and held it high.
Diana inhaled and took a fast step backward.
Her heart was racing.
She made her way to a chair in the corner of her studio and sat down.
Blood
E MMA'S PIGTAILS HAD LOOSENED, AND IN THE SUNLIGHT several escaped strands of her golden hair shone like little filaments of light. She had her pink windbreaker tied around her waist, and Bethany Maria Anna Elizabeth under one arm. Her Snow White backpack was slung over the other arm, and it dragged along the ground beside her. When she opened the door of the minivan, she threw it all—the windbreaker, the backpack, and the doll—onto the floor.
Diana had never seen Bethany Maria Anna Elizabeth treated like an inanimate object before. Beneath the other things, with only her pale arm visible, the doll, to Diana, looked more like a human child than she'd ever seemed. A television image surfaced in her mind—an earthquake, a bombing?—of just such a child's arm emerging from the rubble.
Emma sat down next to Diana and pulled the minivan door
closed hard, and Diana leaned over the console to kiss her cheek.
It was hot, and Emma smelled like cafeteria—steam and soft carrots—though there
was
no cafeteria at Our Lady of Fatima. Emma took her own lunch with her to school every day, something sweet but nutritious that Diana had packed for her in a paper bag and put in her backpack.
The smell of cafeteria was Diana's own association with elementary school.
Hot lunch.
Some of the children at Diana's school had brought their own lunches in just the kind of paper bags Emma took hers in, but there was also hot lunch. Behind humid glass, in silver tubs, spooned up by an old woman wearing a hair net—spaghetti and green beans, hamburger patties and cooked carrots.
Diana's mother had always signed her up for that, but it was the mystery of those bagged lunches that Diana longed for. The peanut butter on bread that someone's mother had spread there herself. The stiff carrot sticks in plastic Baggies.
Emma was scowling, an expression that pulled her features downward and caused her to look like a woman, like
Diana,
instead of a child.
"Is something wrong, Emma?" Diana asked.
Emma said nothing. She turned her face away, but Diana could see the transparent reflection of it glaring at her in the window.
She backed up, looking carefully behind her, then pulled out of the semicircular drive.
As she pulled into the road, Diana was conscious of how smooth it was under her wheels, the sensation of floating inside two tons of machinery. Maybe they'd repaved this road. It was
like driving on layers and layers of black silk, or the slick petals of black tulips, as if the road had been carpeted with them.
She glanced over at Emma again, but Emma still had her face turned to the window. She looked down at her daughter's knees, which were exposed between her kneesocks and her plaid skirt. They were dirty—a dry, dusty dirt—as if Emma had recently knelt in ashes.
Diana cleared her throat, preparing to invent for herself a firm but sensitive maternal tone.
"Emma," she said, "look at me."
Emma didn't look.
Diana could see the very pale place at the base of Emma's skull where her pigtails parted, and it made her feel frightened and protective. She reached out to touch her daughter's golden hair, but as soon as Emma felt her touch she flinched away.
Diana pulled her hand back.
She cleared her throat again.
"Emma," Diana said more sharply, "I told you to look at me."
Still Emma didn't move. Her face was turned resolutely, as if permanently, away from her mother.
Diana felt something moving just under her ribs.
What was it?
Anger? Panic?
Guilt?
It was a crawling sensation similar to the one she'd had when she was pregnant ... something swimming inside her ... something that wasn't violent, something that meant no harm but was kicking with all the strength it had.
Diana held more tightly to the steering wheel than she needed to and bit her lower lip. It was
Diana inhaled and took a fast step backward.
Her heart was racing.
She made her way to a chair in the corner of her studio and sat down.
Blood
E MMA'S PIGTAILS HAD LOOSENED, AND IN THE SUNLIGHT several escaped strands of her golden hair shone like little filaments of light. She had her pink windbreaker tied around her waist, and Bethany Maria Anna Elizabeth under one arm. Her Snow White backpack was slung over the other arm, and it dragged along the ground beside her. When she opened the door of the minivan, she threw it all—the windbreaker, the backpack, and the doll—onto the floor.
Diana had never seen Bethany Maria Anna Elizabeth treated like an inanimate object before. Beneath the other things, with only her pale arm visible, the doll, to Diana, looked more like a human child than she'd ever seemed. A television image surfaced in her mind—an earthquake, a bombing?—of just such a child's arm emerging from the rubble.
Emma sat down next to Diana and pulled the minivan door
closed hard, and Diana leaned over the console to kiss her cheek.
It was hot, and Emma smelled like cafeteria—steam and soft carrots—though there
was
no cafeteria at Our Lady of Fatima. Emma took her own lunch with her to school every day, something sweet but nutritious that Diana had packed for her in a paper bag and put in her backpack.
The smell of cafeteria was Diana's own association with elementary school.
Hot lunch.
Some of the children at Diana's school had brought their own lunches in just the kind of paper bags Emma took hers in, but there was also hot lunch. Behind humid glass, in silver tubs, spooned up by an old woman wearing a hair net—spaghetti and green beans, hamburger patties and cooked carrots.
Diana's mother had always signed her up for that, but it was the mystery of those bagged lunches that Diana longed for. The peanut butter on bread that someone's mother had spread there herself. The stiff carrot sticks in plastic Baggies.
Emma was scowling, an expression that pulled her features downward and caused her to look like a woman, like
Diana,
instead of a child.
"Is something wrong, Emma?" Diana asked.
Emma said nothing. She turned her face away, but Diana could see the transparent reflection of it glaring at her in the window.
She backed up, looking carefully behind her, then pulled out of the semicircular drive.
As she pulled into the road, Diana was conscious of how smooth it was under her wheels, the sensation of floating inside two tons of machinery. Maybe they'd repaved this road. It was
like driving on layers and layers of black silk, or the slick petals of black tulips, as if the road had been carpeted with them.
She glanced over at Emma again, but Emma still had her face turned to the window. She looked down at her daughter's knees, which were exposed between her kneesocks and her plaid skirt. They were dirty—a dry, dusty dirt—as if Emma had recently knelt in ashes.
Diana cleared her throat, preparing to invent for herself a firm but sensitive maternal tone.
"Emma," she said, "look at me."
Emma didn't look.
Diana could see the very pale place at the base of Emma's skull where her pigtails parted, and it made her feel frightened and protective. She reached out to touch her daughter's golden hair, but as soon as Emma felt her touch she flinched away.
Diana pulled her hand back.
She cleared her throat again.
"Emma," Diana said more sharply, "I told you to look at me."
Still Emma didn't move. Her face was turned resolutely, as if permanently, away from her mother.
Diana felt something moving just under her ribs.
What was it?
Anger? Panic?
Guilt?
It was a crawling sensation similar to the one she'd had when she was pregnant ... something swimming inside her ... something that wasn't violent, something that meant no harm but was kicking with all the strength it had.
Diana held more tightly to the steering wheel than she needed to and bit her lower lip. It was
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