Clever Little Thing

Chapter 15

15.

On Monday morning, I woke up longing for the oily bread. The thought of any other food nauseated me, but I was pierced by hunger for this one specific thing. Irina said she’d return today, but we didn’t settle on a time. I’d felt so sated when I said goodbye I hadn’t thought to ask her for more bread.

But you couldn’t ask for a gift, especially not one like that. Surely, she’d understand I needed more. I wanted to google the recipe, but I couldn’t remember the name.

I dropped Stella off at the school gate, and for once, she let me drop a kiss on her head. As she walked in, I noticed that, even though she’d finally worn the school dress and brushed her hair, she still looked out of place. Her hair seemed greasy, and she walked with shuffling steps.

I walked home quickly, reminding myself of how hard mornings used to be. I should be rejoicing at this change. But at home, I couldn’t settle to any activity. All I wanted was the bread. I called Irina, but it went to her voicemail. I wanted to growl, “Bring more bread now.” I forced myself to take a breath. “When you come over later, I mean, if you are coming, I would love some more of that bread, if you have any.”

To distract myself, I folded laundry. I used the duvet case as an envelope for the pillowcases and fitted sheet, so each sheet set formed its own neat little package. I kept checking my phone: nothing from Irina. In my column, I’d railed against people who say when parting, “Let’s have coffee sometime,” or “We should go for a drink.” Charlotte Says: If you’re not intending to follow through on plans, then don’t make them. Bite your tongue. Had Irina simply said she’d come over out of fake politeness?

I left another message with Irina. “Not sure if you got my first message, but I thought you said you’d come over today? With more bread, if you have any.” The nausea had become so intense that the room seemed to tip sideways. Before I staggered off to pick Stella up from school, I left a third message: “Can you please, please come over and bring some bread?”

She came at 5:00 p.m., when I was in despair. I practically snatched the muslin-wrapped bundle from her arms. “Irina!” Stella ran to the door. “More nazook!” she sang, having noticed the troika tin at the top of Irina’s bag. In the kitchen, Irina set some nazook on a plate for Stella without asking me if this was OK, but I liked it. I liked that she made herself at home and fed my child. School moms asked if we had special dietary requirements before offering us any food. When Pete’s mom, Dianne, visited, she always asked, “Is this OK?” and “Would it be OK if?” before giving Stella anything. And then there was my own mother, who honestly would never have thought to prepare a snack for Stella.

The bread was still warm, even more delicious than before. Irina watched me finish the bread and Stella inhale the nazook. She glowed, as if she were a mom watching her kid guzzle kale. Today her hair had an impressively luxuriant chignon, and I thought it was probably a hairpiece. Where could you even buy such things? She had on full makeup, a black cardigan and white blouse and elastic-waist black skirt. Her eyebrows were carefully penciled.

After I finished the bread, I felt self-conscious, grease on my face. I brushed the crumbs on the table into the palm of my hand. I’d been so desperate for the bread that I hadn’t even bothered with a plate. I shook out the square of muslin she’d used to wrap the bread. It was like the swaddling wraps I’d used on Stella when she was a baby, although this square was as fine as a cobweb from being washed many times. I realized suddenly what it meant that the bread was warm: Irina had made the oily bread again. For me, she had again rolled the bread out seven times. That was why it had taken her so long to come over. My eyes watered, and Irina patted my hand.

After the bread, I couldn’t stop yawning as we sat at the kitchen table. Irina pulled out her tapestry bag, which she had stowed under the table. She opened it to show me that it was full of bright yarn. “I teach Stella to crochet,” she announced. “In my family, girls learn at three, four years old. Already is very late to start.”

“That’s so nice of you, but I’m not sure if it’s really her kind of thing,” I began. She didn’t like instruction; she liked to do things her own way. But Stella dusted the last flakes of nazook off her fingers and jumped off the chair to peer into the bag. “What are we going to make?”

“Whatever you want,” Irina said, pulling out some crochet hooks, not the plastic kind. These looked like steel, antique. “Long ago, I learn with these same hooks,” Irina said. “Belong to my mother’s mother’s mother.” The two of them moved into the living room and settled onto the sofa. Stella seemed absorbed in Irina’s instruction.

As Stella’s needle found a rhythm, the phrase mother’s mother’s mother repeated in my head. The nausea was gone, and the most ordinary sensations felt luxurious. I went upstairs and got into bed, and the sheets had never felt so soft, as if they’d been hand-washed in a stream and dried in the sun.

···

When I woke up, it was 6:30 p.m. I panicked at the realization that I hadn’t started dinner yet, but then I heard Irina and Stella murmuring in the kitchen. The sound of chopping followed, the click of the gas igniting on the stove. I dozed. Still later, a smell crept into the room: rich and savory, better than any scent that you could buy.

