Chapter Thirteen #2
Rebecca resisted a smile. The girl was not a fool. And not easy. But somehow that made her, not more likable per se, but at least more interesting. A challenge. While people might not be her forte, challenges, at least ones with a mental component, were not something she shied away from.
She gave a shrug, as if she didn’t know to what the child was referring. “Tell him what? That you’re found?” She glanced toward the door. “Considering the entire household is searching for you, I believe that’s only fair.”
“About this.” Fannie gestured toward the mess.
“I imagine he’ll notice,” Rebecca commented wryly. “While you could blame it on Rose, I’m not sure that would be fair to him.” She pulled the clean cloth that she usually used to wipe her equipment from the pocket of the work apron she’d borrowed from the kitchen staff.
“No,” Fannie agreed, shaking her head a little as Rebecca proceeded to wrap the compress around the girl’s small hand as tightly as she could manage, halting the bleeding a touch so she could have proper time to clean and stitch.
“I could blame it on Michael,” the child offered. “He’s never scolded.”
Rebecca bit back a grimace. Oy, children were selfish monsters.
Well, most people were selfish; it was just jarring to hear evidence of it spoken so frankly. Even for someone like her, who preferred honesty.
To be fair to Fannie, she was not acting, merely thinking out loud. Testing the world in a way. Looking for, if not guidance, a guide.
Sort of like their mitzvot and the commentary used to decipher them.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she murmured as she finished tying the cloth. “But Michael is your brother,” she reminded Fannie as she released her hand. “He trusts you. Do you want to change that?”
“I could blame it on you.” The girl gazed up at Rebecca, challenge in her eyes.
“You could try,” she told Fannie. “But given the fact that my whereabouts are accounted for during the time this occurred, it would be a difficult sell.”
“But not impossible,” Fannie argued back. She folded her arms over her slender, lanky little body, wrinkling her small face combatively, before it crumbled.
Double oy. Tears. While her occupation put her into contact with them on occasion, she generally ignored them in favor of professionalism, permitting her patients’ loved ones to do the cajoling.
However, she and the girl were alone, and she was not going to be able to help if Fannie wasn’t a touch less…
upset by whatever drama she was imagining.
Yes, Berab was an absent, if not incompetent parent.
Though, to be fair, in her experience, very few people—Jew or gentile—were competent parents, regardless of station or resources.
Yet, she had no doubt that this parent, if nothing else, loved his children. “Come,” Rebecca said, crawling out from beneath the table and rising. “Let’s get this mended, and we can discuss the accuracy of that statement.” She extended her good hand toward Fannie.
The girl stared for a moment before wriggling forward herself, then accepting the offer and permitting Rebecca to help her stand.
She had expected the child to shake off the appendage the moment she was on her feet, but instead the girl nearly clung to her side and permitted herself to be led through the house, down to the kitchens.
The space was empty when they arrived, the rest of the household still searching, but the fire had been stoked, so the air was comfortable as Rebecca escorted Fannie to her workspace.
Pulling out another clean cloth, she laid down the girl’s hand, opening the bandage so she could set about preparing the cut to be stitched.
Rebecca grabbed the dark jar toward the end of the table.
“What’s that?” Fannie asked.
“Eau oxygénée.” Rebecca removed the lid she’d tightened herself earlier. Rather impressive for someone using only one hand. “It’s a water combined with parts of air,” she explained as she dipped another cloth in it, then carefully closed it once more. “I synthesized it earlier today.”
“What does it do?” the girl asked with surprising interest.
“Besides explode when combined with certain other compounds?” Rebecca’s lip tipped at the child’s scowl.
“Don’t worry. We won’t be using any of them, and it’ll be off your skin shortly, so there will be no accidents,” she assured her.
“It has a bleaching effect, which helps prevent infection,” she explained, swiping the cloth over the wound.
“Ow,” Fannie cried, pulling her hand back. “That hurts.”
“It can,” Rebecca admitted, retaking her hand and giving it a final swipe. The girl flinched but this time did not cry out. “But only for a minute, while any infection would hurt a great deal longer.”
Rebecca strolled toward the far end of the kitchen and opened the door to the attached cold cellar to fetch some ice.
“What are you doing now?” Fannie asked.
“We’re going to reduce the feeling in your skin for a few moments,” she explained as she ran the substance over the child’s hand before threading a needle and swiping it through a flame, her heart pounding a little. “So I can do this.” She turned back and began her work.
“I can still feel that,” Fannie protested, her voice strained, though this time she did not cry out.
“You’re being quite brave about it,” Rebecca assured her.
She stitched as quickly as she could, while being as careful and neat as possible so it could heal without scar or infection.
It was not easy, especially as she was using her nondominant hand to stitch and her still injured right to hold the girl still as best she could.
“It’s all right. Just a little bit longer,” she promised as she began the process of tying her stitches.
“There we go.” She set down the needle and returned to her chemicals, dipping the cloth once again.
Then she grabbed a fresh, dry cloth. “Now we shall clean this a touch more, wrap it…” She wound the new bandage around Fannie’s hand. “All better. More or less.”
The girl stared at her hand for a moment, twisting her arm to view it from various angles. “Thank you,” she said finally, stepping back from the table and gazing up at Rebecca, her tone, for once, surprisingly sincere and almost grateful.
“You’re quite welcome,” Rebecca returned. The two stared at each other for another long moment. Shaking her head, she rose and wiped off her apron. “Now let’s go find your father and—”
“No,” Fannie cut in, her voice cracking a touch.
Rebecca halted. “Beg pardon?” she asked, as she must have heard wrong.
“I said no.” Frannie’s light brown eyes were bright with liquid.
“I think he should know about—”
“You don’t know anything,” Fannie snapped, though her voice shook.
“I—” Rebecca took a step toward her. Not sure precisely what she would do, as comfort was not particularly her forte, but the child needed something.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Fannie said, turning on Rebecca, her little fist twisting in anger. “Mama and Oma should be here, and I hate you.” She stamped her foot. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”
Oy.
“You aren’t the first and shall not be the last,” Rebecca muttered.
Also, if Fannie opposed her presence so much, wait until she learned Miss Teres’s would be permanent. While there was a chance Fannie might object to her less, given their similar backgrounds, that seemed farfetched.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall when they were introduced.
Not that it was any of her business.
Taking a deep breath, Rebecca contemplated the girl again, as a large, fat tear rolled down her cheek. Something twisted below her breast.
It was quite difficult to be a child, wasn’t it? Especially one who’d lost a parent—the parent who primarily cared for them—barely a year ago. To be left instead with the one who’d been essentially absent for years and was making all sorts of changes to one’s life.
If there was anyone who hated change and understood being the subject of forces one could not control, in the most unfair of ways… Rebecca’s shoulders slumped as she approached the child once more.
“I will say that I understand,” she offered.