-pity swelled in my chest. It seemed perverse to be anything except glum when all anyone could think about was sickness. Despite all our scrubbing and cleaning, the house maintained the hushed and anticipatory atmosphere of a funeral parlor. The detritus of sickness was strewn about the place: boxes of Kleenex and packets of vitamin powder and lapsed visitor passes and deflating balloons and “Get Well Soon” cards. I looked around the room at all these mundane relics of suffering. How couldn’t Granny see I wasn’t allowed to be happy? I was forced to be bored and wretched. To sit at home losing out on my one chance at adventure, at friends. Because after all, it was Rhona’s fault I was back, instead of at the academy with the other girls. With Isabella. I wasn’t punishing myself; I was punishing Rhona.
“It’s not doing you any good to be moping around the house. Aren’t any of your high school friends in town?”
“Perhaps.” I hesitated. Would it be nice to see girls from school? It might just make me feel worse—flimsy, insubstantial.
“Well, call them and make plans,” Granny said, opening her novel. “There must be some kind of”—she scrunched up her nose—“Halloween event you can attend.”
My mouth fell open. Granny didn’t approve of Halloween one bit. I seized my chance. “OK, I’ll call around. And maybe we should get some candy in case we get trick-or-treaters here as well?”
“Hmm,” Granny said, cracking the spine of her book. I wondered with a pang what the girls would be doing to celebrate, back at the academy. Pumpkin carving probably. And spiderweb decorations in the common room. And pranks: creepy-crawlies made from sugar paper slipped between sheets before bedtime. In all the fun, would they remember to remember me?
I called Flora from the telephone in the hallway, hoping all of a
sudden she would be home. I was itching to talk to someone about how rotten everything had been. But Flora’s brother Roddy answered and said she was still at college. As I was about to hang up, he said, “Hey, Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“I’m real sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Thanks, Roddy.” My ear burned against the receiver. I held my breath, hoping I had summoned sufficient gratitude.
“She was always so good at school,” he said. His voice was loose and nostalgic.
“Yeah.” I deliberately left an awkward pause, searching for a way to change the subject. I had forgotten Rhona and Roddy had been at middle school together. “Well—”
“I mean, we could hardly keep up with her.” He laughed, a strangled sort of laugh. “Honor roll, history club, president of—”
“I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello,” I said primly, twirling the cord around my finger until the skin blanched. “Thank you, Roddy.”
“Sure thing,” he said, then hung up abruptly.
* * *
The next afternoon, Granny’s driver dropped me off at Sophie LeBaron’s house. The drive was littered with leaves and the house appeared even larger than usual now that the banks of roses had died and the full scale of the building was clearer. The length of the porch had been decorated with orange and green squash placed in a pattern of alternate colors.
“Imagine, what a waste. Using vegetables to decorate,” Granny muttered. “I hope they’ll eat them afterward.”
I smiled to myself, since Granny’s idea of what constituted waste was variable. “Maybe when you come to pick me up we’ll take them home and give them a proper burial in a pie,” I said.
Granny laughed—like a firecracker going off. It was a fantastic sound and I congratulated myself for having produced it. “Away with you, child,” she said. “Don’t fall over in there and come back draped in a tiger skin.”
Sarah, Sophie’s maid, opened the door. “Hello, Miss Bridget,” she said, smiling.
“Hello, Sarah!” I said, as if I was fifteen again and it was another Saturday morning trailing into Sophie’s house after Isabella. I handed over my coat and hat, feeling stupid for wrapping up so warm for the short steps up the front porch.
“Mrs. Sophie is in the front room. How nice to have you back. I’ve missed all the noise in this house,” she said, smiling rather wistfully. “It’s just you?”
I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. This would be my first time alone in the LeBaron household—it wasn’t as if I could sit quietly in the corner if there were only two of us. I pressed my fingernails into my palms and then released them. There was nothing to be nervous about. Now I was Isabella’s closest friend, surely Sophie would have to entertain me. And after all, I had just flown back from Europe, and Sophie had been at home the whole time. I didn’t need Isabella as our focus; I was the guest star.
The door to the front room was ajar and a fire was crackling in the grate. I looked behind me for a glimpse of the ballroom. No matter how often I had been a visitor at the LeBaron house, I had never managed to get inside there. Sophie had never offered, and it seemed gauche to ask.
“Bridge,” Sophie squealed, lifting her arms and flapping them at me so her shawl fell back into her elbows.
“How are you? You look fantastic,” I said.
“You mean ginormous!” She gestured to the gentle plumpness in her stomach.
I laughed. “Don’t be silly, you can barely tell.”
“Thanks, you’re a darling,” she said, beaming. “You look fantastic.” Her gaze flitted over my outfit. I had chosen it particularly for her. I was wearing one of Greta’s silk scarves and a sweater with bone inlay buttons. I hoped it conjured European chic and approachable girlishness all at the same time.
“Come sit down and tell me everything.” Sophie motioned to an ottoman near the fireplace, then kicked off her slippers, crossed her knee over her other leg, and rubbed the instep of her naked foot. I watched the skin blanching and springing back to pink under her thumbs.