I followed the smell to the kitchen. Irina stirred something in my Le Creuset Dutch oven, a wedding gift I hadn’t used in years. “Gomgush,” she announced incomprehensibly, her cheeks pink from the heat. “Special banquet stew.”

I knew then what that rich, savory smell was. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Stella should have told you. We don’t eat—” Then I stopped. Stella was laying the table with cutlery and napkins. She folded each napkin into a careful triangle. I smelled mint, maybe, and paprika. Something about it was familiar, like it was the home cooking of my childhood, although in my actual childhood, Edith had merely opened tins and packets. The kitchen felt cozy, with steam-clouded windows. Would it hurt if Stella ate meat this once? This was better than scarfing cold french fries behind her closed door. On the table was Stella’s crochet project, a cream-colored doily, already half-finished. Didn’t she learn to crochet only a couple of hours ago? “That’s amazing,” I said.

“Beginner work,” Irina corrected me. Stella appeared unbothered by this criticism, which was weird because she’d grown up having me say, “Good job,” even if all she did was go down the slide.

“Irina says I won’t win the contest of the seven beauties,” Stella said as Irina carried the pot to the table.

I was confused. “A beauty contest?”

“Crochet,” Irina corrected. “Girls must try to crochet the best stockings in shortest time.”

“Ah, that’s…”

“Now eat,” Irina said. Stella sat down, and I suddenly realized what governed whether she would sit at the table for a meal: Irina’s presence. But I would puzzle this out later—for now I focused on the miracle of Stella eating stew. She was gobbling it up. I ate the carrots out of my serving as I looked on.

“Now she grow,” said Irina with satisfaction. I smiled at her. I wasn’t about to start eating meat, but maybe I could work a little harder to make home-cooked food and to make dinner special. We relied too much on readymade food from our favorite gourmet shop. It was decent quality, but it had no soul. Was that why Stella would no longer eat at the table when it was just the two of us?

I heard the front door opening, and then Pete came in, looking tired but handsome with a five o’clock shadow. For a moment I regretted making our downstairs into one huge room, because there was no hallway in which I could intercept him and explain what was going on.

“Baby, I can’t believe you’re back already!” I went to hug him. “This is Irina, Blanka’s mother.”

Irina stood, wiping her hands on the tea towel she had tucked into her waistband as an apron. She shook hands. Pete was about a foot taller than her. Irina had wiped her brow at some point and smudged her right eyebrow. I felt a pang for her.

“Hello, Stella Bella,” Pete said, and Stella got up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and stood in front of him as if expecting a hug. Pete stared at her for a minute and then put his arms around her. Our eyes met: This was a miracle, she never submitted to hugs. But also, what was Irina doing here? And why was our daughter eating meat? We’d always been lucky that we were a couple who could communicate everything with their eyes.

“Excuse us a minute,” I said to Irina. I followed him upstairs into our bedroom, where he opened his suitcase and pulled out the various zippered pouches in which he kept his stuff organized when he traveled.

I sat on the bed. “I thought the meeting was this morning. How are you back already?”

“Nathan persuaded the key players to meet us for golf on Sunday instead.”

“How was it?”

“Good,” said Pete firmly. “It’s great we touched base with them, but we need to circle back and confirm the key deliverables.” When Pete took a work trip with Nathan, he always talked like this afterwards.

“Sounds like they want to do a deal! That’s amazing.”

“We’re moving in the right direction,” Pete said.

“Cautiously excited, I get it,” I said.

Pete scratched at his beard. “Stella eating meat?”

“Irina made the stew,” I said, “and Stella seems to love it, so I decided to let her have it this once. You know, she had that day where she didn’t eat, so I really want her to eat.”

“Fine,” Pete said. “It’s dead now, I guess. Do you think this visit is a little—well, odd? We don’t know her, but all of a sudden, she’s making dinner in our kitchen?”

“I felt sorry for her. Well, yesterday that was why she came over.”

“She was here yesterday as well?” He emptied the dirty-laundry pouch into the hamper. “You’re seeing quite a lot of her.”

“Why not?” I said, even though I understood perfectly well what he was saying. I hadn’t made any new friends for a while. Why would I choose to befriend an older woman who didn’t speak English very well and had different values?

“Sorry, baby. You’re right. I’m just tired,” Pete said. “I was looking forward to having you guys to myself. I don’t want to sound harsh, but maybe we could have her visit again another day. Can’t you use that ‘before you leave’ thing from your column to get rid of her? ‘Before you leave, I want to say thank you for this delicious stew.’?”

In “Charlotte Says,” I’d written: When guests outstay their welcome, a subtle hint is better than shoving them out the door. Simply drop the phrase “before you leave” into conversation.

But I didn’t want to do that. Irina made Stella play with a doll and take a bath. She taught her to crochet. I wasn’t going to ask her to leave, even obliquely.

