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Authors: Ann Patchett
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her head, reopening the file and making yet another mark. "Dead," she said. "Yes, of course."
Then suddenly Sister Bernadette was back and leading me up the stairs to my room. What if he had been dead? That would make me a fairly sympathetic case, a pregnant girl with a dead lover, that deserved at least a few words. Sister Bernadette opened a door to what must have once been a lovely room. Now the worn bedspreads and thinning carpet seemed depressing. At least there was a bed, which meant I could sleep.
"You'll be sharing a room with Angela," she said. "She's a sweet girl, you'll do fine with her. You get some rest now, Rose. After a while I'll bring you up a tray."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. I was suddenly too tired to say anything, even to thank her.
"You'll be fine," she said, and patted my shoulder.
I dreamed of my mother at the cosmetics counter that afternoon, an endless line of women waiting as she tiredly told each of them how to apply their make-up. When I woke up I was crying, as I would do for many years whenever I dreamed about my mother, and there was a dark-haired girl sitting on the edge of the twin bed opposite mine, watching me cry.
"Hey," she said quietly. "You okay?"
I wiped my eyes on the corner of the sheet.
"You don't need to do that. Here, look here." She handed me a box of Kleenex and I took one. "I'm Angie," she said. "I'm your roommate. Did you have a bad dream, or are you just crying?"
"It was a dream," I said, and blew my nose, but I couldn't seem to stop crying. It wasn't anything much, but it wouldn't stop.
"I wake up that way sometimes," she said, "lately, you know. I didn't used to." She leaned across the gap of our two beds. "It makes me feel a little crazy, like there's all this stuff going on in my head that I don't know about. It seems like a person ought to at least know what was going on in their own head."
"It seems that way," I said, and sat up. This was two times in a row now I'd woken up with someone watching me. I was starting to think that I was more interesting in my sleep.
"You're not showing at all," she said, looking at my stomach. "I'm not much, but you can see it." She pulled her thin dress tight across her stomach to show me the little roundness that was there. "We must be pretty close together. That's how they decide on who rooms with who. If they put a real pregnant girl in with a new girl, the new girl freaks out when the other one leaves, or she gets real scared about having the baby and all. Someone said that once a girl tried to do herself when her roommate had her baby."
"Kill herself?"
"No, no, kill the baby, you know. She drank a whole bottle of castor oil. Can you believe that?"
I said I couldn't.
"Well, who knows what's true around here. The stories you hear. They told me your name was Martha."
"It's Rose."
"That's just the kind of thing I'm talking about. Rose. That's a lot prettier. Where did you come from before?"
"California." My head hurt, and I had that feeling that I'd been having lately, like the room was rocking.
"California? Well, why did you come all the way out here? Don't they have places like this in California?"
"I wanted to get away," I said. I wasn't quite up to being questioned. I wasn't quite up to anything, so I lay back down on the bed.
"Did something bad happen to you?"
"My husband died," I said.
Angie began to giggle a little, and she covered her mouth with her hand. "I sure hope you didn't tell Mother Corinne that."
"Why not?"
"Because that's what everybody says, stupid. Everybody says they had a really great husband but he died, in a car crash or something. Except now girls say he got shipped out to Vietnam and stepped on a land mine. Usually one of the older girls tries to tip you off before your interview. They say it's best if you just look down at your hands and act all sad and penitent."
"Great."
"Don't feel bad, you figure things out here in no time. I've only been here eight days and it
Then suddenly Sister Bernadette was back and leading me up the stairs to my room. What if he had been dead? That would make me a fairly sympathetic case, a pregnant girl with a dead lover, that deserved at least a few words. Sister Bernadette opened a door to what must have once been a lovely room. Now the worn bedspreads and thinning carpet seemed depressing. At least there was a bed, which meant I could sleep.
"You'll be sharing a room with Angela," she said. "She's a sweet girl, you'll do fine with her. You get some rest now, Rose. After a while I'll bring you up a tray."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. I was suddenly too tired to say anything, even to thank her.
"You'll be fine," she said, and patted my shoulder.
I dreamed of my mother at the cosmetics counter that afternoon, an endless line of women waiting as she tiredly told each of them how to apply their make-up. When I woke up I was crying, as I would do for many years whenever I dreamed about my mother, and there was a dark-haired girl sitting on the edge of the twin bed opposite mine, watching me cry.
"Hey," she said quietly. "You okay?"
I wiped my eyes on the corner of the sheet.
"You don't need to do that. Here, look here." She handed me a box of Kleenex and I took one. "I'm Angie," she said. "I'm your roommate. Did you have a bad dream, or are you just crying?"
"It was a dream," I said, and blew my nose, but I couldn't seem to stop crying. It wasn't anything much, but it wouldn't stop.
"I wake up that way sometimes," she said, "lately, you know. I didn't used to." She leaned across the gap of our two beds. "It makes me feel a little crazy, like there's all this stuff going on in my head that I don't know about. It seems like a person ought to at least know what was going on in their own head."
"It seems that way," I said, and sat up. This was two times in a row now I'd woken up with someone watching me. I was starting to think that I was more interesting in my sleep.
"You're not showing at all," she said, looking at my stomach. "I'm not much, but you can see it." She pulled her thin dress tight across her stomach to show me the little roundness that was there. "We must be pretty close together. That's how they decide on who rooms with who. If they put a real pregnant girl in with a new girl, the new girl freaks out when the other one leaves, or she gets real scared about having the baby and all. Someone said that once a girl tried to do herself when her roommate had her baby."
"Kill herself?"
"No, no, kill the baby, you know. She drank a whole bottle of castor oil. Can you believe that?"
I said I couldn't.
"Well, who knows what's true around here. The stories you hear. They told me your name was Martha."
"It's Rose."
"That's just the kind of thing I'm talking about. Rose. That's a lot prettier. Where did you come from before?"
"California." My head hurt, and I had that feeling that I'd been having lately, like the room was rocking.
"California? Well, why did you come all the way out here? Don't they have places like this in California?"
"I wanted to get away," I said. I wasn't quite up to being questioned. I wasn't quite up to anything, so I lay back down on the bed.
"Did something bad happen to you?"
"My husband died," I said.
Angie began to giggle a little, and she covered her mouth with her hand. "I sure hope you didn't tell Mother Corinne that."
"Why not?"
"Because that's what everybody says, stupid. Everybody says they had a really great husband but he died, in a car crash or something. Except now girls say he got shipped out to Vietnam and stepped on a land mine. Usually one of the older girls tries to tip you off before your interview. They say it's best if you just look down at your hands and act all sad and penitent."
"Great."
"Don't feel bad, you figure things out here in no time. I've only been here eight days and it
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