rabbit,” Edie guessed.
“That was too easy. How about this one?”
“It looks like a snake.”
“That’s because it
is
a snake. But what
kind
of a snake?” Olive tried to stump her sister.
They soon tired of shadow puppets, and Grace began reading to them, by the glow of the lamp, from their favorite book—their only book.
“Let me tell a story, Mama,” begged Edie.
“Oh, Edie,” Olive fumed. “You don’t tell good stories.”
“I do so.”
“You do not.”
“Girls,” Grace Habig said in a short but emphatic reprimand. “Edie, you can tell a very quick story. So why don’t you start?”
“Once upon a time, there was a princess and a goblin and a boy named Curdie,” Edie began.
“That’s the same story that Mama was reading. You really are a pickle,” Olive complained to her sister. “You’re as dumb as a pickle.”
“Olive, we don’t talk like that in this house,” Grace wearily chastised. “That was a good little story, Edie, and thank you. Now both of you close your eyes and I’ll keep reading.”
The princess got lost again. Ohhhhh, shivered Edie, thinking of Jimmy McCray.
Olive fell asleep easily as her mother read, but it always took Edie longer.
The book was too long to read in one night, so when Edie’s breathing became slow and measured, Grace closed the book and blew out the kerosene lamp.
She lay down next to, but not touching, her husband. Edward, propped up against the cool wall with two pillows, held his bloodied handkerchief in his fist. His head lolled to one side, and Grace thought,
That can’t be comfortable
, but lying down brought on the coughing again.
“It has gone into brown lung,” the doctor had told her this afternoon, taking her aside and talking quietly, shaking his head sadly.
“Well, it’s better to know than not know,” Grace had replied. She didn’t think she’d ever wish mill fever back, but brown lung was much worse. Thankfully, the doctor had finally given Edward something to help him sleep.
After Grace nodded off, Edie stirred.
She opened her eyes wide, startled. How did she get underground? Had the goblins taken her? She lay still, afraid to move.
With the cellar windows open, Edie listened to Olive’s quiet breathing, the summer sound of cicadas, and the lap of the creek at the end of their yard. A light sleeper, Edie also heard the familiar sounds of the eleven o’clock factory whistle, a car shifting into a higher gear, a midnight train rumbling by in the distance. Slowly, she sank into dark oblivion, as soft and cool as the bridal silk her mother kept in a bolt wrapped in blue paper.
Sometime during the night, Olive pulled up the chenille spread to cover them both. They slept on, tangled together like puppies.
4
FEBRUARY
Raspberry and Blood Orange
Dawn was still hours away. The only building with lights on was Rainbow Cake, a sweet beacon in the night.
Norb was taking a batch of breakfast pastries out of the oven. He was not surprised to see me so early. The bakery was where I went to push “play” instead of that mental rewind button that always looped back in the same order: Luke and our marriage . . . Dad . . . Where my life was going . . . or not going.
And now, Jett.
When I woke up this morning to find her gone, I felt a mix of emotions I was still sorting out. I was sad that she didn’t really trust me or feel comfortable staying where it was safe. Yet I admired her for being so tough and independent. I was angry at the asshole who’d hurt her and still stunned that I had seen it happen, literally in my rearview mirror, on our main street. Added to that was the confusion as to what I should do about it all. I lurched toward the coffee bar. Maybe caffeine would help.
I ground the dark-roasted coffee beans, tamped down the grounds, and fired up the La Marzocco. I made myself a large latte, foaming the milk. When I tried to guide the froth into a plucky new leaf pattern, it drifted into a lopsided
“That was too easy. How about this one?”
“It looks like a snake.”
“That’s because it
is
a snake. But what
kind
of a snake?” Olive tried to stump her sister.
They soon tired of shadow puppets, and Grace began reading to them, by the glow of the lamp, from their favorite book—their only book.
“Let me tell a story, Mama,” begged Edie.
“Oh, Edie,” Olive fumed. “You don’t tell good stories.”
“I do so.”
“You do not.”
“Girls,” Grace Habig said in a short but emphatic reprimand. “Edie, you can tell a very quick story. So why don’t you start?”
“Once upon a time, there was a princess and a goblin and a boy named Curdie,” Edie began.
“That’s the same story that Mama was reading. You really are a pickle,” Olive complained to her sister. “You’re as dumb as a pickle.”
“Olive, we don’t talk like that in this house,” Grace wearily chastised. “That was a good little story, Edie, and thank you. Now both of you close your eyes and I’ll keep reading.”
The princess got lost again. Ohhhhh, shivered Edie, thinking of Jimmy McCray.
Olive fell asleep easily as her mother read, but it always took Edie longer.
The book was too long to read in one night, so when Edie’s breathing became slow and measured, Grace closed the book and blew out the kerosene lamp.
She lay down next to, but not touching, her husband. Edward, propped up against the cool wall with two pillows, held his bloodied handkerchief in his fist. His head lolled to one side, and Grace thought,
That can’t be comfortable
, but lying down brought on the coughing again.
“It has gone into brown lung,” the doctor had told her this afternoon, taking her aside and talking quietly, shaking his head sadly.
“Well, it’s better to know than not know,” Grace had replied. She didn’t think she’d ever wish mill fever back, but brown lung was much worse. Thankfully, the doctor had finally given Edward something to help him sleep.
After Grace nodded off, Edie stirred.
She opened her eyes wide, startled. How did she get underground? Had the goblins taken her? She lay still, afraid to move.
With the cellar windows open, Edie listened to Olive’s quiet breathing, the summer sound of cicadas, and the lap of the creek at the end of their yard. A light sleeper, Edie also heard the familiar sounds of the eleven o’clock factory whistle, a car shifting into a higher gear, a midnight train rumbling by in the distance. Slowly, she sank into dark oblivion, as soft and cool as the bridal silk her mother kept in a bolt wrapped in blue paper.
Sometime during the night, Olive pulled up the chenille spread to cover them both. They slept on, tangled together like puppies.
4
FEBRUARY
Raspberry and Blood Orange
Dawn was still hours away. The only building with lights on was Rainbow Cake, a sweet beacon in the night.
Norb was taking a batch of breakfast pastries out of the oven. He was not surprised to see me so early. The bakery was where I went to push “play” instead of that mental rewind button that always looped back in the same order: Luke and our marriage . . . Dad . . . Where my life was going . . . or not going.
And now, Jett.
When I woke up this morning to find her gone, I felt a mix of emotions I was still sorting out. I was sad that she didn’t really trust me or feel comfortable staying where it was safe. Yet I admired her for being so tough and independent. I was angry at the asshole who’d hurt her and still stunned that I had seen it happen, literally in my rearview mirror, on our main street. Added to that was the confusion as to what I should do about it all. I lurched toward the coffee bar. Maybe caffeine would help.
I ground the dark-roasted coffee beans, tamped down the grounds, and fired up the La Marzocco. I made myself a large latte, foaming the milk. When I tried to guide the froth into a plucky new leaf pattern, it drifted into a lopsided
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