Chapter III #4
“Looking forward to it,” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker Aunt Bea had probably had for thirty years, then sat at the kitchen table as she transferred the croissants to a plate.
She brought them over still steaming and set them in front of me, then got a jar of some locally made jam and stuck a spoon in it.
“You don’t need anything on them, I’m telling you, they’re phenomenal on their own,” she said. “But I also love this jam. Blackberry. Who doesn’t love blackberries? Show me a person who doesn’t love blackberries.”
“I can’t think of anyone,” I said.
“Exactly.”
She grabbed her coffee and took a seat, putting her elbows on the table and staring me full in the face until I took one of the croissants, so warm it was almost too hot to hold, and had a bite.
“Howy thit,” I said, my mouth full of flaky, buttery goodness.
“I know,” she said. “I told you. Now try the jam.”
The croissant was maybe the best thing I had ever tasted in my entire sixteen years on the planet.
The jam was a close second. I was on my second one by the time Bernie and Mom came downstairs; Bernie’s eyes lit up when she saw the croissants and she fell into the seat next to me, sighing dramatically.
“These croissants are why I forgive you for dropping me off in the middle of nowhere,” Bernadette told Mom.
“This is hardly the middle of nowhere,” Aunt Bea said.
“Yesterday I went for a run and I didn’t see another person for three miles,” Bernie said. She was slicing open her croissant for better jam application.
“You are absolutely full of it,” Aunt Bea said.
“You run?” I asked.
“I run,” Bernadette confirmed. “My captor said I must do one physical activity per day. So I run three miles, then collapse and cry on the front lawn until she comes and drags me into the shower.”
“That’s more or less accurate,” Aunt Bea said. “Except, sometimes we go hiking.”
“Wow, two weeks in Vermont and you’re a regular athlete,” I said.
“Has it been two weeks?” Bernie said with some surprise. “My captor also doesn’t let me use my phone or watch the news, and she blacks out the date on the newspapers with Sharpie.”
“None of that is true,” Aunt Bea said, ripping a small piece off her croissant and throwing it at Bernadette’s face. “Tell them about all the nice things we’ve done, you monster.”
“Oh, there’s a great vintage store,” Bernadette said, perking up. “My captor has given me a small allowance, with which I’ve bought some seriously cool new swag.”
“We’ll pay you back,” Mom said to Aunt Bea.
Aunt Bea waved her hand, like she was swatting a bug away.
“Tish, tosh,” she said. “Best two weeks of my life. You should send all the girls here, one by one. But send them on the bus next time. Less driving for you.” She winked at Mom.
Then, to me, she said, “Would you like to stay here? During the summer maybe?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Unless you make me run three miles a day.”
“It’s all about the give and take here,” Bernie said. “You’ll also have to dust.” She fake-shuddered.
I surveyed the table. Mom looked really, really pleased. Aunt Bea looked content and happy. Bernadette looked glowing. If I had a mirror, I imagined I’d look a bit like all three of them combined.
Later that morning Mom went for a hike, Aunt Bea went to teach a class, and Bernie and I headed to Church Street, tucking ourselves into the corner of a small café and ordering two steaming hot chocolates.
“It’s an art interpretation class,” Bernie said. “I’ve gone to it a few times; it’s really good. They’re learning about John Singer Sargent. Aunt Bea calls him the ‘eternal boy crush of art students everywhere.’”
“Should we have gone?”
“I considered it, but ultimately I thought our time would be better spent getting hot chocolate, vintage shopping, and wandering around aimlessly.”
“I do love wandering around aimlessly.”
“I know this about you.”
I thought of Evelyn then, of walking across the park with her to get to school, of the way we could walk in silence the entire time, then each have the same thought at the same time, look at each other and smile, a moment of sister intuition, of sister ESP, of sister mind reading.
I wondered what she was doing now. I felt terribly guilty for abandoning her.
“Don’t be weird, Winnie,” Bernadette said (another moment of sister ESP). “Everything’s fine.”
“What if it’s not fine, though?” I responded. “What if it’s really, really not fine?”
“What’s not fine?” Bernie pressed. “Name one thing.”
“Global warming.”
“Name two things.”
“Evelyn’s in love with Henry.”
I blurted it out before I meant to, the words taking on a life of their own, becoming slippery and wet and way too eager to make themselves known.
Weakly, I added, “She made me promise not to tell you.”
