his right knee. His fingers with their broad nails like my father’s, like my own. My uncle’s fingers were tapping the same pattern over and over, and when he noticed me looking he said
sorry
again, andcurled them into his palm. He explained that it was a habit, that tapping, that he’d had since he was young and learning to work the telegraph key; he said usually he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“Would you like to learn?” my uncle asked, and he said that he could teach me my name. Not Isabella, that was too long to be starting with, but they called me Iz, didn’t they, and I wondered how he knew. Two quick taps, and then three more. “That’s far too easy,” he said, though he praised me for it, as if I were a tiny child. “Let’s try Bella,” my uncle Ben said, and that was just right, a mixture of long taps and short ones, and he gave me his notebook to rest on my knee, so I could hear it better.
Bella Bella Bella
—I tapped it out, mile after dark, rolling mile, and by the time we reached Toronto I had a new name, and a secret way to say it.
The station was overwhelming, soot and steam and noise, and more people than I’d ever seen at the same time. Outside we passed all the cabs in a line and I stumbled in my too-big boots, shook my right foot to settle the wrapped earth more securely under my instep. Soon we’d left all the bustle behind; we turned, and turned again onto a dark street, the only sound our tapping feet that could have been a message, though I hadn’t learned enough to make it out. And then there was another sound, growing steadily louder, and a kind of displacement of the air. A shape growing out of the dark, a shape that was my brother Little Ross, with a grin on his face and his arms thrown wide, and I thought I might die for joy. But in the same instant I realized the boy wasn’t running to me. He had a look of Little Ross, but darker, straighter hair—another child entirely. “This is your cousin Bella,” my uncle said, whenhe’d scooped the boy up, but I couldn’t even smile, knew only my thumping heart.
Light spilled from an open doorway and then we were inside, like arriving at the station all over again. Noise and light and so many people. A woman with a very round face put it close to mine and said, “You poor child.” She led me through a doorway and up some stairs, into the quiet, and maybe I was already asleep; the next moment I knew was one with daylight around the edges of a patterned window shade, another soft bed in another strange room and my clothes laid neatly on a chair, where I could see them, my boots tucked underneath.
Last summer, when she was still well, Edie came down to breakfast and told us she wanted to be called Edith from now on. “I’m not a child anymore,” she said, and if we forgot, she refused to answer, and wouldn’t even look at Angus when he said that since Edie didn’t seem to be around, he’d have to eat her pie too. That stubborn streak that I know so well, when she sets her mind on something; she’s so much like my brother Alan, in that way. The time he decided to be a cowboy he spent hours in the fenced field with a coiled rope, trying to throw a loop over our horse’s head. I watched him until it was so dark I could barely make out the glimmer of his shirt, the rope snaking out and falling empty to the ground.
There are days now when Edie’s fractious as a teething baby. Kicks at the covers, then pulls them up again, tosses her book to the floor. She flicks away my suggestions—a coddled egg, a game of Twenty Questions, or trying new styles for her tangled hair. “I can’t bear it,” she says. “I’m so tired of opening my eyes and finding that I’m still here.”
It takes me a long, cold moment to understand what shemeans. “Oh Edie,” I say, and she yanks the covers up over her head, her muffled voice saying, “Go away. That’s not even my
name
.”
She’s right to be cross and I know very well
sorry
again, andcurled them into his palm. He explained that it was a habit, that tapping, that he’d had since he was young and learning to work the telegraph key; he said usually he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“Would you like to learn?” my uncle asked, and he said that he could teach me my name. Not Isabella, that was too long to be starting with, but they called me Iz, didn’t they, and I wondered how he knew. Two quick taps, and then three more. “That’s far too easy,” he said, though he praised me for it, as if I were a tiny child. “Let’s try Bella,” my uncle Ben said, and that was just right, a mixture of long taps and short ones, and he gave me his notebook to rest on my knee, so I could hear it better.
Bella Bella Bella
—I tapped it out, mile after dark, rolling mile, and by the time we reached Toronto I had a new name, and a secret way to say it.
The station was overwhelming, soot and steam and noise, and more people than I’d ever seen at the same time. Outside we passed all the cabs in a line and I stumbled in my too-big boots, shook my right foot to settle the wrapped earth more securely under my instep. Soon we’d left all the bustle behind; we turned, and turned again onto a dark street, the only sound our tapping feet that could have been a message, though I hadn’t learned enough to make it out. And then there was another sound, growing steadily louder, and a kind of displacement of the air. A shape growing out of the dark, a shape that was my brother Little Ross, with a grin on his face and his arms thrown wide, and I thought I might die for joy. But in the same instant I realized the boy wasn’t running to me. He had a look of Little Ross, but darker, straighter hair—another child entirely. “This is your cousin Bella,” my uncle said, whenhe’d scooped the boy up, but I couldn’t even smile, knew only my thumping heart.
Light spilled from an open doorway and then we were inside, like arriving at the station all over again. Noise and light and so many people. A woman with a very round face put it close to mine and said, “You poor child.” She led me through a doorway and up some stairs, into the quiet, and maybe I was already asleep; the next moment I knew was one with daylight around the edges of a patterned window shade, another soft bed in another strange room and my clothes laid neatly on a chair, where I could see them, my boots tucked underneath.
Last summer, when she was still well, Edie came down to breakfast and told us she wanted to be called Edith from now on. “I’m not a child anymore,” she said, and if we forgot, she refused to answer, and wouldn’t even look at Angus when he said that since Edie didn’t seem to be around, he’d have to eat her pie too. That stubborn streak that I know so well, when she sets her mind on something; she’s so much like my brother Alan, in that way. The time he decided to be a cowboy he spent hours in the fenced field with a coiled rope, trying to throw a loop over our horse’s head. I watched him until it was so dark I could barely make out the glimmer of his shirt, the rope snaking out and falling empty to the ground.
There are days now when Edie’s fractious as a teething baby. Kicks at the covers, then pulls them up again, tosses her book to the floor. She flicks away my suggestions—a coddled egg, a game of Twenty Questions, or trying new styles for her tangled hair. “I can’t bear it,” she says. “I’m so tired of opening my eyes and finding that I’m still here.”
It takes me a long, cold moment to understand what shemeans. “Oh Edie,” I say, and she yanks the covers up over her head, her muffled voice saying, “Go away. That’s not even my
name
.”
She’s right to be cross and I know very well
Similar Books
