by Anbara Salam
“But—what about—what about Rhona?” Isabella said. She crossed her arms and tugged at a lock of her hair, looping it around her finger.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s not important. I’ll talk to you about Rhona later. That doesn’t matter now.”
Rosaria stepped forward and took my elbow in her hand. “Bridget,” she said quietly. I could smell something sugary and medicinal on her breath, like licorice. “You should tell her.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Please. I know what you thought.” She glanced at Isabella. “But you were mistaken. I assure you. Now is the time. You can trust her with the truth,” Rosaria said. “We all need to be honest with each other.”
“Trust who?” Isabella said. “Me? What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing.”
Isabella paled. “Has something happened?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing.”
Rosaria gave me a pitying look. She put one hand on Isabella’s arm. “Rhona passed,” she said gently. “Before Christmas.”
Isabella gasped, then pulled away. “Wait, what?” She frowned. “No, she didn’t. I got a Valentine from her. Ralphy is tutoring her for her Wellesley exams.”
Rosaria turned to me.
I opened my mouth. “It’s not—it’s complicated,” I began.
Rosaria’s eyes twitched and glazed over. “She’s alive?” she said in a hollow voice.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” Isabella said, airily. “Briddie’s grandmom wrote and asked me about sending her for a graduation surprise.” She looked at me. “Sorry. Spoiled it now.” She turned back to Rosaria. “Anyway, where’d you get that idea?”
“It’s not—it’s not like you think,” I said. My throat was so tight I could hardly get the words out.
Rosaria said nothing. She put her hands in her pockets, and her eyes traveled over me slowly, a careful assessment. My stomach coiled into a rope.
“Rhona’s coming all this way—she’s been looking forward to it,” said Isabella, turning to me. “You can’t just jet off.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know—anyway it’s not—no, it’s not—”
Isabella squeezed my hand. My palm was slick with sweat. “You’re lucky, Briddie. You have Rhona. But there’s no one that really needs me. Apart from Rosie.”
“I need you,” I said, trying to catch her fingers. She pulled away.
Rosaria cleared her throat. “You know, Bridget,” she said, slinging her arm over Isabella’s shoulders, “I believe you can take care of yourself.”
“But—”
“I don’t think you will be joining us,” Rosaria said.
“No, I need you,” I said to Isabella. “I need you.”
“I’ll miss you, Briddie,” Isabella sighed with a reluctant grimace, as if she had mislaid an expensive sweater. “But I know you’ll be fine. All the girls love you. You really don’t need me.”
“You can’t,” I said, my voice squeaking.
“We already are,” Rosaria said. Her posture was rigid. As if she were up on a balcony looking down at me.
“But I can come with; it’ll be easy. What do you need? I can help. I’ll help.”
“I don’t think so, Bridget,” Rosaria said. Her eyes flickered; she looked harassed, almost embarrassed. “That is not going to happen.”
“Rosie’s right,” Isabella said, twirling her hair into a knot that immediately unraveled. “We kind of have our own thing planned,” she said. “And it’ll be cramped as it is, even with just the two of us. Won’t it?”
Rosaria nodded. “Yes.”
“But—”
Isabella chewed her fingernail. “Sorry, Briddie. But we already decided. And it won’t work with three people anyway. Right?” She looked at Rosaria.
Rosaria shook her head. “No, that’s right. Just the two of us.”
Two months later
The morning of graduation, bottle green dragonflies descended on the academy. I woke early and watched from my window as the bugs browsed the white grass, whispering in the leaves of the orchard. Donna Maria was sweeping outside, humming tunelessly under her breath. Someone was nailing a wooden dais in the courtyard, and the knell of a hammer echoed through the building.
“Make it stop.” Rhona stirred in the next bed, putting her hands over her ears.
I ignored her.
“What time is it?” she groaned.
“A quarter of six.”
“Damn it, I’ve been bitten again.” She held up her arm and inspected the swelling.