Bernadette took a positively languid sip of her hot chocolate, set the mug back down on the saucer and said, “You’re really not the most observant.”
“You know?”
“Of course I know,” Bernie said. “Clara and I both know. We’ve known for, like, six months.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You didn’t tell me, either.”
“I’m telling you right now!”
“And what’s your point exactly? What’s the big terrible thing here?”
“She isn’t going to leave,” I said, my voice suddenly too loud, catching an unfortunate lull in the general din of the café.
I cleared my throat, scooted my chair closer to Bernadette, and tried to give her a look that conveyed the severity of the situation.
She looked rather blankly back at me, so I assumed my telecommunication wasn’t working properly.
“Like, ever. She isn’t going to leave the house, ever.
No college. No traveling. No life, no anything. ”
Bernie’s brows furrowed just a smidge. “What do you mean? Did she tell you that?”
“She’s in love love,” I said. “Like serious love.”
“Well, sure, but—”
“And if you were in love love, would you go away to college or get married to someone else or would you stay with the person you loved?”
“I never really considered…”
“That this would affect the rest of her life? That Evelyn would sacrifice everything just so she could stay in the attic of our brownstone forever?”
“I guess … no. No. I did not consider that.”
“I’m worried about her, Bernie,” I said. “She’s not acting like herself. She’s acting so strange and heartbroken and lost.”
“I didn’t realize, I thought it was just…”
“A phase?”
“No, you’re right … Evelyn doesn’t go through phases.”
“So what do we do?”
“What can we do?”
“Can we do anything?”
“I’ll think about it,” Bernadette said. “I guess I have to think about it…”
“Are you feeling like…”
“A horrible sister?”
“Me, too.”
“We’re not, though,” Bernie insisted. “At least, I don’t think we are. This is just … a weird situation. Who could have predicted this?”
“Clara, maybe.”
“But she didn’t.”
“She didn’t.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
For a moment we were quiet. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the café block out any other thoughts.
A man with an unnecessarily loud voice ordered a dirty chai latte.
A woman sneezed. A baby whined. A table full of young girls giggled to themselves.
The old-fashioned register made a satisfying clink.
The world went on around us. Wasn’t it weird how everything didn’t just stop when you wanted it to? Just give me a break, for the love of—
“Are you almost done?” Bernadette said, reaching over and nudging my hand. “Let’s go shopping. It’s too hot in here. I’m going to claw my own skin off.”
“Yeah,” I said, and finished the rest of my hot chocolate in one long sip. “Ditto.”
We walked to Bernadette’s new favorite vintage store, a sprawling space that stretched back and back and back, going on forever, an entire wall just filled with different pairs of jeans.
I saw a gray tweed skirt and thought of Evelyn. Evelyn who still hadn’t texted me back. Evelyn who hated me right now. Evelyn who was miserable and sad and in love.
I hated fighting with my sisters, especially the long, silent fights, the fights that felt like an empty chasm had grown up between us.
I pulled out my phone and texted her.
I miss you
Part of me wanted to say something ruder, something like stop being a little baby; you would have gone in my place in a heartbeat. But rudeness never worked with Evelyn.
I stared at the screen for a moment but she didn’t type back, so I put my phone in my pocket again.
The vintage store had a smell. All vintage stores have a smell.
It was a smell of wear, of use, of years and years and years of being in someone else’s house, someone else’s closet.
It was the unknown, the unknowable. Another life entirely.
The way each of my sisters somehow smelled just a little different, despite the fact that we all lived in the same house, used the same laundry detergent and the same soap and the same shampoo and conditioner.
But, sound asleep in my bed, if one of them came into my room and laid down next to me, I’d know who it was without rolling over.
I could pick each of them out in a crowd full of people without opening my eyes. Blindfolded, I would know them.
I rounded a corner and found Bernadette just slipping into a fitting room, an armful of clothes weighing her down.
I took a seat in an overstuffed armchair and waited. I got out my phone again. Nothing from Evelyn. I texted Clara instead.
Hi. Miss you
She sent back an emoji of a hand making a peace sign, which in Clara-speak meant she was at school and couldn’t talk.
I texted Evelyn again.
I’m sorry I came to Vermont without you but Mom was literally running out the door, I just happened to catch her at the right time, and she wouldn’t have waited for anyone else. If you want to blame anyone you can blame Mom but I am perfectly guiltless