Pete read my face. “You’re right, we can’t throw her out. It’s just a little strange that she’s so nice. I feel bad. Blanka was with us for such a long time, but we hardly knew her.”

“Maybe Irina needs us.” Also, I needed her. “She really cares about Stella.”

It was rare to care that much about someone outside your family. I’d learned that the hard way when I visited Maureen at the care home, not long after I learned she was there. A nurse showed me to where Maureen sat in the lounge. Her hair was still dyed a harsh blond, just as she’d always had it, but she’d lost weight. I could see the ropy muscles in her neck. A middle-aged woman sat with her, round and comfortable-looking, like Maureen used to be: Maureen’s daughter. “Sharon,” she said, shaking my hand. I’d emailed to tell her I was coming.

I sat down in a chair next to Maureen. Like hers, it had a busy checked pattern that wouldn’t show stains. Maureen’s hands fluttered, plucking the air.

“Charlotte’s here, Mum!” Sharon said. “Remember Charlotte? Edith’s daughter.”

Maureen jutted her chin in what was either a nod or an involuntary movement. “I’ll get us some tea,” Sharon said. “Leave you two to catch up.”

Maureen’s hands used to be so deft: she could chiffonade parsley twice as fast as I could. I wished I could make her hands rest. I pulled out the beribboned box of macarons I’d brought and showed them to Maureen. “Fancy enough for the Ooh La La Bonjour restaurant, don’t you think?”

Nothing. Maureen blinked and tried to get up. “Better finish the ironing,” she muttered. “Can’t stay past four.”

I put my hand on hers. Did she think I was Edith? “Sit down. The ironing’s all done.”

Maureen sat, but her hands still fussed.

“Sharon seems nice,” I said hopelessly.

Maureen blinked. “When you’re not sleeping, you can go right off the rails. Sharon’s got the baby blues. Just like you, she’s on her own.”

She did think I was Edith. “I’m managing just fine,” I said. “Sharon will be OK too.” If Sharon had had the baby blues, she was long recovered: she’d mentioned her teenagers when we emailed.

Sharon returned with a tray of tea. She poured it, and asked me, “What are your other plans while you’re visiting from California?”

“I just came over for this.” Edith was in Yorkshire, delving into the Bront? archives, and had said we’d have to catch each other next time.

“Just for this,” Sharon marveled. “That’s very kind of you. Very kind indeed.”

“I wanted to come.”

“It’s above and beyond. None of Mum’s other clients have offered to visit, let alone their kids.”

My insides twisted. Maureen had never told Sharon a thing about me. That time with her had meant so much to me, but to her, it wasn’t worth a passing mention. I was just the daughter of someone whose house she cleaned. I didn’t stay long after that, and when I kissed Maureen’s powdery cheek goodbye, she gave that little nod again, as if I were merely a stranger who’d let her pass through a door first. That was the last time I saw her. She died of pneumonia, just before Stella was born, and I spent three days watching Neighbours, imagining she was by my side.

“Earth to Charlotte?” Pete sat down next to me. “You OK?”

“I was just thinking how good Irina’s stew smells,” I said. Its rich, complex aroma penetrated even up to our bedroom. It didn’t matter to Irina that we weren’t her family.

Pete sniffed. “It does smell good. And you know what? I’m being a jerk. That poor woman just lost her daughter. I haven’t even offered her my condolences.”

“You sent those lilies,” I said. “Anyway, you can’t say anything right now—Stella still doesn’t know about Blanka.”

“Irina’s on board with that?”

“It works out because she only uses the present tense when she talks about Blanka,” I said.

Back in the kitchen, Pete declined stew but sat at the table with Stella while she ate a second helping and Irina looked on with approval. Stella usually picked at her food, but now she was cramming it in. Pete cooked bacon over the fire on our camping trips, cheating on his vegetarianism in homage to his dad, but otherwise, Stella had never tasted meat. Watching her, I wondered if she wasn’t a picky eater at all. She was a carnivore. “Blanka loves this dish,” Irina said.

There was silence while Stella ate. Pete rolled his neck, probably stiff after the long flight from Atlanta. It was understandable he wasn’t thrilled to have to make conversation with a stranger when he was tired. Then I thought of something. I showed Pete the muslin cloth in which Irina had brought the bread. “Irina used this to wrap some bread she brought me. That’s cool, isn’t it? Her own reusable packaging.”

“Plastic is waste of money,” Irina said. “Cover bowl with plate, wrap bread in towel.”

“Down with plastic,” Pete agreed, relaxing. “Stella hasn’t enjoyed her dinner so much in a long while. Thank you, Irina.” He smiled at her, and I felt an unaccustomed ripple of pleasure. The four of us sitting around the table, Stella spooning up a proper meal without demanding we separate the components or taking minuscule bites.