I rummaged through my bedside drawer and tossed a tube of lotion on the bed. “Quit pouting,” I said. “And if I were you, I’d get up now so you have a chance at hot water.”
Slowly, Rhona sat up, combing her hair with her fingers. She rubbed a smudge of lotion on her forearms and, grumbling, climbed out of the sheets. As she stood, I evaluated her figure with forensic watchfulness for any indication that she had lost weight since arriving in Italy. She caught my eye, and her expression pinched as she took in my slack mouth and narrowed eyes. Hastily, I looked away. She said nothing.
Rhona and I had exchanged two terse phone calls after Isabella left, during which I’d frantically tried to preempt her appearance as “Cousin” Rhona. Wound with frenzied nerves, I’d pleaded with her to play along with my lark, my elaborate prank, my good-natured hijinks. It was a spoof, I said, a gag, a bit. All the girls did it. It was normal. It was so funny. Hilarious. She’d been out of school so long, I said, she’d forgotten what kind of antics were normal. Remember, I had told her, remember to bring her chicest clothes, her boar-bristle hairbrush, her ruby earrings. Remember, I had said, to be nice.
But now she was finally at the academy, I felt a queasy detachment, as if I were watching everything through the porthole of a boat. She might play along, or expose my lies. It both mattered more than anything and didn’t matter at all. Rhona was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, and as it grew fluffy, she frowned at her reflection, smoothing it down with her palms. I sat on my bed and watched her combing and combing.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” I said after some minutes. “I wasn’t kidding about the hot water.”
Rhona caught my eye in the mirror and slowly put the brush down. “I’m trying to look nice,” she said. “For you.”
My throat burned. I wished, suddenly, I could flip myself inside out, like a magician’s hat. When she took her toiletry bag to the bathroom I knelt heavily on the floor by my bed and counted off my rosary, praying for nothing, for everything.
We joined the other girls for breakfast in the refectory. Everyone was wearing the required white day dresses, and alongside the sisters, everyone looked fluttering and tranquil as a flock of nesting birds. A few of the girls’ family members had joined us for graduation—Patricia’s parents had been vacationing in Spain and were gloriously tanned in the varnished way of people accustomed to traveling by yacht. Ruth had an incongruously bubbly and curvaceous older sister. Greta’s mother was entertaining a group of students with a story of how Greta’s brothers had returned from a camping trip infested with ticks.
Rhona and I sat at the end of the far table, away from all the hubbub. I positioned myself as a buffer between her and the rest of the girls, so no one would scrutinize how impossibly slowly she ate her roll. Across from me Sally tried to start up a conversation about our plans for Rome. I smiled at her and made what seemed like the right noises. Since Isabella left, I’d been pitied and petted and pampered and pitied again. But though I was aware of the girls’ kindness, I couldn’t feel it. Like I was watching their ministrations through a Perspex box. Sally made what I gathered from her expression was a joke. I laughed. Around us girls were brimming with summer. With weddings and family reunions, with Fourth of July galas and trips to London and Paris. I looked at Rhona, who was delibe
rately working her way through her butter roll with a knife and fork. My daydreams about Rhona smuggled away at the spa felt like the delusions of a stupid, childish version of myself. We weren’t peacefully reading by the lake or petting kittens. Rather we were bickering about leaving the windows open, and Rhona was demanding archeological provenance for every blade of grass.
Farther down the table, Katherine leaned forward. She motioned for me to shuffle toward her. “Bridge—” She grabbed hold of my hand.
I looked down at it.
“You’re not at the summerhouse this year, are you?”
I stiffened. Could Rhona hear?
Katherine’s face fell. “Oh, sorry—you don’t have it anymore, right?”
I shook my head.
She squeezed my fingers. “Will you come, though? For the cup match? It’s the end of June so there’s still plenty of time. My mom is dying to meet you.”
I watched her carefully. Was this a prank? “What do you mean?” My voice was croaky, as if I hadn’t used it in a while. “What about Sylvia?”
