“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.