Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
Bernie
I’m not quite sure why I find myself at Maura’s door. I tell myself I’m here to show off Marie’s and Elizabeth’s coats, and to thank Maura again for giving me the warm fur coat that made it all possible. But that’s a brazen lie. I’m here because I need to tell someone what I saw in the dressmaker’s today. I need to talk it through and then maybe I’ll get that poor young girl’s face out of my mind. I need a friend. Maura said we’re friends. I hope to God that’s true.
I knock on her door and wait for an answer. The cool winter’s sun peeks out from between some clouds and tries to melt the snow. It has its work cut out for it, but the gentle heat on the top of my head is wonderful nonetheless. My girls begin to play in the garden and I tell them to be careful and to keep their new coats clean. I knock on the door again and continue to wait. There’s still no answer.
“Nobody’s home.” I sigh. “That’s a pity.” I place my hands on my daughters’ shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I turn toward the road when I catch the curtain twitch from the corner of my eye, and I turn back in time to see Maura let it go and jump away.
“Maura, is that you?”
The curtain sways for a moment before it steadies.
“I saw you,” I shout.
I watch the lacy curtain, white as the snow that’s gathered on the windowsill beneath it.
“Maura,” I call out.
The curtain doesn’t move. The house is a sleeping thing once more. Disappointment hits first, followed by hurt. I really hoped we could be friends. But as I look up and down the road of fine cars and beautiful homes, sprinkled with snow like icing on a cake, I know I don’t belong on this side of town. Even the snow is whiter here.
My feet throb and my ankles hurt. I haven’t eaten yet today and I’m slightly lightheaded. Mostly, I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed that I’m standing outside another woman’s house with her door closed in my face. I don’t understand. She seemed so nice. Her coat is on my back. And she asked me to visit. Those were her exact words.
I decide to knock once more. If she doesn’t want to be friends, I’d like to at least hear why she’s changed her mind.
“I’m not going away.” Knock . “I have all day.” Knock . “I know you’re in there.” Knock .
The girls kick up snow and giggle heartily. The curtain twitches once again and I wave. Seconds later, the front door creaks open and Maura appears in the gap. She’s wearing a headscarf. It’s lilac with a swirly gold pattern running all over. It’s beautiful, but an odd choice for indoors. The scarf is sitting awkwardly on her head, too far forward and almost completely covering her left eye.
“Hello,” she says.
Now that the door is open and I’m face-to-face with her, my words seem to tumble out of my brain but not out of my mouth because I’m not sure what to say. It’s Elizabeth who speaks first.
“I did a wee-wee in a smelly place.”
Maura seems shorter today, if that’s possible, and her skin is flushed and blotchy as if she’s been crying. She is skittish and glances over her shoulder as if there’s something inside her home that she is afraid to take her eyes off of. Her appearance startles me and my words still won’t come. I wait for her to invite us in but she seems equally as lost for words.
“It’s cold,” Marie says.
“My toes hurt,” Elizabeth adds.
Elizabeth and Marie charge past me and Maura steps aside to let them into the house.
“Girls,” I call out sternly, finally finding words.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Maura says at last. “Come in.”
“Can we have more fizzy pop?” Marie asks.
“And tart?” Elizabeth adds.
I cringe, mortified that my girls have lost their manners, but Maura’s lips curl into a half smile.
“I’m afraid I’m all out of pop and tart. But I have some tea and biscuits.”
“I like tea,” Marie says.
“And I like biscuits,” Elizabeth adds.
Maura reaches forward to help me lift the pram up the doorstep. When she bends, her scarf slips, revealing a badly bruised eye. I gasp and she lets go of the pram to fix her scarf. In the kitchen Maura makes tea and opens a packet of Jacob’s fig rolls. Elizabeth takes a bite, scrunches her nose, and spits it into her hand.
“Yuck.”
Maura seems to find Elizabeth’s antics charming.
“That’s all right,” she says, showing Elizabeth where the bin is. “I don’t like them either.”
Maura passes me a small white handkerchief with hand-embroidered flowers. I clean Elizabeth up and warn her to behave herself. When the girls finish their tea, I shoo them into the garden and tell them to enjoy the snow while it lasts. The clouds are parting and the sun is shining high and bright once more.
Maura makes small talk about my girls’ lovely new coats, the weather, and even unpleasant biscuits. I listen and nod, until finally my concern bubbles to the surface and comes out as an accusation.
“Someone hurt you.”
Maura jolts, spilling some tea. It pools on her saucer.
“Oh bother,” she says, and she fetches a cloth to clean up.
“I saw your eye.”
She lifts her cup and begins to dry the saucer.
“Earlier, when your scarf slipped. It’s black and blue.”
“I fell. I tumbled down the stairs. It’s embarrassing, really.”
I look at her, but she won’t meet my gaze. The saucer is dry but she continues wiping.
“The baby?” I say.
She shakes her head.
“Oh no. Maura. Oh, Maura, I’m so sorry.”
I place my hand on hers and she lets the cloth go and flops into the chair behind her.
“I wanted this baby. I wanted it so very much.”
“What happened?”
She shrugs and I can see how painful the memory is for her.
“I’m silly. I’m so silly. Christy and I were talking. And I stepped back. The stairs were right behind me. I tumbled from top to bottom.”
“Oh God. How awful. You must have got such a fright. And here I was almost accusing Dr. Davenport of… well… of the worst. You must think I’m horrible.”
“How long does the bleeding last?” she asks.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never lost a baby.”
“Oh.”
Maura’s pain breaks my heart. It’s raw and recent and the sadness is written across every inch of her. No wonder she didn’t feel like smiling.
“But you can try again.”
“Yes. I suppose.”
“What did Dr. Davenport say? He must be equally as upset. I met a lady just today who told me how wonderful a father he would be.”
Maura exhales until I’m certain there is no air left inside her and I get the feeling I’ve said something to upset her even further.
“He would be a good father, wouldn’t he?” I say.
“Do you think I could cover this with makeup?” She points to her eye, sidestepping my question.
“I think so. Do you have any purple or blue eye shadow?”
Maura shakes her head. “I haven’t worn much makeup since I got married.”
“I never wear makeup,” I say. “I don’t like the stuff much.”
“Oh, I love it,” she says.
I don’t ask her why she doesn’t wear it if she loves it so much. I have a feeling that would be another question she’d rather not answer. And I can’t quite shake the suspicion that there is more to Maura’s story than a simple tumble down the stairs.
“I need to go into town this week,” she says. “I have to pick out delft. It’s very important that I do.”
“Very important delft,” I say, as if I understand.
There’s a sudden scream in the garden, followed by crying. The girls race inside and Marie points to a bloodied knee. I scoop her into my arms and cuddle her. I hold her until her crying turns to sobbing and once she’s ready, I take a look. Maura fetches some cotton wool and hot water and Marie lets her wipe away some gravel and dirt. Maura is gentle and caring and it’s obvious she’ll be a fantastic mother.
“The girls and I could go to town with you tomorrow, if you like?” I say. “We could help you pick out some nice delft?”
Maura hesitates. She seems nervous.
“We could get some makeup too.”
She nods and thanks me.
My girls and I leave with a promise to meet tomorrow outside Switzers at noon. I don’t mention the young girl in the dressmaker’s shop. But I think about her the whole walk home.