“When can you come again?” I asked Irina, without planning to.

She smiled. “I decide. I come weekday afternoons until you feel better.”

“That would be amazing. Are you sure?” My heart lifted. “I know this is a lot to ask, but would you be comfortable getting her from school?” If Irina did pickup, I wouldn’t have to see Emmy and the other FOMHS moms.

Irina nodded. “I get her at school. I take break from hospice. I bring bread too.”

I still couldn’t quite believe it. “Really, every weekday?”

She touched my shoulder. “Is good for me. Child is hope. You know?”

“You can relax and gestate,” Pete said to me. I nodded. I could nurture my body so I would have a healthy pregnancy, and this wonderful woman would look after my child, and not like a babysitter, but like a grandparent.

···

I’d told Irina I’d walk her out. On the porch, I paused. “Stella doesn’t know Blanka passed away.”

Irina peered at me. Maybe she didn’t understand the euphemism. “Stella doesn’t know Blanka’s dead,” I whispered, even though Stella was upstairs. “Would it be OK not to mention it to her?”

Irina looked almost savage for a moment. “I should say Blanka is fine, Blanka goes on holiday,” she clarified.

“Don’t lie,” I said. “Just don’t talk about it.” I realized that my request was both completely reasonable and absurd. Or rather, it was too much. I could ask her to look after my child or I could ask her not to mention her dead daughter, but not both.

Irina set off down the porch steps. Halfway down, she turned. “Children need truth.”

My skin prickled. Surely it was up to me to decide what truth my child needed and when. But Irina was already walking away. Because of the language barrier, she’d probably sounded harsher, more judgmental than she’d intended.

···

When I went back inside, Stella and Pete were playing Connect Four. I poured myself a glass of iced water and sipped it slowly. Before I had Stella, my friends with kids told me that going for a pedicure would become a rare luxury. With a child like Stella, pedicures were gone forever. Their kids might scream if they didn’t feel like a bath, but they didn’t thrash about on the floor until their head thwacked the base of the sink and bled.

It was a miracle that Stella was getting better, and I would do what it took to keep Irina on board. Maybe I needed to rethink my parenting. Plus, Irina had barely left and I was already feeling sick again. When Pete said, “Relax and gestate,” he’d made it sound like the two verbs were equivalent. There was nothing relaxing about feeling sick 24-7. I was irked, but told myself to let it go. Pete only wanted to protect me, and our new baby.

When Pete came into the kitchen to make tea, I said very quietly, “You know, I think we should tell her the truth about Blanka. It might be good for her to experience something like this.”

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “She’s going to ask a lot of questions.”

I took another sip of water and thought. When our koi suffocated because we didn’t notice the pump got turned off, Stella cried until she vomited, and after that, the sight of the pond upset her so much we had to have it filled in. But that was a year ago, and though this might make Stella sad and even angry, if it meant Irina could keep coming, it was worth it. “Then we’ll answer them.”

We went into the living room, and Pete pulled Stella onto his lap. “Sweetie, we’ve got some bad news about Blanka.” He paused. “She died.”

Stella pressed her lips tightly together, and I felt the way I did when I saw her struggling through the water learning to doggy-paddle, her mouth and chin sometimes sinking below the surface, her little face set. I wanted to jump in and save her, but I knew I had to let her enter the deep end alone.

I blinked, and tears fell. But Stella didn’t cry. “Are you sure?”

Pete nodded. “We’re so sorry. I expect you have a lot of questions.”

But she shook her head. She looked so expressionless that I said, “Do you understand, honey? Blanka’s dead?”

She stared at me. “Oh yes.”

Those two words again, Blanka’s words. But now they didn’t seem like a way of agreeing. They seemed like a way of silencing me.

Her reaction was so odd. How could she freak out about a slug or a koi carp but then take Blanka’s death in stride? Maybe she cared so much about other living things because she didn’t care about people. Maybe on some level she wasn’t capable of truly feeling—but no, I wouldn’t let myself finish the thought. “It’s a big shock,” I told Stella. “It must be a big shock.”

She wriggled out of Pete’s embrace and shrugged. “I’m not dead.”

Pete and I looked at each other, flummoxed. “I guess she needs time to digest it,” Pete said. I nodded, still parsing her previous words. “ I’m not dead.” Was she saying Blanka’s death didn’t matter, because she, Stella, was still alive? I thought she’d ask if I would die, if Pete would, if she would. Why had a child died before the parent? And what, exactly, had happened to Blanka? But she didn’t ask any questions at all.

Stella had been so lively when Irina was here. But now, when it was just the three of us, there was something different about her, something I couldn’t put my finger on—a vacant quality. An absence that was also a presence. Stella retrieved her half-finished doily from the dining table and moved to the sofa to work on it, barely glancing down as her needle nipped in and out. It really was remarkable she’d only learned that day.