Katherine sighed. “Sibbs is at Lake Michigan ’til August. But please say you can come? We’ll have a scream. Or—you’re not going to be in Italy all summer, are you?”
“No.” I swallowed. “But—” I stared at her, not wanting to say the words aloud. “It might just be me,” I said finally.
Katherine frowned. “I know.”
I pictured myself on a leafy patio surrounded by Katherine’s family, wide-mouthed cousins in tennis whites, all bony elbows and inside jokes. “Are you sure?”
I suppose she must have taken it as a yes, because she hugged me. “Oh, Bridge, I can’t wait. You can have Marion’s room. And Mom says Princess is about to have puppies, so . . .”
As she talked, I was aware of Rhona behind me. She had put down her knife and fork and was sitting silently, her hands pressed between her knees. I had a sudden image of all the times she must have sat like that, clenched, silent, in her bedroom, at our dining table. All the times that I hadn’t been there.
“Can I let you know later? For sure?”
Katherine beamed. “Of course. Write me from Rome when you know your plans.”
The way she said it: Write me from Rome. The carelessness of it, the usualness. As if writing from Rome was an indelible part of my life now. I knew it should have bewitched me, but it just made me feel strange. Like there was a scent in the air everyone could smell but me. I shuffled back up the bench to Rhona.
“Ready?”
She nodded, then tipped her head over my shoulder. “That redhead has been trying to get your attention.”
On the other side of the room, Nancy was staring at us. As she caught my eye, she began walking purposefully across the refectory. I gripped the underside of the bench, my neck prickling. I’d been dreading Nancy meeting Rhona. She was so earnest; it would be like trying to deceive a Girl Scout. I picked up my water glass and pretended to drink from it, but it was empty.
“How do you do?” she said to Rhona. “I meant to come introduce myself earlier.” She held out her hand. “I’m Nancy.”
The bench shuddered underneath me as Rhona inched her legs over and stood up.
“Bridge, I didn’t know you were expecting a visitor,” Nancy said to the back of my head.
I turned around so I was facing them. “Yeah.”
Rhona shook Nancy’s hand. “I’m Rhona. How do you do?” A fizzy swell of hysteria surged in my chest to see these two incongruous parts of my life colliding—like mingling sausages and cherries.
“Ah . . .” Nancy tipped back her head. “Bridge has told us all about your adventures in Capri,” she said.
Rhona cleared her throat.
A heavy, leaden thump flung itself against my rib cage.
“I’m sure,” Rhona said in a deadpan way. She nudged her handbag into the crook of her elbow.
I poured myself a glass of water, but my hand was unsteady. Water spilled over the rim and onto the bench, pooling in the grain of the wood.
“I wish my cousins cared enough to visit for graduation,” Nancy said, laughing with a snort. “At Christmas they thought Milan was a type of cookie.”
Rhona adjusted the handle of the bag again on her elbow. “Well,” she said. “Well. Yes. We—we don’t have much family,” she said at last. “So we have to stick together.”
My skin flushed with relief, gratitude, shame. My eardrums were ringing.
“And how is your grandmother’s health, if I may ask?” Nancy frowned. “I suppose she’s your grandmother too?”
Rhona’s lower lip twitched. “She’s—” She stared at me, a question mark wobbling on her face.
My stomach pounded. Rhona was checking with me. Checking to make sure that Granny was OK, in this version of my life. I wished again I could knock myself inside out, that I could nullify myself utterly. I gave her an almost imperceptible nod.
“She’s—she’s fine,” Rhona said, her face relaxing. “Thank you for asking.”
Nancy folded her arms across her chest. “You know, I’m glad you’re here,” she said abruptly.
“You are?” Rhona’s face tightened.
“Well—” Nancy shot me the fraction of a look. “It’s good, I mean. For Bridge. That someone could be here.”
I squeezed my palms between my legs. Now Isabella was gone. That’s what she meant. There was a torpid crumpling inside my chest, a scrunching.
