house and let herself in the front door. With her last bit of strength, she threw the bolt on the old lock they never used and slid down against the door, onto the floor.
She heard Olive snoring softly upstairs.
Edie lost consciousness again, her head lolling on her shoulders as she slumped against the door, legs splayed out.
The violent trembling brought her back to the surface again.
Where am I?
she wondered. In the dark, she saw the familiar outline of the hallway, the light of the streetlamp coming in the window.
I’m home. I must have fallen. I’m cold.
And then it all came back, and Edie started to cry. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stifle the sobs. She didn’t want Olive to hear. And she couldn’t stay on the floor where Olive might see her.
Edie crawled to the bathroom, dragged herself up on her knees, and filled the claw-foot tub with hot water until the bathroom was steaming. While the water was running, she tore off her clothing, stained with blood and mud. She gathered it all up in a ball and limped naked through the dark house to toss it on the back porch. In the morning, she would get rid of it. Maybe she would give the clothing to Shemuel, the ragman’s son. Shemuel could keep a secret. And the paper mill didn’t care whether rags were clean or soiled.
She locked the back door and wedged a chair beneath the handle.
Edie climbed in the tub and submerged herself in the water. When she pushed back her wet hair and wiped her eyes, she almost screamed. The water had turned a brownish pink. She drained the tub and filled it up again. She soaked until she was not cold anymore. She scrubbed herself clean until her skin turned pink and the hot water ran out.
She wrapped herself in a towel and tiptoed upstairs. She took a clean nightgown from the dresser drawer, pulled it over her head, and climbed into bed beside her sister.
“You’re late,” mumbled Olive.
6
Sunday was my day off. I hadn’t been to see Gran in two weeks, so I agreed to go with Aunt Helen up to Mount Saint Mary’s.
The convent grounds on the crest of the hill had been overlooking Millcreek Valley since the 1860s. Long gone were the mansard-roofed school buildings and the basilica-style church. The newer complex—Mount Saint Mary High School, a residence for older nuns, a preschool, and a nursing home—had a modern, functional look. Even the iron scrollwork gate, at the end of the old circular drive that wound down the hill to the town, had been padlocked. Everyone used the hilltop entrance now.
My mother and Helen were Mount Saint Mary Academy alums, but had been in different grades. After eighth grade, they’d gone to Millcreek Valley High School. They didn’t hang out together back then, and that was really no surprise. My mother got her sense of duty, deportment—and a nervous tic, I always teased her—from her years in convent school. Helen went the other way—she drank, smoked, fooled around with boys, and generally had a good time. “I knew I was going to burn in hell anyway,” Helen always joked.
When Mom married my dad, Helen’s brother, the two women gradually got to know each other. After we lost our house when Dad left, Mom stayed on at Gran’s only long enough to see me off to college. Mom still somehow blamed Gran for Dad’s defection, but Helen was determinedly neutral. Still, nobody thought Mom and Helen’s living arrangement would last as long as it had.
Mom needed routine, stability, and neatness. Helen thrived on chaos and was an unrepentant slob. But they were both hardworking and practical. And they both liked rules—Mom to follow them, Helen to break them. Maybe that was what made it work.
When Helen and I pulled up outside the covered entry of the nursing care facility, a goose and a gander dressed up like George and Martha Washington offered a silent but lighthearted greeting. Although this was a warm and caring place, it was still hard to see those you loved in
She heard Olive snoring softly upstairs.
Edie lost consciousness again, her head lolling on her shoulders as she slumped against the door, legs splayed out.
The violent trembling brought her back to the surface again.
Where am I?
she wondered. In the dark, she saw the familiar outline of the hallway, the light of the streetlamp coming in the window.
I’m home. I must have fallen. I’m cold.
And then it all came back, and Edie started to cry. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stifle the sobs. She didn’t want Olive to hear. And she couldn’t stay on the floor where Olive might see her.
Edie crawled to the bathroom, dragged herself up on her knees, and filled the claw-foot tub with hot water until the bathroom was steaming. While the water was running, she tore off her clothing, stained with blood and mud. She gathered it all up in a ball and limped naked through the dark house to toss it on the back porch. In the morning, she would get rid of it. Maybe she would give the clothing to Shemuel, the ragman’s son. Shemuel could keep a secret. And the paper mill didn’t care whether rags were clean or soiled.
She locked the back door and wedged a chair beneath the handle.
Edie climbed in the tub and submerged herself in the water. When she pushed back her wet hair and wiped her eyes, she almost screamed. The water had turned a brownish pink. She drained the tub and filled it up again. She soaked until she was not cold anymore. She scrubbed herself clean until her skin turned pink and the hot water ran out.
She wrapped herself in a towel and tiptoed upstairs. She took a clean nightgown from the dresser drawer, pulled it over her head, and climbed into bed beside her sister.
“You’re late,” mumbled Olive.
6
Sunday was my day off. I hadn’t been to see Gran in two weeks, so I agreed to go with Aunt Helen up to Mount Saint Mary’s.
The convent grounds on the crest of the hill had been overlooking Millcreek Valley since the 1860s. Long gone were the mansard-roofed school buildings and the basilica-style church. The newer complex—Mount Saint Mary High School, a residence for older nuns, a preschool, and a nursing home—had a modern, functional look. Even the iron scrollwork gate, at the end of the old circular drive that wound down the hill to the town, had been padlocked. Everyone used the hilltop entrance now.
My mother and Helen were Mount Saint Mary Academy alums, but had been in different grades. After eighth grade, they’d gone to Millcreek Valley High School. They didn’t hang out together back then, and that was really no surprise. My mother got her sense of duty, deportment—and a nervous tic, I always teased her—from her years in convent school. Helen went the other way—she drank, smoked, fooled around with boys, and generally had a good time. “I knew I was going to burn in hell anyway,” Helen always joked.
When Mom married my dad, Helen’s brother, the two women gradually got to know each other. After we lost our house when Dad left, Mom stayed on at Gran’s only long enough to see me off to college. Mom still somehow blamed Gran for Dad’s defection, but Helen was determinedly neutral. Still, nobody thought Mom and Helen’s living arrangement would last as long as it had.
Mom needed routine, stability, and neatness. Helen thrived on chaos and was an unrepentant slob. But they were both hardworking and practical. And they both liked rules—Mom to follow them, Helen to break them. Maybe that was what made it work.
When Helen and I pulled up outside the covered entry of the nursing care facility, a goose and a gander dressed up like George and Martha Washington offered a silent but lighthearted greeting. Although this was a warm and caring place, it was still hard to see those you loved in
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