“Sorry,” she said, following my gaze. The joviality drained out of her expression. “This week has been murder on my feet.” She blushed, then dropped her foot and rested her arm on her belly as if she were covering the ears of her unborn.
“How is Matty?” I said.
“He’s well. He’s fishing with his brothers this week. They’ve driven up to some godforsaken cabin in Maine. Heaven knows what they’re doing up there. They go every year and they never come back with any fish.”
“I bet it’s nice for you to get some time with your mom,” I said, trying to gauge if Mrs. LeBaron was in the house. A tidbit I could take back to Rhona—what she was wearing, her choice of perfume. Suddenly now, as I imagined Rhona and me sitting on her bed, gossiping about Mrs. LeBaron’s bangles and her bleached hair, my heart throbbed. I put my fingers to the top of my breastbone.
“Mom is so happy to have me here. And I think Matty’s glad to get away too; he’s been ever so patient with all the girly business. I swear all I do these days is shop for the nursery.” She wriggled down into the armchair. “So, tell me everything about Italy. Everything.” She waved her hands and the shawl fluttered. “The food, the art.” She smiled at me. “Did I hear you got to travel by plane? I’m dying with jealousy.”
Inspired by Sophie’s relaxedness, I kicked off my shoes and held my stockinged feet toward the fire. Granny had bought me five pairs of new stockings, so I had no need to worry about darns or stitches. “The plane was superb,” I said. “You could see right through the clouds,” I said, and Sophie gasped. I didn’t mention that a spring from the metal seat had cut into my back or that the cabin stank so strongly of oil that it made me light-headed. Or that I chanted Hail Marys for the first half an hour while the cabin thundered and shuddered and tipped to and fro. Or that the man sitting next to me smoked two cigars during the flight and his ash settled in my cream soda. “The art is divine. We have a trip to Rome in the spring.”
Sarah knocked at the door carrying a tray and put it down on the footstool. Hot chocolate and sugar cookies in the shape of maple leaves.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Sophie. As Sarah shut the door, she grinned at me conspiratorially. “It’s so nice to come home and get spoiled.” Her face fell. “Oh, Bridge—I’m so sorry, it must be dreadful for you at home. How is Rhona? Is she home yet?”
“She came home a few days ago,” I said. “She’s much better now.”
Sophie gave me a sympathetic smile. “What a shame,” she sighed.
I didn’t reply. People often said that in reference to Rhona. As if she were milk that had spoiled and been wasted unnecessarily. I fought the urge to conjure a prickly response about Rhona’s future potential.
“You must’ve been worrying yourself sick,” she said. “Such a shame you can’t have a break from it, even in Europe! You deserve a breather.”
“Oh,” I said, walking back my antipathy—she had been feeling sorry for me, not Rhona. “It has been refreshing to have a change of scene,” I said. It sounded cool, worldly; I applauded myself.
“Well, I hope she feels better soon,” she said.
“Thanks.”
We were silent a moment. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked. I considered saying something more. But when I opened my mouth I couldn’t think of what.
“And how’s Izzy?” she said, smiling. “Has she told her mom about Ralph yet? Or is she getting herself into all kinds of romantic larks?”
I felt shaky. It really was true—I was now Isabella’s best friend. In the beneficence of my new popularity, I decided I could afford to be generous. “Sophie, don’t tell anyone,” I said, dusting the crystals of sugar from my fingers.
She nodded greedily.
“But she had a relapse—the malaria.”
“No! Is she OK?” She laid a half-eaten cookie down on her stomach as if it were a shelf. The gesture was so odd, my eyes kept traveling from her face to the cookie.
“Yes,” I said. “She was almost recovered by the time I left.” I stared into the fire to conceal my expression. Truthfully, I didn’t actually know she was recovered. She could be ill again, for all I knew. Panic swarmed in my gut. What if she was so sick she couldn’t leave her room? She’d had a relapse and she was still in bed. That was why I hadn’t heard from her. But then—someone would have gone looking for her. Donna Maria, or one of the other girls. Elena would have sent someone up to collect her if she missed classes. The panic dispersed. I decided I would ask Dad if I could phone the academy in the morning. Perhaps I could make up some lie about an urgent assignment.
“What are the doctors like in Italy?” Sophie was saying. “I remember when Pop went out to France and he fractured his ankle skiing. They just gave him Valium and didn’t do anything at all. He had to use his ski poles as crutches. Are they as bad as that?” she said.
I looked at her blankly.
“The doctors?” she prompted.
“Actually—” I paused.
“What?”
“She asked me not to call a doctor,” I said, hugging my knees.
She frowned. “Did you take care of her all by yourself?” Crumbs from the cookie fell into the lap of her skirt.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Oh, Bridge.” Sophie gave me a sad smile. “You have had a time of it, haven’t you? You poor thing.”
I laughed, although my face was tight. “I’m fine,” I said. “I can’t complain.”
“She’s lucky to have you, you know,” she said, motioning for me to pass her another cookie. She took a bite and closed her eyes. “The best thing about being pregnant is, I don’t have to worry about my figure,” she mumbled.