“You’re probably right,” Rhona said sharply.
* * *
After breakfast, we congregated in the courtyard. Everyone was wearing their Sunday best, Donna Maria in a blue dress and matching hat, Elena in an astonishingly stylish white linen suit. Mrs. Fortescue took to the dais and spoke about the virtues of the Pentilan scholars and then made a discreet allusion to contributing to the alumni fund. She then awarded Nancy a prize for best academic achievement, and in lieu of a speech, Nancy read a long Clemente Rebora poem in Italian, which made Signor Patrizi wipe his eyes while the rest of us examined our cuticles and nervously swatted away curious bees. Then Mrs. Fortescue handed out our graduation certificates, announcing our names one by one. Mary Babbage was first, then Sylvia. I waited for what was coming next. My heart thrummed.
“Isabella Crowley?”
Desperately, I looked through the crowd of girls. I searched through the convent gate, scanning the doorway to the nuns’ cells, toward the shrine, behind us, into the open doors of the building. There was a chance, wasn’t there? There was still a chance. But after a moment, Mrs. Fortescue cleared her throat. “Granted in absentia,” she said.
Katherine applauded. “Hooray for Izzy,” she shouted. Nancy frowned at her and then looked at me. Greta was looking at me too. I pretended to be adjusting my gloves. Sweat ran down the back of my neck and into the collar of my dress. I had been so sure. Something in the pit of my stomach cracked in half.
After the final certificate had been handed out, we climbed the dais and posed for a group photograph. I kept my eye on the corner of the courtyard by the convent gate, feeling the camera flash against the side of my cheek.
After the photograph, Rhona and I took shelter in the meager shade on the stone bench by the palm tree, cradling warm glasses of prosecco.
“Listen,” she said, shifting her sunglasses onto her head with such determination I knew she was about to pass some sisterly judgment. “You do know she’s not coming back?”
I didn’t answer her. I took a long sip from my glass.
“You understand that, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “She’s unpredictable,” I muttered. “You never know what she’s going to do.”
“I think that’s part of the problem,” Rhona said, rolling up her sleeves and cautiously scratching a circle around one of her mosquito bites.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
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“It’s weird,” Rhona said with a sigh. “I’m proud of you—but . . .”
I looked at her. “But what?”
“All of you girls . . .” She gestured to the mountains rising above the convent. “What an amazing experience you’ve had. It feels pretty wretched, sitting on the sidelines.”
I was stung. “It’s my graduation,” I said. “What did you expect?”
She rummaged in her purse and lit a cigarette. I had never seen Rhona smoke before Italy, and it still looked alien on her, like a pair of shoes that hadn’t been worn in. “Not the graduation, dum-dum. This whole year of living abroad, studying.”
I shrugged. “You have Wellesley.”
“That’s true.” She blew out a thin stream of smoke. “But it doesn’t erase the past year. Sitting at home playing Go Fish with Granny.”
I looked down at my knees.
Rhona tapped her ash onto the base of the palm tree. “It’s no fun being the accessory to someone else’s adventure.”
She was watching me shrewdly. My heart squeezed. The disappearance of Sister Teresa had set everyone gossiping, but Isabella’s early departure had been shrugged off as bratty eagerness for a month of sunbathing in Monaco. What had Rhona guessed?
“I’m not her accessory,” I said sullenly.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” Rhona said, replacing her sunglasses.
“Oh.” My cheeks burned. A skewer of guilt probed me under the ribs. Rhona was conspicuously not looking at me, but at the convent gates where Sister Luisa, the new speaking liaison, was intently concentrating on one of Sylvia’s meandering stories.
“I’m really sorry, Rhona,” I said.
She said nothing.
“I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s funny,” I said, conjuring a desperate laugh. “The Dalmatian, the sailing boat. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“I’m not enjoying it,” she said, pinching the end of her cigarette.
I swallowed. I was so exhausted from being sorry it felt like grains of sand were embedded under my skin.